Close Your Eyes

by Robotham, Michael

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘One male, one female, both married.’

  ‘Were they having an affair?’

  ‘Someone has gone to interview them.’

  I try to picture the scene. A detective turning up on the doorsteps of two different spouses, asking if they were sleeping with each other and who might have discovered their infidelities. Doors are going to be slammed. Toes bruised.

  ‘So we have six people with the letter “A” carved into their foreheads – four women and two men. Naomi was definitely having an affair. Most of the others have denied it.’

  ‘They’re probably lying,’ says Ruiz.

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘All of which begs the question – where do Elizabeth and Harper Crowe fit into this?’

  ‘Elizabeth slept with her husband’s best friend and had sex in public with a married man.’

  ‘There was nothing carved on her forehead.’

  ‘Harper died from a blood choke.’

  ‘And then there’s the bleach…’

  Charlie is inside, sorting through Polaroids on the kitchen table. Ruiz breaks into a huge grin. ‘Hello, princess, do I get a hug?’

  ‘Not if you call me princess.’

  He hugs her anyway and Charlie responds awkwardly, hands at her sides. ‘When did you get so tall?’ asks Ruiz.

  ‘I’m not twelve any more.’

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Why would I want one of those?’

  ‘A girlfriend then.’

  ‘Dream on.’

  Charlie picks up one of the Polaroids to show me – a photograph of an old man whose face is so pitted and creased that his cheeks resemble moonscapes. He has an absent-minded smile and seems to be staring into space, as though he’s reminiscing about the past.

  ‘It’s the man in the sketch,’ she says. ‘The one Harper was drawing on the sixth of June.’

  I study the photograph and the sketch. She’s right. It’s the same man. His eyes have more warmth in the drawing and he seems more grounded in the present.

  ‘And I also found this one,’ says Charlie, holding up a photograph of the house in the sketchbook. ‘Maybe I can find it.’

  ‘Now you want to play detective?’

  ‘Keeps me out of trouble.’

  ‘I don’t want you knocking on any strange doors.’

  ‘I’ll stick to the high street.’

  ‘Or taking sweets from dirty old men.’

  Ruiz looks up. ‘Who’s a dirty old man?’

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ says Charlie.

  35

  The large detached Edwardian house is in a fashionable part of Clevedon, overlooking Fir Wood where the trees are hanging heavily in the heat. I ring the bell. Bare feet come thundering towards the door, which quakes as locks and bolts are keyed and slid. It opens and reveals a sandy-headed boy, his face below the lock, peering up at me sceptically. He is bare-chested, wearing swimming trunks. A TV is playing somewhere within – applause followed by an English voice: ‘Advantage, Miss Sharapova.’

  ‘Is your mummy home?’ I ask.

  He looks at Ruiz. ‘Are you policemen?’

  ‘No.’

  He closes the door and I hear the same bare feet retreating down the hallway. Softer footsteps follow. A woman appears, opening the door a crack. I can only see one half of her face.

  ‘Maggie Dutton?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I was hoping we could ask you a few questions about an incident that occurred a month ago.’

  ‘Are you the police?’

  ‘No, I’m a psychologist.’

  Her eyes flick to Ruiz and back to me. ‘I withdrew my statement. You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I understand that you—’

  ‘Did the police give out my address? That’s not allowed. What about my privacy?’

  ‘Another woman has been attacked.’

  Something changes in her eyes, but she regains her composure. ‘I have nothing to say.’

  The door is closing.

  ‘Her name was Naomi Meredith. She was twenty-nine.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘She’s dead, Mrs Dutton.’

  The door stops moving and opens a little wider, revealing her face. A large square bandage covers much of her forehead. Lowering her eyes, she stares at her right hand braced on the door, debating what to do. She could close it so easily. Lock us out.

  ‘Just you,’ she whispers.

  ‘I’m not police either,’ says Ruiz.

  ‘I don’t care – you look like one.’

  Ruiz nods and says he’ll wait for me. I follow Maggie into the front room, which has oak panelling, oversized sofas and fittings from another age. I imagine a bell beneath the rug to summon servants. Perhaps she has family money.

  The TV has been turned down, but I can still hear the gentle thwock of tennis balls and the harsh grunts of the players, punctuated by applause. Maggie takes a seat. Thin and fair-haired, with high cheekbones and a short upturned nose, she’s wearing trousers and a white blouse, loose around her neck. She sits bolt upright with her knees pressed together, hands on her lap, looking slightly dazed and disbelieving, like a refugee applying for asylum. Her rather prominent eyes are fixed on the floor and periodically she tugs at the collar of her blouse where it touches her neck.

  Crayons are scattered on the low table next to a child’s drawing of a knight who appears to be slaying a dragon, although the dragon resembles a dog and the knight looks like a robot.

  ‘How old is your son?’ I ask.

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Your husband works abroad.’

  Something changes in her voice. ‘We’re separated.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Why did you withdraw your statement?’

  ‘It can’t change what happened.’

  ‘You could help catch the man who attacked you.’

