Close Your Eyes

by Robotham, Michael

  ‘You’d make a good tour guide,’ I say.

  ‘It’s where I grew up.’

  We sit in silence for a while, pretending to listen to noise that isn’t there. His long, tapered fingers are sliding over the steering wheel.

  ‘Did they tell you I had a nervous breakdown?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I beat up my former business partner and set fire to his car.’

  ‘For sleeping with your wife.’

  He makes an imaginary gun and shoots himself in the temple. ‘Not very clever, huh?’

  ‘It shows you have a temper.’

  ‘I wanted to wipe the smug look off his face.’

  ‘And what did you want to do to Elizabeth?’

  He grows more circumspect. ‘I know people think I killed her. I mean, I hated her guts and maybe I said a few things I regret, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I didn’t want her dead.’ He looks at me sorrowfully. ‘You have to understand what she did to me. I worked seven days a week, keeping our heads above water, but that bitch was never going to drown. Instead she sailed off into the sunset with my fucking money. I lost everything.’

  ‘Your wife took out a restraining order against you.’

  ‘I lost my temper. I shouted. I didn’t hit her.’

  ‘That’s not what her mother and sister told police.’

  He makes a pffffft sound. ‘Have you met them? They’re like a coven – the witches of Clevedon. I blame her mother. She thinks all men are destined to disappoint her sooner rather than later. Elizabeth’s father walked out on the family just after Becca was born. Ever since, the mother has been predisposed to hate men. You know she once told Elizabeth that whatever happened she should marry a man who worshipped her, so that she’d never be dumped or abandoned. Don’t you think that’s horrible advice to give a daughter? Forget about love. Go for security.’

  His eyes drift across the beach where seagulls are hovering against the breeze like tethered kites. The shadow sweeps across the water, changing the colours, and I can imagine some ancient sea monster swimming just below the surface.

  ‘You left an abusive message on Elizabeth’s voicemail the day she died.’

  ‘I regret that, but I was provoked. Elizabeth told Harper that I’d cancelled our lunch on her birthday.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘She was always trying to turn Harper against me. I think she worried that our daughter might love me more.’

  ‘Was Elizabeth really that insecure?’

  ‘No, but she held grudges.’

  ‘How did you and Harper get on?’

  ‘Great, you know, we’ve always been tight, but after the divorce it got harder.’

  ‘Did you resent that?’

  ‘Sure. Look I know I put the police offside by acting tough and being uncooperative, but I would never have hurt my daughter.’

  He unbuttons the cuff of his shirt and pulls it upwards. Harper’s name is tattooed on his left forearm in a swirling script. His Adam’s apple rises and falls as he swallows. He pulls the sleeve down again.

  ‘Did your wife have more than one affair?’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘She must have loved you once.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  The words seem to turn to dust in his mouth. I ask whether Harper had a favourite toy when she was little.

  ‘A brown teddy bear with chewed ears,’ he replies. ‘She once left it on a train to London. It took me three days to get it back. Cost a fortune in couriers.’

  ‘Who else knew about the bear?’

  He rocks his head from side to side. ‘I have no idea. Her friends. Family.’

  ‘Where were you the night they died?’

  ‘Working. Driving.’

  ‘You finished at midnight.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why did you turn your mobile off?’

  ‘I was tired. I didn’t want the dispatcher calling with any more jobs. Any fare at that hour is usually drunk or bleeding.’

  ‘Which means you don’t have an alibi.’

  ‘I don’t need one. I’m innocent.’

  Running his hands over the steering wheel, he watches a child being carried on her father’s shoulders along the seafront. Something inside him seems to shred.

  ‘Who do you think killed your ex-wife and daughter?’ I ask.

  His voice grows thick. ‘Elizabeth invited the wrong man home.’

