Close Your Eyes

by Rachel Abbott

  We’d caught a bus at the end of the street and got off close to a car showroom. Dad went in while Mum and I waited outside. I’d asked her what was happening, but she just said, ‘You’ll see,’ and gave me a shaky smile, glancing over her shoulder as if she thought someone was looking at us.

  I watched through the showroom window as a man jumped to his feet at the sight of Dad and hurried across to shake him by the hand, as if he was expecting him. They chatted for a few minutes and then walked together out of the door, the man resting one hand on Dad’s shoulder as if he was one of his mates. They strolled across to a long silver car, and to my surprise Dad got into the driver’s seat. The man crouched down, and I could see he was pointing at things on the dashboard. Then he stood up, shook Dad’s hand again, gave us a jolly wave and went back into the showroom.

  Dad beckoned us across.

  ‘In you get,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘Whose car is this?’ I whispered, scared that we were doing something we shouldn’t.

  ‘It’s ours,’ he said, patting the leather-covered steering wheel.

  My eyes must have been popping out of my head. We’d never had a car, and this one was really fancy, but he turned and wiggled his eyebrows to make me smile, and I didn’t ask anything else. I didn’t know what to ask – everything that day seemed so strange.

  Since that moment I’d barely spoken until I asked why we were running away. But whatever Mum said about that not being true, it’s how it felt to me. Posh car or not, everything I had ever cared about, except for Mum and Dad, seemed to be receding into the distance behind me.

  We had been driving for ages. ‘Are we nearly there?’ I asked.

  Mum turned her head. ‘Not long, DeeDee, I promise.’

  ‘Don’t call me DeeDee. I’m not a baby any more.’

  I folded my arms defiantly and stared out of the window. There were more trees than I’d ever seen lining the sides of the road, their leaves shades of orange and red, fluttering in the breeze as they floated down to rest gently on the road. I didn’t want everything to look so perfect, with the sun glinting between the branches; I wanted the sky to be thick with black cloud, because that’s how I felt.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Dad said, his voice sounding too chirpy. ‘We won’t call you DeeDee. Maybe we should call you Thingy. Will that do?’

  I didn’t answer. He was trying to make me laugh, but I didn’t want to. I’d always been DeeDee because when I first started to talk I couldn’t say my name. The closest I could get was DeeDee, and it stuck. Everyone – even my teachers at school – called me DeeDee. At the thought of school, my eyes filled up. What had happened? Why were we running away? What about my friends? Would I ever see them again?

  Mum must have heard me sniff, and she reached over to Dad’s thigh and squeezed it gently. ‘Pull over, Joel. I think we need to talk to her,’ she said, her voice quiet and serious. I didn’t like the sound of that.

  We drove on for a few minutes until Dad saw a lay-by and pulled off the road. Mum jumped out from her side and got into the back with me, putting her arm round my shoulders and pulling me towards her. Dad twisted in his seat so he was facing us as best he could.

  ‘Listen,’ Mum said, and for a moment I wished I hadn’t told her not to call me DeeDee. ‘We’re sorry we rushed you away from everything so quickly. We thought it was for the best, but now I realise it must have been a huge shock. We were trying to protect you. Children aren’t always kind to each other, especially when they hear the things their parents say.’

  ‘What things?’ I asked, my voice rising. I was feeling more and more scared. I couldn’t think of one single good thing that could make us run away like this.

  Mum took a deep breath. ‘You know Dad and I watch something called the National Lottery on the television?’

  Of course I did – it was on a Saturday night, and sometimes I was allowed to stay up late enough to watch it with them.

  ‘And you know people can win a lot of money if they get the right numbers?’

  I nodded. Mum was squeezing me a bit too tight, so I pushed back to look at her.

  ‘Well, Dad had some winning numbers a few weeks ago.’

  I was still confused. So what? It seemed it had been enough for him to buy a car, but why did we have to move away from our flat, my friends, my school?