  ‘How? I could pass him in the street and not recognise him.’

  ‘So you’d rather just forget?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How is that working out for you?’

  Her eyes flash to mine, trying to decide if I’m being sarcastic or cruel.

  ‘Your questions won’t work on me, Professor. I have some knowledge of psychology. I studied it for a while.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Exeter.’

  ‘I know some of the lecturers there.’

  I mention a few names, but Maggie isn’t interested in making small talk. The silence stretches out, getting long and thinner like a rubber band that will eventually snap back. She tugs again at the collar of her blouse.

  ‘How is your neck?’ I ask.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Is it bruised?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I once had a patient – her name was Nancy – who couldn’t bear to have anything touch her throat. She couldn’t wear necklaces or turtleneck sweaters. She couldn’t stand her boyfriend touching her there. They were engaged. At the wedding she wanted to wear a necklace her grandmother had left her, but was afraid it would trigger a panic attack in the church.’

  Maggie blinks at me. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I went through her entire history. Nothing. It was a complete mystery. Then I talked to her sister and discovered the trigger. When Nancy was about your son’s age she was playing with a group of neighbourhood boys on an abandoned plot behind their house. One of them had wrapped a homemade noose around her neck and together they pulled her up into a tree. Left her dangling. A woman motorist saw it happen and managed to cut her down.

  ‘You’re probably wondering why Nancy didn’t remember something that traumatic, but her sister was older and supposed to be looking after her. She made Nancy promise not to tell anyone. She made her swear on their mother’s life – to cross her heart and hope to die. Nancy was young enough to believe such promises could come true, so she blocked out the hanging, but somewhere deep inside, she reme
mbered. That’s why she couldn’t bear to have anything touch her neck.’

  Maggie raises her hand to her throat and lowers it again.

  ‘You’re a strong, intelligent, independent, well-educated woman, Maggie. I can see that. You think that any sign of weakness is going to be punished or be used against you. If you break down and cry or admit to being frightened, you’ll be proving that women are emotionally weak and fragile. But whatever you’re feeling is a response to trauma.’

  A single tear slips down her cheek, running into the corner of her mouth.

  ‘You can try to forget the attack, but it won’t go away,’ I say. ‘Unless you confront the truth and come to terms with it – this man will haunt you while he’s hunting others.’

  We sit for a long while listening to the sounds of Wimbledon. Maggie’s shoulders stop shaking and she blows her nose.

  ‘How tall was he?’ I ask.

  ‘Taller than me,’ she whispers.

  ‘You didn’t see his face?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about his voice?’

  She shrugs.

  ‘Did you smell anything?’

  ‘Seaweed.’

  ‘Do you know how long you were unconscious?’

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘Did he say anything to you?’

  She shakes her head a little too adamantly.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Again I let the silence stretch out, expanding in her mind, filling her chest, fraying her nerves. Everybody has three hearts – one they show to strangers, one they show to the people they love, and the last one that isn’t shown to anyone. It’s the last heart that I look for in people – the one that’s normally most damaged.

  When Maggie speaks it comes in a rush. ‘He called me an adulterer. He said he’d seen me with a married man, but that couldn’t be true. I’ve always been faithful.’ Her eyes narrow to slits. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You don’t believe me! I don’t care. I know that I was a good and faithful wife.’ Her voice is breaking. ‘My husband didn’t believe me. That’s why he left.’ She makes eye contact, holding my gaze. ‘Do you know the worst part? Every time I look in the mirror I still see that horrible letter written on my forehead. One night I tried to scrub it off with steel wool. My little boy found me and asked me what I was doing. “Is it gone?” I asked him.’ She lowers her eyes again. ‘You said there were other victims.’

  ‘We know of four others.’

  Maggie gazes at me, wanting to believe I’m wrong. A small vein pulses on her jawline.

  ‘I have to ask you some very personal questions,’ I say, trying to tread carefully. ‘Whatever you tell me will stay between us. I will not reveal the details to the police or anyone else.’

  She nods.

  ‘Have you ever joined an online dating agency?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you ever swap partners or introduce anyone else into your sexual life?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you had sex in public?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘What about your husband?’

  She shakes her head, less certain than before.

  ‘Why do you think this man thought you were having an affair?’

  ‘I don’t know. I kept denying it. I said I had a little boy at home. He asked me if I liked oral sex. I didn’t answer and it made him angry.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He said I was disgusting. He asked, how could I take another man’s penis in my mouth, when I had a child at home? He asked if I went home and kissed my boy with my filthy mouth. He was screaming at me. He said he was going to put me to sleep. He asked me if I wanted to wake up. I didn’t know what he meant. I begged him. “Please don’t kill me. Please, please…”’

  She sobs and rocks forward over her knees.

  ‘What did he do, Maggie?’

  ‘He cut me.’

  ‘Show me.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Please.’

  Reaching up, she pinches one corner of the surgical bandage and slowly peels it back. The wound on her forehead has healed, but the scar is puckered and pink. Three intersecting lines form the letter ‘A’.

  ‘I’ll never forget,’ she whispers. ‘I’ll never forgive him.’