  15

  Jeremy Egan works out of an office on Portishead docks, overlooking the harbour where the flotilla of moored yachts and launches is so white it hurts my eyes. One corner of his office has a table displaying his latest project – a scale model of a grand old Victorian hotel that he’s redeveloping into luxury apartments. I recognise the building – the Regency. It’s where I stayed with Julianne and the girls when we spent a weekend in Clevedon.

  Egan notices my interest. ‘Looking to buy?’ he asks. ‘We still have a two-bedroom available.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Three hundred and fifty thousand.’

  ‘A tad rich for me.’

  He smiles knowingly and suggests I take a seat. Tall and good-looking with shoulder-length hair and a foppish fringe combed down over his forehead, Egan reminds me of an overgrown schoolboy home on holidays from Eton. The accent completes the picture. Not good or bad. I went to a boarding school and hated every moment. Other boys seemed to flourish in these all-male domains, the fittest surviving in a Darwinian sense, or perhaps I mean Lord of the Flies.

  His desk is completely empty except for his mobile phone and a framed photograph of a pretty dark-haired woman and two dark-haired boys. Teenagers. Strapping lads in Bath Rugby kit.

  ‘Nice family,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you.’ He doesn’t look at the picture. ‘You said you were helping the police.’

  ‘Reviewing the case.’

  ‘Well, I’ve given a statement. There’s nothing I can add.’

  ‘When did you stop sleeping with Elizabeth Crowe?’

  The bluntness of the question seems to offend his sensibilities. He recovers and straightens, patting his fringe.

  ‘My relationship with Elizabeth ended more than a year ago.’

  ‘Did your wife know about the affair?’

  ‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’

  ‘She forgave you. Some would say you got off easily.’

  ‘What is it you want to know, Professor? You seem intent on antagonising me.’

  ‘When did the affair start?’

  ‘Six or seven years ago, I can’t remember the exact date. We’d just completed a project and went out to celebrate. Dominic got drunk. I helped him get home, put him to bed, Elizabeth offered me a nightcap. One thing led to another…’

  ‘You screwed your best friend’s wife while he was sleeping in the next room?’

  ‘Snoring. Elizabeth seemed to get off on that.’ He smiles. ‘The look on your face is priceless.’

  ‘Most people would make an excuse.’

  ‘I don’t need an excuse,’ he says. ‘You’re not my wife or my priest or my bartender. I don’t have to justify or explain my actions. Shit happens. People fall in love and out of love. They fuck whom they want to fuck. Honour is for knights and virgins and Muslim fathers who murder their daughters.’

  ‘Charming.’

  He touches his fringe again. It’s almost a nervous tic.

  ‘How did you and Elizabeth keep the affair secret for so long?’

  ‘I’m an architect. I’m good with details,’ he replies. ‘I’d tell my wife I was golfing with some old university buddies. Elizabeth would tell Dominic that she had a medical conference. We’d meet up and spend the weekend in Scotland or Portugal or some local hotel.’

  ‘Dominic didn’t suspect?’

  ‘We paid cash for everything. Never sent text messages or emails. I gave Elizabeth a mobile phone – my own personal hotline.’
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  ‘Was there ever any question of her leaving her husband or you leaving your wife?’

  This time he laughs.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask.

  ‘The thought of me setting up house with Elizabeth is hilarious. We were fuck buddies, Professor. I think that’s the term for it. No strings attached. If anything, it made our marriages stronger.’

  ‘I wonder if Mrs Egan would agree.’

  ‘Please leave my wife out of this.’

  ‘You seem to have done that already.’

  The comment seems to light a flame behind his eyes. Perhaps he does feel something for someone other than himself. Then again, Egan doesn’t strike me as a man who spends a great deal of time regretting his mistakes or doubting himself. Instead he has all the swaggering self-possession of a high-functioning narcissist, incapable of introspection or second thoughts. Bertrand Russell once said that the problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, and wiser people so full of doubts.

  ‘Tell me about the business partnership with Dominic Crowe,’ I ask.

