The plumber was convinced that his wife was having an affair. And it didn’t matter how often she denied it or professed her love for him, he could not shake the belief that she was unfaithful and the world was laughing at him.
Unpacking more of his past, I learned that his father had run off with another man’s wife, scandalising two families. He came back six months later. Forgiven. Impervious. Undeterred. The cycle began again. Another affair. More tears. Recriminations. Humiliations.
The son grew up watching his mother suffer these indignities and vowed it would never happen to him. He’d thought he’d found the perfect woman. She was bright, beautiful and adoring. They were married for fifteen years and had three daughters, but the plumber still suffered from low self-esteem. He took up bodybuilding, punishing himself with heavier and heavier weights. At the same time he grew increasingly critical of how so many young women dressed and acted, spilling out of the pubs on Friday and Saturday nights, going home with strange men. He vowed that his own daughters would turn out differently.
Around this time he became aware that someone connected with his wife’s work was spending more time with her. She was a drama teacher and directed a few amateur plays for a local theatre group. He asked her to stop. She couldn’t understand why. Slowly the demons entered his mind – the dark thoughts of his wife touching another man – the memories of his father’s faithlessness and his mother’s tears. He confronted her. She denied it. They stopped having intercourse. He found himself doing all the things his mother used to do – going through pockets, checking receipts, reading emails and text messages.
Then one day he saw his wife talking to a father outside the school gates. She laughed at something the man said and that was enough. The plumber beat him to death in front of a dozen witnesses, most of them children.
‘Jealousy,’ says Ruiz, filling the kettle. ‘Love is either equal or a tragedy.’
‘That’s very poetic,’ I say.
‘I must have read it in a fortune cookie.’
Teabags dance at the end of their strings. He takes the milk from the fridge, sniffing the carton before pouring. ‘Elizabeth Crowe didn’t have anything carved on her forehead.’
‘I know.’
‘So the only link between the farmhouse murders and Naomi Meredith is the bleach?’
‘You think I’m overreaching?’
‘It could be a coincidence.’
He’s right, but I can see other similarities – less tangible or easy to put into words.
Ruiz gives a heave as though shifting his weight from one shoulder to the other. ‘So let’s assume you’re right and he’s targeting unfaithful spouses. How is he finding his victims?’
‘Elizabeth Crowe had sex with strangers in public places.’
‘She also used an online dating service.’
‘DCS Cray is trying to get access to the company’s database to check if any of the other victims are registered users.’
There is a muffled cataclysm outside. Raised voices. An argument. Ruiz goes to investigate, calling out from the front door. ‘You might want to see this.’
A new-model Jaguar with personalised plates is parked outside the farmhouse. The driver, dressed in a well-cut suit, has a clipboard and seems to be ticking off boxes and scribbling notes. Hovering in the background, Elliot Crowe is dressed in an overcoat that’s too heavy for the weather with an upturned collar and his hands deep in the pockets.
‘What do you mean, I can’t get any money?’ he says.
‘That’s not how it works,’ replies the estate agent.
‘Just a few thousand up front – this place is worth a shitload.’
‘We don’t give advances or loans.’
‘I’ll go to another agent.’
‘That’s your prerogative, Mr Crowe. Can I look inside?’
Elliot hesitates. ‘I need to get the place cleaned up.’
He doesn’t see me until the last moment and reacts as though I’ve jumped out from behind a tree. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he demands, scratching at a patchy rash on his neck.
‘This is a crime scene, Elliot,’ I say. ‘Nobody is allowed here without permission.’
‘It’s my fucking house.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Do I fucking know you?’ he says, trying to shirtfront me. The whites of his eyes look jaundiced and streaked with blood. ‘You’re trespassing on my property.’
The agent suggests they should leave but Elliot is too busy screaming at me, sending white flecks of spit peppering the air. Ruiz suggests he take a step back and tone down his language.
‘You can’t tell me what to do! I own this fucking place.’