  Dad took over the story. ‘You see, DeeDee, when someone wins a lot of money – like we did – it can cause problems, so we thought it better not to tell anyone. You can choose to be anonymous. That means no one knows who’s won. We chose that option, but then decided to share our good fortune with just a few special people – the friends and neighbours we thought we could help by giving them some money.’

  I didn’t really understand this, and Dad must have sensed my confusion.

  ‘Sweetheart, people don’t always appreciate help when it’s offered. Some people thought we should have given them more, because they knew how much we’d won. They thought we were being mean. Others thought we were being patronising – that’s a hard word to explain, but they thought we believed we were better than them now.’

  ‘Is that why Mum and Kelsie were arguing?’

  I looked at Mum’s face, her eyes full of tears.

  ‘Kelsie said we’d never really fitted in. Apparently I’ve always behaved as if I think I’m too good for where we lived, and now for sure I would be. That’s not true, but the people we thought were our friends turned out not to be. We didn’t want you to suffer, because when the kids at school got to know about it, you might have been bullied – you know, older kids asking you for money. We thought it best to leave before that happened. We’ve got a new home now – it’s called Lakeside, and you’ll love it. There’s nothing left for us in London, sweetheart. But everything will be different now, DeeDee. You’ll see.’

  I still didn’t understand. If the money was causing so many problems, why didn’t we give it all away? I just wanted to go home, and whatever excuses they made, as far as I was concerned, we were running away.

  10

  Becky and Rob had commandeered Niall’s office, with Spencer’s reluctant agreement, while they waited until someone could get into Martha’s computer.

  ‘He doesn’t like mess, I’m afraid,’ Spencer had said, which was apparent both from Niall’s orderly office and his pristine home.

  ‘We’re not in the habit of making a mess, Mr Johansson,’ Rob said, rolling his shoulders as if the inactivity was making him twitchy.

  With a frown, Spencer finally nodded. ‘Well, I’m sure it will be fine, under the circumstances.’

  ‘What can you tell us about Genevieve Strachan?’ Becky asked, waving her hand towards a seat to invite him to sit down.

  Spencer perched on the edge of a leather chair. ‘I didn’t know her that well.’

  ‘But you work closely with Niall – his business partner, you said?’ Rob asked.

  ‘Well, sort of. I’m in charge of sales and marketing, and Niall has promised me a bigger role, once the funds are in. He’s very keen to keep me, you know, and it’s such an exciting opportunity.’

  ‘So you’re not a partner?’ Rob persisted.

  ‘Niall sees us all as partners in this enterprise,’ he said, pursing his lips. ‘He’s quite a genius, you see, and we’ll all gain when the app is finished and released to the wider world. And I’m prepared to put my money where my mouth is.’

  Rob frowned. ‘You’ll have to explain that one to me.’

  ‘Niall is seeking investment – essential for a company that’s breaking new ground like we are. I’d be a fool not to back him.’

  ‘I assume you mean financially?’

  ‘Of course. The value of this company is about to go stratospheric!’ Spencer raised his arms theatrically is if to suggest an explosion, and Becky resisted the temptation to look at Rob, who she knew would have to bite his lip. ‘I need to get back to the team, but while you’re waiting, can I ask someone to bring you a cup of coff
ee?’

  Becky would normally have said no, but she’d already been working for seven hours, and at a guess had around another eight to go before she stood a chance of going home.

  ‘That would be lovely. Black for me, please. No sugar.’

  ‘Same, please,’ said Rob.

  ‘Can you ask around, see if any of the staff have an address for Martha, or even a vague idea of where she lives? In case we can’t break the password.’

  Spencer gave them a worried frown, but nodded and left them to it, leaving the door ajar. Rob walked over and gently closed it.

  ‘What do you make of all this?’ Rob asked.