  Egan recounts how the two of them met fifteen years ago – an architect and a builder – and decided to team up, borrow money, develop properties and ride the building boom.

  ‘How did it work out?’

  ‘We struggled early, but were doing pretty well until the GFC ripped the guts out of the economy. Demand fell. Credit dried up. We had half-finished projects and no buyers. Suppliers were demanding payment. We needed to put more money into the business but Dominic couldn’t raise his share. I offered to buy him out but he wasn’t interested. He hit up Elizabeth’s mother. She loaned him the money, but insisted that Dominic sign over his half of the business to Elizabeth.’

  ‘And you did a deal with her to get the whole company?’

  ‘I had first option to buy it.’

  ‘When did Dominic realise?’

  ‘When we were drawing up the papers, he saw the contract and knew that I had the power to push him out. He hired a private detective. He followed Elizabeth and photographed us together. Dominic filed for divorce. His share of the company was in Elizabeth’s name, but the loan meant her mother was the real owner. Dominic got nothing.’

  ‘Did you and Elizabeth plan this?’

  ‘No, not really, but it suited both of us.’

  ‘What happened after the divorce?’

  ‘Elizabeth wouldn’t sell to me.’

  ‘She double-crossed you.’

  ‘I think she liked the idea of having me on a leash.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  ‘Fine and dandy,’ he says sarcastically. ‘I got rid of one deadweight partner and inherited another, who was even less use to me. Once we started making money again, Elizabeth wanted to take the profits out and I wanted to reinvest.’

  ‘You fought?’

  ‘We disagreed.’

  ‘Were you still sleeping with her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have touched her with a fifty-foot pole.’

  ‘You phoned on the afternoon she died. What did you talk about?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It was probably something to do with the business.’

  ‘On a weekend?’

  He shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘Did you arrange to meet her that evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You had sex with her.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your semen stains were found in her car.’

  ‘Along with how many others?’

  ‘Where were you on that Saturday night?’

  ‘Home with my wife.’

  His secretary knocks on the door. Pretty and leggy, she’s almost a younger, slimmer version of the woman in the photograph. She has brought him a coffee.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here,’ she says, adding, ‘I would have offered you something.’

  ‘That’s OK, Emily, Professor O’Loughlin won’t be staying.’

  The secretary’s eyes widen just a fraction, but she looks at her boss warmly. She’s wearing a flared skirt that billows slightly as she turns. Egan notices. The door closes.

  ‘Do you know what dogging is, Mr Egan?’ I ask.

  ‘Sex with random strangers in public places.’

  ‘Is that something you enjoy?’

  ‘Sounds like a recipe for an STD.’

  ‘I’d appreciate an answer to my question.’

  He sighs and glances out of the window where cranes are lifting another girder into place. ‘My private life is none of your concern.’

  ‘Did you introduce Elizabeth to dogging?’

  ‘She was a very adventurous and highly sexed woman. Once she identified what she wanted she always found a way of getting it.’

  ‘She didn’t get you.’

  ‘She didn’t want me … not to keep, just to borrow occasionally.’

  ‘For sex?’

  He smiles. ‘Good a reason as any.’

  ‘How is the dogging scene around Clevedon?’

  Egan stands and stretches. ‘I get the impression you enjoy asking these questions. Maybe that’s how you get your jollies.’ He grins. ‘Or do you prefer to watch? That little shake of yours makes you look like a dirty old man.’

  I glance again at the photograph on his desk, feeling desperately sorry for his wife. Rarely do I lose my temper because it’s unprofessional, but this man’s self-absorption and arrogance have fed ‘the wrong wolf’. As a young boy I had a book of fables and myths. One of my favourites was an old Cherokee legend about a grandfather who tells his grandson about the two wolves that are fighting inside each of us. One wolf is full of anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, false pride and ego. The other is full of joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, truth and compassion. The grandson asks, ‘Which wolf will win?’ And his grandfather answers, ‘The one you feed.’

