Close Your Eyes

by Robotham, Michael

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I seen her d-do-doing stuff.’

  ‘You saw her with men?’

  He nods.

  ‘Was she with anyone that night?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says defiantly.

  ‘In the bedroom?’

  ‘D-d-downstairs. He was lighting candles.’

  ‘Did you see his face?’

  ‘I saw his shadow.’

  ‘Did he have a car?’

  Tommy hesitates. ‘Aye, I guess.’ He can’t remember.

  ‘How long did you stay watching?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Don’t have a watch.’

  ‘Were you still here when Harper came home?’

  He shakes his head. A strong gust of wind shakes the trees and a leaf spins and falls, landing on Tommy’s shoulder. He brushes it away. On the rooftop a weathervane spins back and forth.

  ‘Tell me, Tommy, did you ever try to get into the house?’

  He looks at me, puzzled.

  ‘Did you ever try to open a window or test if the doors were unlocked?’

  He gives me a slow shake of the head.

  ‘Did you imagine going inside?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Did you watch Harper?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why not?’

  He lowers his gaze, his cheeks colouring. It’s more than just embarrassment.

  ‘Did you love her, Tommy?’

  His face twists in embarrassment.

  ‘Did you ever tell Harper how you felt?’

  ‘N-n-no.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Sh-sh-she’d laugh at me.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘They always do.’

  10

  Veronica Cray is pacing her office, her eyes electric with excitement. ‘It’s him,’ she says elatedly. ‘Rule number bloody two! If it’s not family it’s the neighbour.’

  ‘It wasn’t a confession,’ I remind her.

  ‘He lied to us.’

  ‘That doesn’t make him guilty.’

  ‘He had the motive and the opportunity.’

  ‘But not the intellect.’

  ‘How bright do you have to be to stab a woman thirty-six times?’

  ‘He barely left a trace.’

  ‘He left DNA in the house.’

  ‘He found the bodies.’

  Her temporary office is small and windowless with a filing cabinet, a desk and computer. One wall is covered in press clippings about the farmhouse murders and a satellite map showing the various buildings and surrounding fields.

  The incident room is visible through the vertical blinds. Detectives are cradling phones and peering at screens. The abiding atmosphere is one of anxiety, stress and fatigue. The longer the investigation goes on, the higher the mountain of detail and the harder it becomes to check and cross-check. Things get overlooked. Missed.

  One entire wall contains cardboard box-files with hard copies of every interview, statement, telephone record and tip-off – twelve thousand documents in all.

  Cray is still arguing. ‘Garrett has a history of sexual deviance.’

  ‘Not a long history.’

  ‘Folks have complained about him for years. He prowls the streets, jumping out at women … stealing underwear.’

  ‘He’s antisocial and degenerate, but that doesn’t make him a killer.’

  ‘You’ve said it before, Professor, killers rarely emerge from nothing; there’s a progression. They peep through windows. They steal underwear. They flash their bits at schoolchildren. They practise. They train. And eventually they graduate from sexual deviancy to the Premier League.’

  ‘This was too sophisticated a crime, too shrewd, too smart—’

  ‘He hacked her to death.’

  ‘Look at the aftermath – the way he cleaned up. The killer didn’t panic. He took his time. What about the candles and Bible? Tommy Garrett wouldn’t know a pentagram from a mammogram.’

  Cray grunts dismissively. ‘People only think he’s slow. Tommy Garrett is rat-cunning. At sixteen he was knocked off his bike. Got an insurance settlement. Claimed he couldn’t even shower by himself. Now he’s milking cows and mowing lawns.’

  ‘What about his alibi?’

  ‘His grandmother always lies for him.’

  ‘He mentioned seeing a visitor – someone lighting candles.’

  ‘Yeah, very convenient.’

  ‘We know Elizabeth let the killer into the farmhouse. That’s not going to be Tommy, is it?’

  Cray sighs and rubs her mouth. ‘You may be right, Professor, but we’ve spent almost a month chasing our tails. I want to make an arrest. I want to show these good people that we’re doing something.’

  ‘By scapegoating Tommy Garrett.’

  ‘By holding him for forty-eight hours and getting a warrant to search his house. And I’ll bet you a pound to a pinch of shit that we find the murder weapon or something else that incriminates him.’

  I can’t talk to Cray when she’s like this. Psychological profiling isn’t an exact science and cannot be presented in court in the same way as fingerprint evidence or DNA analysis. I remember once seeing a series of photos of the everlasting shadows of Hiroshima caused by the atomic blast. When the heat from the detonation hit a person standing close to a wall, they were vaporised instantly and a ‘shadow’ was left behind, as though printed in two dimensions against the wall. That’s what it feels like when I look at a murder scene. I see the shadows.

  DCS Cray is already on the phone, making a request for a search warrant. She seems happier than before. Some people have to keep moving forward because standing still feels as though they’re being left behind.

  She finishes the call and checks some of her phone messages. ‘The coroner just released the bodies. Elizabeth and Harper are going to be cremated on Tuesday.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘Yes. No. Maybe. I’m always concerned the pathologist will have screwed things up, or they’ll discover some new technology and we won’t have the right samples.’