  ‘Well, Spencer isn’t quite the business partner he claimed to be. His face when you challenged him on it was a picture. Other than that, not a clue. We only wanted the bloody password to Genevieve’s phone, and now Martha Porter is adding a new and wholly unnecessary layer to the investigation.’ Becky blew out a long, frustrated breath. ‘I suppose I’d better give the boss a call. He won’t be happy about the delay. The fact that there’s no personnel record for Martha feels dodgy to me. Was it there and someone’s removed it? Has Martha removed it? I think we should ask Keith to have a dig around – see what we can find out about her.’

  ‘I’ll call the ever-efficient DI Sims while you call the boss, then I should probably update you on my chat with the victim’s sister, Sara Osborne.’

  Becky nodded her agreement, and as Rob asked to be put through to Keith she broke the news to Tom that they hadn’t been able to access Martha’s computer and so didn’t have the pass code to Genevieve’s mobile.

  Tom muttered something about them wasting too much time on this, and maybe the digital team would have more success breaking into the phone. Becky couldn’t argue with that, but she had to wonder why there was so much mystery around Martha Porter.

  ‘Keith’s on the case,’ Rob said as he ended his call. ‘Low key for now – she’s not a suspect, although it’s odd that as soon as she heard about Genevieve she disappeared. The two things are probably entirely unrelated. I bet we find out she’s gone to the post office for some stamps.’

  Becky was about to ask Rob to tell her what Sara Osborne had had to say when the door opened and Spencer came in, balancing two mugs and what looked like a plate of expensive home-made biscuits.

  ‘We get these in for the staff – fresh every day. These little treats mean a lot, we think.’ He gave a self-satisfied smile as he put the plate down, but there was still a quiver at the corner of his mouth, and Becky could see they were making him nervous.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Johansson. Any news about an address for Martha?’

  Spencer shook his head. ‘No one has ever been invited to her home. A couple of people have tried to be friendly and asked where she lives. She said she has a house in Winton but wasn’t specific. She doesn’t have a car, but no one has ever seen her at the bus stop, and we’re a bit of a way from a tram route.’

  ‘Do you think you could have a look in her desk? Would you be okay with that? She might have something in there with her address or phone number.’

  Spencer nodded, a little more enthusiastically than the situation warranted.

  ‘Of course. Do you want me to do it now?’

  Becky looked longingly at the coffee and biscuits.

  ‘Could you give us five minutes, please? And thanks for the biscuits.’

  ‘De nada,’ he said with a little wave of his hand. He backed towards the door as if he didn’t dare take his eyes off them. Perhaps he thought they might put a coffee cup on the table, ignoring the coasters that he’d thoughtfully provided. But finally he was gone.

  ‘De nada?’ Rob said, grinning at Becky. ‘I think Mr Johansson believes himself to be too cool for school. I’m surprised he didn’t say “Ciao for now” when he went out.’

  Becky chortled. ‘Good biscuits, though,’ she said, taking a bite. ‘Tell me about the sister.’

  ‘Well, she was upset – how could she not be? But I’d say she handled it pretty well. Shocked, but she was coherent at least. I got the impression that they weren’t particularly close, but not because they’d fallen out. More because their lives and values were so different.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sara Osborne lives in a perfectly nice, ordinary house. It wasn’t dirty, but unlike her sister’s, you could tell people lived in it. She has three small boys, and her husband manages the home-decorating department of a DIY superstore. She said that she had never understood her sister’s priorities. Apparently Sara wasn’t allowed to visit what she called “Strachan Towers” with the children for fear they would make a mess.’

  Was that down to Genevieve, or Niall? Becky wondered.

  ‘Did she say her sister was worried about anything, or anyone?’

  ‘I got the impression there was something, but when I pushed her she shook her head as if she thought it was her imagination. I said it didn’t matter how off the wall it sounded, but she just said Genevieve sometimes got daft ideas in her head and didn’t seem to understand that Niall was totally tied up in making the business work. He didn’t have time to give her all the attention she craved – she’d always craved, were her exact words.’