  ‘I’ve met a lot of people like you,’ I say, getting to my feet, meeting Egan eye to eye.

  ‘I doubt that,’ he replies.

  ‘No, I have. You believe you’re better than everyone else and feel you have some special right or privilege that allows you to forgo the rules or moral sensibilities that govern the rest of us.’

  ‘You don’t know me.’

  ‘You play golf. Right-handed. You wear a fingerless glove on your left hand. You pulled a muscle in your neck and can’t rotate it fully, which makes it hard on the follow-through and also means you wince slightly when you turn your head to the left.

  ‘Your wife bought you that sweater. Cashmere. It’s what she buys you every birthday, which is one of the reasons you think she’s boring. She’s also fat, gone to seed and turning into her mother, which is why you sleep in separate bedrooms. No, I’m wrong. You have a flat here in town. She stays at the big house with the boys.

  ‘I noticed your Range Rover parked downstairs. New. Personalised plates. Mud on the wheels. You don’t hunt or ride – I checked your profile on LinkedIn – but you’ve been out in the countryside. Have you introduced your secretary to the dogging scene? No, she’s too young. She worships you. You can’t risk scaring her away.’

  Egan’s composure disintegrates and he looks ready to reach across the desk and put his hands around my throat. His mobile begins chirruping on his desk. Momentarily distracted, he glances at the screen, not recognising the number. By then I’m at the door, one hand in my pocket, pressing a button to end the call.

  16

  Tommy Garrett has been interviewed since early morning by two teams of detectives working in shifts, allowing him ten-minute breaks every hour, giving him soft drinks and sandwiches when he’s hungry. He’s still dressed in his work clothes – cowboy boots, jeans and a heavy-cotton shirt with only one sleeve rolled up, the other buttoned down.

  Whenever they ask Tommy a question that he cannot answer he hunches a little more and stares at the back of his hands. Either that or he closes his eyes, as though trying to think through the confusion the
questions are causing.

  Watching on the CCTV feed, I notice that one detective moves around the room while the other stays seated. Tommy struggles to follow both and has to twist back and forth in his chair. There is a mirror in the room. Occasionally he looks at his reflection, raising his hand to make sure it’s him. It’s almost as if he’s watching a TV show or movie rather than experiencing a real-life interrogation.

  I have seen a lot of lonely, socially inept young men in my consulting room. Almost always they were the slow kid, the dumb kid, the fat kid from school – the last one picked for teams, who changes behind a towel or chain-puffs on an asthma inhaler, or stutters his way through classes never raising his hand to answer a question; the one everyone seems to forget when they send out class birthday invitations. Most of them grow up to overcome their awkwardness and low self-esteem. They find a friend or a decent role model or a girl who recognises their potential. But a few suffer depression and ongoing social anxiety. They slide into alcohol and drug abuse or develop a pathological perfectionism because they hate their former selves.

  Cray is standing beside me, watching the screen.

  ‘He should have a lawyer,’ I tell her.

  ‘We gave him the opportunity.’

  ‘He’s vulnerable. Impressionable. You mustn’t put words in his mouth.’

  ‘Don’t tell me how to do my job, Professor.’

  There is a sharp edge to her voice. Our friendship has boundaries and I have to be careful what I say.

  ‘What do you know about him?’ I ask.

  ‘Father walked out on him. Mother is dead. Raised by his grandmother from the age of eight. Below-average intelligence. Arrested twice for public nuisance. No charges.’

  ‘What did you find at the house?’

  ‘Plenty of porn on his computer.’

  ‘What sort of porn?’

  ‘We’re still going through the hard drive.’

  ‘The killer may have rape fantasies. You should be looking at anything that involves violence and coercion. What about the murder weapon?’

  ‘Nothing yet, but we found bloodstains on one of his shirts – the lab has it now. There was also a stash of women’s underwear. Looks like he’s been collecting for a while.’