Close Your Eyes

by Robotham, Michael

  I hear the motorbike rumble down the drive and I breathe again. Clean up. Change my clothes. I notice the Bible and the candles in the sitting room. I need to lay a false trail – more than one. I paint the bloody pentagram on the wall and light the candles. I break open the front door and trigger the alarm. On the doorstep I discover a birthday present for Harper – a peace offering from her boyfriend. I take it with me, along with the knife.

  Who am I? I know about loving relationships, fidelity and family, but something has warped my sexuality. I’m angered and frustrated by acts of betrayal. Perhaps I come from a family torn apart by divorce or infidelity. Either that or I’ve been scorned by a girlfriend, or cuckolded by a wife.

  I am not an adolescent. My sophistication and forensic awareness have come with age and experience. I have done this before, which is why I deserve respect, not insults and scorn. I am watching the media coverage. I know what they’re saying about me.

  Most of my victims have never come forward. They’re too embarrassed or won’t risk the public shaming, but the murders of Elizabeth and Harper were different. I crossed a line. Initially, this terrified me. I was frightened of what I’d become … what I was capable of … but now I relish those memories, which colour my world – the smell of her hair, the beating of her heart.

  ‘I need a piece of paper,’ I say to Ruiz.

  He takes out the battered notebook that he carries everywhere. The pages are dog-eared and buckled by sweat, held together by a rubber band. He tears one out and I begin writing.

  – mid-twenties to mid-forties, most likely at the higher end of the range, with a high sex drive and burning sense of betrayal.

  – known to Elizabeth or Harper.

  – confident of his surroundings. He has good working knowledge of local footpaths and bus timetables, which is why he could attack and disappear quickly without being noticed or attracting suspicion.

  – he’ll most likely work in a service job or something that takes him away from home, but brings him into contact with people.

  – good verbal and social skills – enough to avoid suspicion.

  – physically strong.

  – forensically aware.

  – highly intelligent, but with a poor academic record.

  – his family and friends may not even consider the possibility that he could be responsible.

  – he will not be abnormal.

  – he will not look guilty.

  – he is escalating.

  – this will happen again.

  When I finish writing, I read the page again. Four of the primary suspects match elements of the profile – Dominic Crowe, Jeremy Egan, Dion Ferguson and Elliot Crowe. But nothing that I’ve written explains how Elizabeth and Harper fitted into the killer’s picture. Elizabeth had a history of infidelities, but no symbol was carved into her forehead. Harper was single, eighteen, unsullied by life. She is the anomaly.

  I look up at Ruiz. ‘I think we’ve been looking at this the wrong way around.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘We’ve been focusing on Elizabeth because she bore the brunt of his anger, but what if Harper was the real target?’

  ‘He barely touched her.’

  ‘That’s my point – it was an act of contrition, maybe of love.’

  Ruiz leans over the table, propping on his elbows. ‘So we’re back to the father or the boyfriend.’

  ‘Or some other admirer.’

  ‘Tommy Garrett?’

  ‘No. Jeremy Egan talked to Harper at the pub that night.’

  ‘You think he wanted to add Harper to his list of conquests?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Unless Elliot had a thing for his sister,’ says Ruiz. ‘They weren’t biological siblings. It’s happened before.’

  ‘Harper wasn’t sexually assaulted. She represented something to the killer that Elizabeth didn’t. She was pure. She was blameless. She didn’t deserve to die – but had to.’

  ‘Perhaps she saw something or knew something,’ says Ruiz.

  Instinctively, I know he’s right. The answer lies somewhere in the timelines. Folding the sheet of paper, I put it into my pocket and tell Charlie to collect her things.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asks.

  ‘I have to take your mum to the hospital.’

  ‘I wanted to keep looking for the house – the one in the sketch.’

  ‘No, not on your own.’

  She’s about to argue, but Ruiz interrupts, ‘I’ll look after her. Just tell me when you want her home.’

  43

  A shaft of sunlight, teeming with dust motes, spills through the window and paints a square of light across the queen-sized bed. Julianne’s small suitcase has been packed and repacked. She doesn’t know whether to take pyjamas or a nightgown.

  ‘A nightgown makes more sense, don’t you think?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say.

  ‘Dr Percival said I might need a catheter.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I should maybe take two nightgowns – just in case.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Are you going to agree with everything I say?’

  ‘Probably.’

  I’m trying to be supportive and positive, but my heart is knocking against my chest. Julianne picks up a photograph of the girls and puts it on top of the folded clothes. Her mother is waiting downstairs with Emma.

  There are hugs and forced smiles and instructions repeated about meals and separating ‘the whites’ and a birthday party that Emma has been invited to on Sunday.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ says her mother. ‘You’ll only be gone a week.’

  ‘We promise not to fall apart,’ I add.

  ‘And you’ll miss me.’

  ‘Oh, we will.’

  ‘I thought Charlie would be here,’ says Julianne, looking outside. ‘Did you call Vincent?’

  ‘They’re fine. Charlie will call you later,’ I tell her, wishing I could make our elder daughter suddenly appear.