  ‘So the marriage wasn’t rock solid?’

  Rob pulled a pensive face. ‘She didn’t go that far, but she said that, according to Genevieve, Niall couldn’t afford to piss her off.’

  ‘That sounds interesting. What the hell does it mean?’

  ‘She didn’t know. I think when she’s had a bit of time to process all this, I’ll go back and talk to her again, see if I can dig a bit deeper. I could see from time to time a vacant look in her eyes, as if she was remembering Genevieve and not focusing on my questions.’

  A knock on the door interrupted any further discussion. A young Chinese girl with purple hair and several facial piercings popped her head round. ‘Spencer told me to come and find you,’ she said. ‘If you want me to access Martha’s computer, I’ll give it a go. Don’t suppose it’ll be difficult.’

  Without waiting for their response, she turned and went back to the outer office.

  Becky looked at Rob’s raised eyebrows as he watched the girl leave.

  ‘That’s one of the “tech boys”, is it?’ he said. ‘Sexism is alive and kicking at XO-Tech, it seems.’

  Becky grinned. ‘I guess we’d better follow her, then.’

  11

  MARTHA

  Alfie has fallen asleep, cuddled up next to me on the bed in our hotel room. I don’t know how I’ll be able to explain to him what’s happening, but for now he thinks we’re having a little holiday.

  ‘We’ll be back in time for school, won’t we? I like school,’ he said, and I felt for him. I’d liked school too, and I don’t want Alfie to suffer because of my shortcomings. I need him to have the best life he can. He only has one parent, and that’s the way I want it to be. But this one parent has to give him everything he might need, which includes security, and right now I’m a danger to him.

  If the police find me, not only will they question me about Genevieve’s death, they might want to know more about me. They will discover the black hole that is the past life of Martha Porter, and I have no idea what might happen then. If I’m detained for questioning, arrested, charged, Alfie will have no one. Social services will take him. They will want to know about his father, but I won’t tell them. For me there is only one thing worse than my son spending his childhood in care, and that’s spending his life with his father. My throat tightens at the thought.

  I slowly extricate myself from Alfie’s grip, moving a pillow into my place so he has something to cling to, and cross to the TV, switching it on and turning the volume down low.

  It’s the lunchtime local news, and it’s not long before I see streets that I recognise, a house that I know belongs to Niall and Genevieve. I perch on the end of the bed, holding my breath to hear what is being said.

  ‘The body of a thirty-two-year-o
ld woman was found in the early hours of this morning by her husband,’ the newsreader says. ‘The deceased is believed to be Genevieve Strachan, and her husband is Niall Strachan, owner of an up-and-coming software company, XO-Tech. Detective Chief Inspector Tom Douglas of the Greater Manchester Police was unable to give out any details at this time, but said that enquiries are progressing well. At the moment we have no more information about this shocking crime.’

  My mouth floods with saliva and for a moment I think I’ll be sick. I drop my head towards my knees until the feeling passes and I have calmed slightly. I need to know more.

  I pull my mobile from my bag and log on to Facebook. I don’t have an account in my name, and the one I’ve set up can’t be tied to me. I’ve used someone else’s photo – carefully chosen to fit in with the story I have woven about myself. I have made friends with a few people who seem careless about who they accept into their network, and created some random posts about clubs in and around Manchester that appear to be favoured by the C-list. I’ve neither seen nor visited any of them.

  I was sure this fake persona would appeal to Elise, so I asked her to be my friend. She accepted, of course, believing this mythical person to be right at the heart of Manchester’s nightlife scene.

  Elise is not the only person I’ve targeted. I’ve identified gossips in all the narrow circles to which I’m loosely connected, including mothers of children at Alfie’s school. I need to know what they’re saying, particularly if it involves me or my son.

  I go straight to Elise’s timeline, knowing she would have had to share her ‘inside knowledge’ of Genevieve’s death with her friends. I’m right.