  ‘It’s been almost a month.’

  ‘I know.’ She stares at her cluttered desk and the stack of papers waiting to be signed. Budgets. Overtime. Requisition forms.

  ‘Are you sure you want me reviewing this investigation?’ I ask. ‘What if I identify failings?’

  ‘I can handle criticism.’

  ‘So long as it’s not public.’

  She eyeballs me angrily. ‘Terry Bannerman is an obnoxious blowhard whose opinions I couldn’t value less. If we’ve missed something, I’ll take responsibility for that.’

  ‘I’m going to need help.’

  ‘I can’t spare anyone.’

  ‘Can I bring someone in?’

  ‘Who did you have in mind?’

  ‘Vincent Ruiz.’

  Wrinkles concertina around her eyes. Cray and Ruiz have a mutual loathing. I once put this down to professional rivalry, but it’s more a clash of personalities. They’re like sumo wrestlers stomping around a ring, slapping their thighs and throwing salt.

  ‘He was a detective,’ I say.

  ‘Was. Past tense. Old. Retired. Gone to seed. Pain in the arse.’

  ‘He speaks very highly of you.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I need his help.’

  She mutters something under her breath. ‘Keep him away from me.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘I’m not your guv.’

  She waves me away as a woman constable appears at the door, raising her hand to knock.

  ‘What is it?’ Cray barks.

  ‘A call, guv.’

  The telephone console has been blinking unanswered on the desk. Cray punches the lighted button and picks up the receiver.

  ‘Are you sure it’s her? … No, don’t arrest her. Bannerman would have a field day. Yeah, OK. I’m coming.’

  She hangs up
and grabs her coat. ‘You’re coming with me.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Elizabeth Crowe’s sister is stopping traffic on Walton Road.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s trying to find the killer.’

  11

  ‘No sirens,’ Cray says to her driver – the same young constable who delivered the message. She’s in her late twenties with her hair pinned up beneath her cap and freckles that look as though they’ve been pencilled on to her nose.

  ‘This is Bennie,’ says Cray, introducing us. The female officer makes eye contact with me in the rear-view mirror, smiling nervously.

  ‘The Professor is a psychologist,’ says Cray, ‘so be careful what you say around him. He claims to be a Freudian, but I think he’s Jung at heart.’

  The DCS thinks she’s hilarious. Bennie smiles at me in the mirror, sympathetically this time.

  Within minutes we’re out of Clevedon, heading east along narrow roads through a patchwork of fields. The next village is barely a speck on the map, with a few dozen buildings clinging to the road and a church steeple rising above the trees. Traffic has banked up. The police car pulls over.

  Ahead of us I notice a woman standing in the middle of the road, waving down cars. She steps in front of each vehicle and holds up her hands as though physically bringing them to a halt. Tapping on the driver’s side window, she waits for it to be lowered.

  I recognise her from the public meeting. Blonde, medium build, denim skirt, white blouse, Becca Washburn is holding a framed photograph of Elizabeth and Harper, which she shows to each driver.

  ‘This is one for you,’ says Cray.

  ‘I don’t know her.’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  I step out of the car and weave between the stationary vehicles until I reach the head of the queue.

  ‘What are you doing, Becca?’ I ask.

  She glances up and blinks, searching her memory. Everything about her is curiously indistinct, as though she’s fading away. Dismissing me with a flick of her head, she goes back to the cars, knocking on the next window. The driver lowers it a few inches.

  ‘This is my sister and niece. They were murdered a month ago. Do you know who did it?’ she asks.

  The driver shakes his head.

  ‘Are you sure? Have you seen them before?’

  ‘No.’

  She moves on, ignoring my presence, determined to finish what she started. A horn bleats, answered by others. She doesn’t seem to hear them.

  I glance back at Cray, who gestures impatiently.

  ‘My name is Joe. Maybe I can help.’

  Becca turns suddenly and holds up the photograph. ‘Do you recognise them?’

  ‘I know who they are.’

  ‘Do you know who killed them?’

  ‘No.’

  She turns away and continues walking.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about Elizabeth and Harper,’ I say. ‘We could have a cup of tea.’

  Becca ignores me.

  ‘You can’t just stop traffic – you’ll get yourself arrested.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be ironic?’ she says bitterly. ‘For a month we’ve had someone living in our house, answering the phone, opening the mail, dealing with reporters. Now they’ve gone. The police have given up. Nobody talks to us any more.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘I’m helping the police … reviewing the case.’

  ‘You’re a detective?’

  ‘A psychologist.’

  Mistrust clouds her eyes. ‘The last one was a moron.’

  ‘I agree.’

  Some of the drivers are out of their vehicles. A bald guy yells at me to ‘move the stupid bitch’. It triggers something inside me. I take a dozen paces towards him and shove him hard in the chest, telling him to get back in his car. He mutters something under his breath.