  On the drive to the hospital I keep making small talk, yet I feel strangely detached from things around me. The radio is playing in the background – news at the top of the hour.

  Police have issued an arrest warrant for a twenty-six-year-old man wanted for the murders of Somerset mother and daughter Elizabeth and Harper Crowe.

  I turn up the volume.

  The suspect has been named as Elliot Crowe, the adopted son and stepbrother of the victims. The warrant follows a police raid at first light this morning when two SWAT teams broke into a bedsit in Eastleigh, Bristol. Forensic teams have since used earth-moving equipment to dig up the rear garden.

  A spokesman for Avon and Somerset Police would not comment on whether anything was found during the search, but said the investigation was ongoing.

  I glance at Julianne, who hasn’t reacted. Zen-like in her calm, she has bundled up her hair and pinned it high on her head with a tortoiseshell clasp.

  ‘Why would he kill his mother and sister?’ she asks quietly.

  ‘He’s a drug addict,’ I say, as if no other explanation were needed.

  ‘Well, I’m glad its over.’

  At the hospital there are stairs, and more stairs and swinging double doors. Julianne has a private room. She puts her suitcase next to a locker and hangs her dressing gown on a hook behind the door. I watch as she unpacks, putting her bedsocks, underwear and a loose-fitting dress on separate shelves. Her cup with a flexible straw goes on the bedside table, next to the photograph and a twin pack of Polo mints.

  ‘I can’t find my phone charger.’

  ‘I’ll bring one tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s not the point – I know I packed it. What if my battery runs out?’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘I should have brought my little radio.’

  ‘You’ve got the TV.’

  ‘I’m going to miss The Archers.’

  ‘You’ll catch up.’

  Sitting on the mattress, she boun
ces a little as though testing the springs.

  ‘You don’t have to stay.’

  ‘I don’t have anywhere I’d rather be.’

  She leans back against the bedhead. A clock ticks on the wall, louder than before.

  ‘What time is the surgery?’ I ask.

  ‘First thing in the morning.’

  ‘Can I call you beforehand?’

  ‘It might be very early.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  ‘After the operation I go to the recovery room.’

  ‘I’ll come in the morning.’

  ‘No, don’t come until I’m awake. Stay with the girls.’

  ‘Should I bring them?’

  She thinks about this. ‘No, leave them at home until you’ve seen me. I might be groggy. I want to look my best.’

  ‘They won’t care.’

  ‘It’s not for them.’

  Further along the corridor comes the sound of ‘Happy Birthday’. There is also a beeping sound like an alarm, which halts after a few moments. A nurse puts her head around the door and stops in mid-sentence, surprised to see me.

  ‘I’m sorry about the noise,’ says Becca Washburn, recovering her composure. ‘One of the patients is having a birthday. There’s plenty of cake to go around. Would you like a piece?’

  We shake our heads.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’ asks Becca, stepping into the room. ‘The TV is dodgy, I’m afraid. It can only get two channels: Sky News and UK Gold.’

  ‘I’m not bothered,’ says Julianne.

  ‘Well, I’m off home, but I’ll be working tomorrow,’ says Becca. ‘If you need anything, just press the buzzer. There are nurses on duty all night.’

  After she’s gone, Julianne turns to me. ‘That’s the woman we saw in the café.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know she worked on this ward?’

  ‘No.’

  Visiting hours are almost over. I hug Julianne tightly and almost lift her off the ground. Half a head shorter, she looks up at me. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Call me if you want to talk.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I have my book to read and friends have been calling me ever since I broke the news. They all want to come and visit, but I’ve told them to wait until I get home.’

  ‘It’s nice they care.’

  ‘They’re all asking about you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘They want to know if we’re back together.’

  ‘What do you tell them?’

  ‘I tell them it’s a work in progress.’

  44

  Leaving the hospital, I drive through Bristol to Eastleigh, turning off Fishponds Road into a bleak-looking street full of cheap terraces, bedsits and council flats. Police cars are parked outside one particular house, flanking a forensic service van.

  After driving past the address, I pull over and walk to the next corner. Climbing on to a brick wall, I can see across the rear gardens of a dozen terraces to where arc lights are blazing. Police have used a small mechanical digger to scrape aside weeds and carve out a trench in the dark brown soil. Now they’re erecting a tent to protect the area.

  Dogs are barking. Curtains move. I can feel myself being watched. I jump down and retrace my steps until I reach the front of the building. Two uniformed police officers are standing outside on the footpath, while another – PC Benjamin – guards the front door. Ducking under the crime scene tape, I reach her before the other officers can react. She signals them that it’s OK.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ I say.

  ‘It’s my job, sir,’ she says resolutely, standing a little straighter. Her eyes are puffy and red.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about Milo,’ I say. ‘How is he?’

  Fear momentarily clouds her face and she cannot hide the tremor in her voice. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Have you been to see him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She lowers her voice. ‘I broke up with Milo.’

  ‘When?’

  She hesitates. ‘We had an argument last night. I stormed out of a restaurant.’ Her voice grows more desperate. ‘I took a cab home. I wouldn’t let him drive me. Perhaps if I’d … if I hadn’t…’

  ‘You are not to blame for what happened.’