A woman emerges from the Jaguar. Barefoot and in her late twenties or a decade older, she’s wearing a discoloured dress that hangs from her bony frame. The neckline loops low enough to reveal ribs shining through her skin and shoulder blades as sharp as knives.
‘Calm down, babe,’ she says, putting her arms around Elliot.
‘He won’t give us the money,’ he whines.
She hushes him like a mother placating a sulking child, stroking his hair.
‘It’s my house,’ he says petulantly.
‘We’ll get it soon.’
I introduce myself. She doesn’t give her name.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I tell Elliot. He shrugs and looks again at the farmhouse.
‘I need to get a few things.’
‘That won’t be possible.’
He looks puzzled then petulant and finally angry. ‘You can’t stop me.’
‘I can,’ says Ruiz.
Elliot tries to step around him. Ruiz matches his movements. It’s a strange dance, right and left. Elliot threatens to call the police before realising how stupid that sounds.
His girlfriend tugs at his hand. Elliot pushes her away and sees the Jaguar bouncing down the drive. ‘Hey! Arsehole! What about us?’
The brake lights flare as the car reaches the road. Elliot looks deflated. ‘That’s our ride.’
‘We can drop you in town,’ I offer, glancing at Ruiz, who doesn’t seem impressed by the idea. Elliot wants to refuse, but his girlfriend accepts. ‘You can call me Ant,’ she says. ‘It’s short for Antoinette.’
I watch her climb into the back seat of Ruiz’s car, almost mechanical in her movements, as though her limbs are battery-operated. Her knees, pale as candle-wax, are pressed together and I see the outlines of her bones beneath her skin.
I try to make conversation.
‘You were adopted,’ I say.
‘So?’ snaps Elliot.
‘How old were you?’
‘Nine.’
‘That’s quite late.’
‘I had to wait for my parents to die.’ He smiles and fist-bumps with Ant before scratching at his neck again.
‘Where were you on the night your mother and sister died?’
‘Why do you care?’
‘You can tell them, babe,’ says Ant. ‘I’m not angry any more.’
Elliot fidgets and drums his fingers on his thigh. ‘I hooked up with a dancer in Bristol that night.’
‘Where did this dancer live?’
‘I can’t remember. I was wasted. She lived upstairs. Kept cats. The place stank of cat piss.’
‘The police haven’t managed to find her.’
‘Yeah, well, if they do I want her address. The bitch stole my phone.’
‘Did you report the theft?’
He shrugs and mumbles, ‘Maybe I left it on the bus.’
We’re driving through the outskirts of Clevedon, getting closer to the sea. The sky is streaked from edge to edge with pale trails where jets have passed at high altitude.
‘Did you get on with your mother?’ I ask.
‘Which one?’
‘Elizabeth.’
Elliot sighs as though exhausted. ‘I’m not going to sprinkle sugar on dog-shit. She was a tight-arse who knew where every penny went – and none of i
t came to me. Look at what she did to my dad. She screwed his best friend and then she screwed him.’
‘You knew about the affair?’
‘Oh, I knew. I saw them together – kissing in the front seat of her car. She said I was imagining things, but I know what I saw.’
‘Did Harper know?’ I ask.
Elliot shrugs. ‘I didn’t tell her. Wish I had now. Then again, it made no difference. She couldn’t wait to leave that house. That’s why she planned to run away.’
‘Harper?’
‘Yeah. She and her boyfriend were going to take off and ride a motorbike across the States.’
‘When did she tell you this?’
He waves me away dismissively, as though the details are unimportant, but it’s something else that Blake Lehmann failed to mention.
‘I thought Harper wanted to go to Falmouth University,’ I say.
‘That was my mother’s grand plan. Harper had her sights set on travelling for a year.’
‘Who else knew this?’
He bends forward, clutching his stomach, as though his internal organs are persecuting him. His tremors are different from mine. Self-inflicted. Drug-related. Withdrawal symptoms.