  Meanwhile, Becca wipes perspiration off her top lip and glances down the road. Twenty cars are waiting. I can see her thinking – what if one of them contains the killer? How will she know? Her eyes are shining and her hand stops halfway to her face as though interrupted. There is an expression on her face that I haven’t seen before – a sense of permanent sadness, or a question about whether she will ever stand on this spot again and have an opportunity to discover the truth about her sister and niece.

  ‘What was Elizabeth like?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t have time for this,’ she replies wearily.

  ‘I know she came from a loving family. She was strong. Independent. You could help me get to know her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s what I do. I try to understand what happened and why. It’s not easy when they’ve gone. People can be like those Magic Eye pictures – you know the ones I mean? Sometimes you have to look right through them and pull back again to see the secret figure hidden inside the picture. You can help me to see the real Elizabeth and Harper. Let’s have a cup of tea.’

  She casts a thoughtful, sideways glance. ‘And Earl Grey will solve everything?’

  ‘No, but I’m thirsty and it always makes me feel better.’

  Becca lets me take her hand and we walk to the side of the road. Traffic begins moving.

  ‘Where’s your husband?’ I ask.

  ‘Working.’

  ‘What about your baby?’

  She brushes damp hair from her eyes, searching her memory.

  I try again. ‘What’s your baby’s name?’

  ‘George.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Sleeping.’

  ‘Did you leave him sleeping somewhere?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Who’s looking after George?’

  ‘Francis took him to work.’

  In the same instant, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone running towards us from the opposite direction. He’s wearing belted trousers and a pale blue shirt, carrying a baby in his arms. Becca lets out a hiccuping sob and collapses into his embrace, hugging the baby between them.

  ‘It’s OK, pet,’ whispers Francis. ‘I’m here now.’

  They’re standing in the middle of the road, ignoring the blasting horns and gawking motorists.

  Francis looks at me as though I’m responsible. He’s about my height and maybe half a stone heavier, with his brown hair shaved close to his scalp, accentuating his ears.

  ‘Your wife needs help,’ I say. ‘She should see a grief counsellor.’

  ‘My wife is fine,’ he answers, clenching his teeth and flexing the cartilage behind his jawline.

  ‘Can’t you see she’s struggling?’

  ‘Leave my family alone.’

  The DCS is walking towards us. Francis stabs a finger in her direction. ‘This is your fault!’ he yells. ‘Do your job.’

  12

  It’s amazing how easily I slip back into the rhythms and routines of the cottage, practices that are embossed upon my memory like Braille – rinsing plates, packing the dishwasher, wiping benches and discussing the day’s events. Julianne is making small talk and acting as though nothing is wrong. Meanwhile, my mind is conjuring up every worst-case scenario.

  I keep trying to get her alone, but she finds excuses to slip away. Even now, when Emma is watching TV in the sitting room and Charlie is upstairs, she avoids the subject.

  ‘You can’t keep fobbing me off,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not fobbing you off.’

  ‘We have to talk.’

  She surveys the kitchen. ‘When are you going back to London?’

  ‘First thing in the morning.’

  ‘But you’re coming back, right?’

  ‘I’ll pack a suitcase and make sure my neighbour waters the plants.’

  ‘You have plants?’

  ‘I have two.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re changing the subjec
t. I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘OK, let’s talk. Take me to the pub.’

  She wants to be somewhere public. Not a good sign.

  It’s still light outside. I hear shouts of young children playing in a paddling pool and the sound of canned laughter from open windows. At the Fox and Badger the heavy door eases shut behind us. The publican, Hector, nods and asks if I’ve been on holiday. Hector still thinks I live in the village even after two years away. I’m one of the founding members of the Divorced Men’s Club in Wellow, which includes Hector. Our numbers are dwindling. Two of the lads have remarried and a third has come out and is living with his former best man. Who says romance is dead?

  I order Julianne a glass of wine. We take a table in the quietest corner, away from the kitchen and the busy end of the bar. I recognise most of the regulars – lumpy-faced locals who nod and say ‘aye’ even when disagreeing; and ‘no, no, no, aye’ when agreeing.

  Julianne centres her wine on her coaster. Not satisfied, she picks up the glass and places it down again.

  ‘I have ovarian cancer,’ she says, not looking at my face. ‘They did an ultrasound a week ago. The mass is about seven centimetres. They want to do a CT scan next Wednesday and then I’ll have surgery.’

  I struggle to swallow and feel the sweat prickle beneath my hairline. ‘What exactly did they say?’

  ‘My doctor is hopeful it might only be stage one. He said that ninety per cent of patients are still alive after five years. That seems pretty positive. The CT scan should tell us more. I’m refusing to worry until I know exactly what I’m dealing with.’

  The silence is filled with a kind of temporal static and I have the sharpest, almost visceral sense that Julianne is going to die. My lips unglue. ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘A week.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’

  ‘What are the options?’

  ‘A hysterectomy is pretty standard, then chemotherapy.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  The gold flecks in her eyes seem to swim, or maybe they’re floating in mine. I almost put my arms around her. I almost touch her hair. The moment is lost. Questions spill out of me. When is she seeing the doctor again? Is her oncologist any good? Has she researched the surgeon? Who has she told? We can go private. No waiting.