  36

  Ruiz is waiting for me in the car, sitting with the door open, listening to cricket on the radio. England is playing Australia in Cardiff in the First Test. Tennis and cricket – the twin sounds of an English summer. He turns down the volume and I tell him what I’ve learned.

  Maggie Dutton’s pain had been so raw and uncompromising I can almost taste it coating my tongue. I didn’t blame her for wanting to draw the curtains and crawl into bed, hiding away from the world. I have climbed into that hole and out again.

  ‘Was she having an affair?’ asks Ruiz.

  ‘No, I don’t think she was.’

  ‘So we’re wrong about his motivation.’

  ‘Or he made a mistake.’

  My mobile is vibrating next to my heart. I recognise Charlie’s number. I’m about to speak but she cuts over me. Frightened. Out of breath.

  ‘Daddy! He’s trying to get in the car.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Some random. You’ve got to come.’

  Her fear is real, I can tell from the rising inflection and her barely suppressed panic.

  ‘Drive away,’ I tell her.

  ‘I can’t! I dropped the keys. They’re on the ground outside. I’ve locked the doors … but what if he finds the keys?’

  Someone is yelling in the background, hammering on the glass. Charlie screams. Ruiz has heard half the conversation and puts his foot down, weaving through traffic.

  ‘Where are you, Charlie?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she sobs.

  ‘I need a street … an intersection.’

  ‘I can’t see one.’

  ‘What can you see?’

  ‘Houses. Cars.’ And then, ‘I walked past a pub. It was on the corner.’

  I put her on speakerphone. ‘What was it called?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Wait! Three words. The something…’

  ‘The Little Harp?’ says Ruiz.

  ‘That’s it!’

  Ruiz swerves on to the opposite side of the road and cuts across a garage forecourt before throwing the car around another corner. I grab hold of the dashboard and sway back and forth, either bashing shoulders with him or thumping against the passenger door. Ruiz pulls out his phone and calls the police, giving the location.

  ‘How far?’ I ask.

  ‘Two minutes.’

  Charlie is still on the phone. ‘I think he’s gone,’ she says. ‘I can’t see him. I’ll get the keys.’

  ‘No!’

  In the same breath she screams and I hear a whump noise and the sound of breaking glass. Ruiz brakes hard and takes the next corner, swerving around a furniture truck. He runs a red light and forces an oncoming car off the road.

  ‘We’re here,’ he says, turning hard into a new road. I see the Volvo. A figure looks up and turns away, beginning to run. Ruiz flings open the driver’s door and gives chase on foot, his heavy shoes echoing on the pavement. I go to Charlie. She’s sitting behind the wheel, covered in broken glass. Pale. Shocked. She unlocks the door and I hug her, feeling her whole body shake.

  ‘Did he touch you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you dizzy? Nauseous?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Numbness. Disorientation. Shallow, rapid breathing.’

  ‘I’m fine, Daddy. Really.’

  Along the street, doors are opening. I want to yell at people, Where were you! Why didn’t help her! She could have been hurt. She could have been taken.

  Ruiz has returned. He shakes his head. He looks at Charlie and then at me, asking us what happened.

  ‘I was showing people the sketchbook,’ explains Charlie, ‘and this one guy demanded to know where I got it.
He said it didn’t belong to me.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, where did it happen?’

  ‘On the street, I think it’s called the Triangle. I was on the corner and he came up to me.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Young, I guess – older than me. Dark hair. Thin. He had on this heavy coat.’

  Elliot Crowe was wearing a winter coat.

  ‘Tell me again exactly what he said.’

  ‘He said I shouldn’t have the sketchbook.’

  ‘Did he mention Harper’s name?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She takes several deep breaths. ‘He tried to take the book off me. That’s when I ran.’

  A police panda car pulls up in the middle of the road. Two uniformed officers, one male, one female, step out and give their call sign over their shoulder radios. The female officer interviews Charlie, asking the same questions that I did, while her colleague talks to some of the neighbours, scribbling in his police-issue notebook.

  I tell Ruiz he should go. I’ll catch up with him tomorrow. Half an hour later the police have finished and I’m given a case number and told that someone will be in touch. I feel angry rather than reassured. I know that in the grand scheme of things a broken car window and tearful teenager are not high on the list of police priorities.

  Charlie is waiting in the passenger seat, nursing the bottle of water. Brushing glass from the driver’s seat, I get behind the wheel and drive us home. Air rushes through the broken window. It will have to be fixed. Insurance will pay.

  The adrenalin has dissipated and Charlie looks scarily calm. I want her to be chastened, to be having second thoughts about studying psychology. Surely this will change her mind.

  ‘Are we good?’ I ask.

  She nods. ‘I don’t think I’ll make a very good psychologist.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘The guy looked creepy, but I didn’t recognise the danger. I should have known.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself.’

  ‘But surely that’s part of the job – being able to read people’s body language, deciding if they’re hiding something or blocking it out. Looking for the clues, you know, whether they stutter or start sweating or keep glancing up to the left.’