‘Are you using?’ I ask.
‘I’m clean.’
‘What’s wrong, babe?’ asks Ant.
‘I haven’t eaten today.’
The cramps hit him again. He’s coming down off something, huffing, puffing. His face is slick with sweat and a fleshy animal stink rises from his overcoat.
‘You should see a doctor,’ I tell him.
‘I don’t need a fucking doctor.’
We’re near the centre of town, opposite a pub called the Harp.
‘You can drop us here,’ says Ant.
She opens the door before the car has stopped moving. Elliot trips over the gutter and falls; Ant lets out a squeak and helps him to stand. He looks at his grazed hands as though he’s forgotten what they’re for. Pedestrians have to step around him.
‘I can help you,’ I say.
‘Good,’ says Ant. ‘Get out of his house.’
Ruiz pulls away. Turning to watch them through the rear window, I see Elliot and Ant heading for the pub, searching through his pockets for money.
28
Julianne’s arm slips through mine as we walk up the steps of St Michael’s Hospital in Bristol and follow the signs to the pathology screening rooms. She has a particular lightness to her step, as though feeling positive about today. A young man with an Abe Lincoln beard is sitting behind a glass partition. He gives Julianne a form to fill out and we’re told to wait in a small room with chairs and a low table covered in magazines and medical leaflets.
‘Do you want something to read?’ I ask.
‘No, thank you,’ she replies.
‘A drink of water?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘It’s going to be all right.’
‘I know.’
‘What’s the oncologist’s name?’
‘Alex Percival.’
‘A man or woman?’
‘Woman.’
Outside I can hear a jackhammer thudding into concrete and vibrating the air. I stand at the window. Men in hard hats, protective boots and high-visibility vests are digging up the footpath. Some toil, others watch. A bus disgorges passengers. A mother crosses the road holding tightly to a child’s hand. Resting my forehead against the glass, I can see the hospital entrance. A middle-aged man and woman are sitting on the steps having a cigarette. Two nurses wave to them as they pass. The world is carrying on. Nature is neither cruel nor capricious. It is indifferent. It doesn’t care that my wife has cancer and is waiting for a medical test and contemplating surgery.
The door opens. A West Indian nurse with a lovely lilting accent takes us through to a changing room where Julianne is given a gown and thick socks to keep her feet warm. She begins to undress, slipping out of her summer dress and unhooking her bra. When was the last time I saw her naked? Two years ago.
‘You can look away now,’ she says, holding her bra against her chest. I turn my back.
‘You can look now.’
Standing pigeon-toed in a green gown and socks, she looks like an orphan. I have to wait outside the MRI room, watching as she lies on a narrow bed that slides her into the space-age sarcophagus, which will fire magnetic pulses through her body, examining her inner workings.
Left alone, I begin to daydream. I picture sitting in the doctor’s office and getting the news that the tumour has miraculously disappeared. Julianne’s ovaries are clear. They are the pinkest, healthiest, most perfect reproductive organs the doctor has ever seen. Other staff members are called in to marvel at the results. Papers are published. Dr Percival is asked to tour. Julianne becomes famous.
An hour later the first part of the daydream is made solid as we wait for the oncologist. Her office walls are decorated with diplomas and photographs. Some of the pictures show a field hospital in Iraq or Afghanistan, or somewhere else with deserts and mountains.
The door opens. Dr Percival peels off a pair of latex gloves and drops them into a HAZARD bin before leaning over her desk. A tiny bird-boned woman with pepper-and-salt hair and veiny white arms, she takes a large white envelope from radiology and reads the report. Glancing up, she cocks her head to one side. ‘Joe?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t remember me?’
I rack my brain. She prompts me. ‘London. Medical school. It must have been…’
‘…1980,’ I say.
‘Close enough.’
Her whole face lights up. She shakes my hand and tells me how well I’m looking, which we both know isn’t true.