  ‘Don’t you see – Elliot Crowe must have been watching us. He must have followed Milo to the car park.’

  ‘Did you see Elliot?’

  ‘No, but they found Milo’s wallet dumped in a rubbish bin in the back lane.’ She motions over her shoulder.

  ‘Why would Elliot Crowe attack Milo?’

  ‘Because of what Milo said on the radio,’ says Bennie. ‘He got too close to the truth. Milo said it was Elliot who killed his mother and sister, and he was right. They found the murder weapon buried in the garden.’

  ‘How did they find it?’ I ask.

  ‘Metal detector.’

  ‘How did they know where to look?’

  Bennie ignores the question. She glances at her colleagues. ‘You have to leave, sir.’

  ‘Listen, Bennie, I’ve kept your secret. I haven’t told anyone about you and Milo, but you were probably the last person to see him before the attack. They’re going to find out. You should make a statement.’

  Bennie doesn’t answer.

  ‘I want to look inside,’ I say.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Five minutes.’

  ‘No.’

  I take out my mobile. ‘I make one call and everybody knows the truth about you and Milo.’

  If looks could kill …

  PC Benjamin opens the door and steps to one side. ‘You have two minutes.’

  The smell inside the bedsit is indescribable. It’s a junkie’s nest, ravaged by neglect. Discarded bottles of vodka, whisky, gin and schnapps are lying amid overflowing ashtrays, burger wrappers and dirty clothes. Stepping over discarded shoes, unopened letters, dry bread rolls and bags of rubbish, I reach the kitchen. Something that might be vomit has dried in a yellow-red patch on the floor and food is congealed on every plate, saucepan and available surface. As hard as I try, I cannot equate such squalor and self-loathing with the sense of calm and afterthought that characterised the farmhouse murders.

  I’m often accused of giving people too much credit and ignoring the worst in their natures because I’m sympathetic towards the underprivileged and exploited. But I don’t accept the label that I’m soft on criminals or a bleeding heart. I simply understand the contradictions and paradoxes, the layers of personality within each of us.

  Why do good people do bad things? There are lots of reasons – denial, peer pressure, tunnel vision, low self-esteem, ignorance, arrogance, disorder, competition, time pressure, cognitive dissonance, addiction, settling old scores or recovering losses. I could keep going, but the point is that nothing is black and white except for mathematics and pandas.

  Elliot Crowe’s life tumbled out of control owing to some combination of the above. His biological parents are either dead or they abandoned him. His adoptive mother was unfaithful and brutally efficient at getting everything she could from her divorce. Like all addicts, Elliot is skilled in deception. He deceived himself that first moment he slid a needle into his vein or inhaled from a crack pipe. He told himself it wouldn’t become an issue. And later he justified every action because he was hooked, taken, spoken for; or the dragon was in charge.

  The result is an angry, bitter and addicted man; greedy, selfish, self-loathing and calculating, but I’m not convinced that he’s a killer. To begin with, he’s not stupid enough to have kept the murder weapon and he’s not clever enough to have staged the crime scene – not without help. The killer wasn’t a trophy-taker and the knife isn’t some treasured artefact.

  Right now he’s running or holed up somewhere with his girlfriend, most likely in a squat or derelict building. He won’t stay hidden for long. Scum always floats to the top.

&
nbsp; ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I had errands to run.’

  ‘Did you remember the bread?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s all I asked you to do.’

  ‘I’ll go now.’

  ‘Supper is ready. I picked up fish and chips from our favourite place.’

  ‘Put mine in the oven.’

  ‘You’re hopeless. You’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ She taps my head with her knuckles. ‘Knock, knock, is there anyone home in there?’

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That.’

  ‘I’m only teasing.’

  ‘Don’t treat me as if I’m an idiot.’

  ‘Well, stop acting like one. Eat your supper.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Fine, then.’

  She pulls the plate away and carries it into the kitchen where she opens the pedal bin and dumps my supper inside. Then she comes back and sits down, grinning at me smugly. It’s that same self-satisfied, condescending smile that she always uses when I’ve disappointed her. I’ve never been good enough. I don’t spend enough time with her. I’m not sensitive to her needs. I’m not smart enough. I don’t earn enough money. I’m not ambitious. I fail on every count, yet I love her and I defend her.

  When I complain about her taunts and bullying she says that I’m exaggerating, or imagining things or whining. If I spend too long at work I’m a workaholic. If I take a day off I’m lazy. She preys on my fears and weaknesses, my compassion and my imperfections. She pushes me away and then tries to be affectionate. If I rebuff her or I don’t respond immediately, she says I’m being cruel and uses that as an excuse to push me away again, showing me that I’m undesired, unwanted, unloved, unlovable.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asks.

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The nursing home called,’ I lie.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know – that’s why I’m going there.’

  She says something else but I don’t hear the words. Instead I imagine them. She makes me so angry that I want to lash out and hurt someone; I want to punish them, I want to purge myself of the poison that build up inside me.