‘We were at university together,’ I say to Julianne, who has gathered this much. ‘But your name wasn’t Percival.’
‘I married,’ says Dr Percival. ‘I took my husband’s name, which is rather old-fashioned, but I was desperate not to be called Grimes for the rest of my life.’
‘Alex Grimes, of course.’
She grimaces and takes a seat. Her hands are resting on the open file. ‘How is your father?’
‘Semi-retired.’
‘I was one of his interns for a while. That was a tough three months.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not your fault.’
Dr Percival looks at Julianne, who is feeling a little left out. The jackhammer has fallen silent for a moment.
‘Right, let’s get down to business. We’ve done all we can to identify and map the tumour. The mass is about seven centimetres, which is what we expected.’
Julianne nods. She’s holding my hand.
‘I wish to schedule an exploratory laparotomy. I’ll make an incision through the abdomen to the ovaries and then, with your permission, I’ll try to remove all the visible tumour and see if it has spread any further.’
‘What stage?’ asks Julianne, struggling to get the words out.
‘I can’t be certain until I get inside.’
‘And my ovaries?’
‘I’ll remove both ovaries, the uterus and some of the surrounding tissue.’
Julianne’s fist tightens around my fingers. Nothing shows on her face.
Dr Percival is still talking. ‘After the surgery we’ll decide on a programme of chemotherapy.’ She looks at me. ‘Do you have any questions, Joe?’
I have several hundred but I’m not going to upset Julianne by asking about survival rates and the risk of recurrence.
‘Right then,’ says the doctor. ‘We’ll bring you in to hospital on Friday night and operate first thing Saturday morning.’
‘So soon,’ says Julianne.
‘The sooner the better. You’ll be in hospital for four to seven days. Initially you’ll have an intravenous drip in your arm and a catheter in your bladder and possibly a tube down your nose into your stomach, but these will be removed gradually over a few days. Some women also have calf-compression devices or elastic stockings to keep the blood in
their legs circulating. Once you’re mobile, we’ll take the compression devices off, but you’ll still wear the stockings to avoid blood clots.’
There are more instructions, but the words jumble, collapse and wash over me. I cannot believe that something so insidious has taken root inside my beautiful wife and that now they’re going to cut her open.
Julianne nudges me. I look up. I’ve been asked a question.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I was talking about her recuperation,’ says Dr Percival, ‘which normally takes about six weeks. She’ll have to take things easy. Avoid heavy lifting. Only gentle exercise. No driving for a month.’
Julianne looks at me. ‘Is that OK?’
‘Of course.’
‘Penetrative sexual intercourse should be avoided for about six weeks. I’m quite strict about that,’ says the doctor.
‘That’s OK, we’re not—’
‘I’ll make sure he keeps his hands off me,’ interrupts Julianne.
‘Good,’ says the doctor, making a note on the file. ‘So I’ll see you Friday evening. Judy will get you to fill out an admissions form and give you an information pack. If you have any questions, please call the nursing sister. And if you want to talk to a clinical psychologist – someone other than your husband, I mean – we have one on staff.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ says Julianne, sounding more confident.
Dr Percival closes the file and walks us to the door. ‘We should catch up,’ she says, and I agree, but both of us know it’s not going to happen. Too much time has passed and the circumstances aren’t right.
Forms are signed and brochures collected before we take the echoing walk and descend in the lift and cross the foyer. I sneak a glance at Julianne. Side by side, we’re an odd couple. I resemble a broken-down film director next to his newest leading lady.
‘I don’t want to go home yet,’ she says. ‘Let’s get a coffee.’
We walk up St Michael’s Hill and find a café on the next corner with tables on the footpath beneath an awning. Nurses and hospital workers queue at a hissing machine being operated by a dreadlocked barista who keeps up a constant patter, flirting with the women and winking conspiratorially at the men.
Close Your Eyes Page 19
