Dominic Crowe is two rows ahead of me, sitting next to Francis Washburn. He cranes forward, trying to make eye contact with Elliot, who doesn’t respond.
The case number is called. Elliot is asked to confirm his name and address. He is charged with two counts of murder, assaulting police, resisting arrest, breaking and entering, theft and perverting the course of justice.
‘Do you understand the charges?’ asks Judge Mitchell.
‘He does, Your Honour,’ says his lawyer.
‘I wish to hear from the defendant. Do you understand the charges, Mr Crowe?’
‘I didn’t do it,’ whispers Elliot.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ says his lawyer, holding a finger to his lips.
‘I didn’t fucking do it!’
‘The defendant will refrain from uttering profanities in my courtroom,’ says the judge.
‘Fuck you!’ Elliot yells, turning to the public gallery. ‘I DIDN’T DO IT!’
As he recognises his father, his shoulders slump and tears form. He stops shouting. Whispers, ‘I didn’t do it.’
The judge remands him in custody. Court security officers are summoned. Elliot fights at their arms, his wet mouth gaping pinkly in his distress. ‘You’re hurting me! You’re hurting me!’
The door closes. Out of sight, I hear a baton fall.
The courtroom empties quickly. Stories must be filed. Online editions updated.
Francis Washburn puts his arm around Dominic Crowe, trying to console him. He’s looking for a taxi. People are watching – a young mother with a pram, a jogger in Lycra tights, two long-haired boys with skateboards. I find myself beside them, unsure of what to say.
‘You have to help us,’ says Francis. ‘They’re making a mistake. Elliot won’t survive in prison.’
‘There’s nothing I can do.’
‘I’ve talked to Becca. We’re going to take out a second mortgage on the house. We’ll get Elliot a good lawyer … post bail.’
‘He won’t be granted bail,’ I say.
‘We have to do something,’ says Francis.
A couple of reporters have spied Dominic and broken from the rest of the pack, signalling their photographers to follow. A taxi pulls up and Francis bundles Dominic into the back seat, where he turns his face to the window, too stunned or shocked to hide from the cameras.
The taxi pulls away and slowly the crowd separates, breaking into pieces. I stare at the sky and glimpse a skydiving plane whose jumpers have leapt free and look like tiny dots falling through the infinite. I’m always amazed at the lengths people will go to when seeking to feel alive – swan-diving into empty air, falling towards the earth with only a rucksack of woven cloth to save them from disaster. I guess one could say that about almost everything in life – crossing a bridge, catching a flight, driving a car – most things are predicated upon our faith in mechanics, designers, engineers and technicians.
Ruiz has joined me. Fumbling in his pocket, he opens his tin of sweets and pops one on his tongue, saying, ‘I guess it’s over.’
I don’t answer.
‘Your silence seems to suggest that you’re not convinced,’ he says.
‘Have you ever heard the term “the lion’s gaze”?’
‘No.’
‘When you throw a stick to a dog, the dog will chase the stick. When you throw a stick to a lion, the lion will chase you.’
‘I must be missing something.’
‘The dog will follow the object – the lion will follow the person, which makes the lion the true predator. I think someone has been throwing sticks and we’re chasing after them.’
Ruiz smiles wistfully. ‘You’re not going to stop, are you?’
‘I don’t know how to.’
Already the underarms of his shirt are damp with sweat and his face is starting to shine.
‘I heard something interesting this morning,’ he says. ‘Remember the two victims from Weymouth and Torquay? Turns out they knew each other. One of them owns a private gym in Weymouth and the other is a personal trainer from Torquay. Both married. They had a one-night stand at a fitness convention in Clevedon last September.’
The detail snags in my mind just as the parachutes begin to blossom above our heads and the faith of the falling is repaid. Dion Ferguson sells fitness equipment. Naomi Meredith went to a gym on the morning she was attacked. When do coincidences become a pattern, and a pattern become a trend?
Dion Ferguson’s wife answers the door. She’s a big woman dressed in roomy pleated khaki shorts and a blouse that can hide a lot of calories. I can hear children fighting. Something falls. Breaks. She ignores the sound.
‘We’re looking for Dion,’ I say.
‘He’s running a few errands.’
‘When is he due back?’
‘Shouldn’t be long.’
Mrs Ferguson has short curly hair contained by bobby pins and clips, but already strands are pulling loose and sticking to the back of her neck. She has a round, pleasant face, a little flushed and tired around the eyes, but she seems comfortable in her own skin and something tells me her self-esteem has been hard won.
‘Would you prefer to wait inside?’ she asks. ‘It’s cooler, but full of children.’
I look past her into the cluttered hallway littered with toys, clothes and a half-drunk bottle of orange juice. ‘We’re fine waiting here.’
‘You’re not from the council, are you?’
‘No.’
‘What’s Dion done now?’
I want to ask what he did before but I let it pass.
‘It’s a private matter,’ I explain, but she’s not going to be fobbed off.
‘Is this about that woman who got killed?’
‘What do you know about her?’ asks Ruiz.
‘Just what I heard on the news.’
A child appears next to her.
‘Go inside, Marcie.’
‘I wanna make bubbles.’
‘You’ll have to wait.’
The girl pouts and flounces off.
Mrs Ferguson looks back at us. ‘I know my husband better than he knows himself and you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think he had anything to do with them murders.’
‘He told you he met Elizabeth Crowe?’
‘No.’
‘You found out anyway,’ says Ruiz.
‘Men can be so stupid. Dion thinks I don’t know about him looking at computer porn or getting hard for other women. Then he goes and joins a dating agency – which is fine – but he used his only credit card and who do you think does the accounts? Yeah, me.’
‘Why didn’t you stop him?’ I ask.
She laughs, her mouth gaping, fillings on show. ‘My husband has to look at me twice and I get pregnant. I got four kids under five and I’m the size of a bus. I don’t want him touching me.’ She scratches her armpit. ‘If he wants to get his rocks off talking dirty on the phone or pretending to be a lonely heart, I can live with that, but I put a stop to it when I saw that money was missing.’
‘Dion paid her money?’
‘I caught him taking cash from our joint account. He gave me some bullshit excuse about the car needing a new automatic transmission. I told him I’d get a second opinion.’
‘How much?’
‘A thousand quid.’
‘Did he give it to Elizabeth Crowe?’
‘No! That bitch didn’t get a penny from us.’
‘You do realise that she’s dead,’ I say.
Mrs Ferguson apologises. ‘I’m sorry, but she didn’t get her money. I made sure of that.’
Ruiz shakes his head in admiration. ‘And Dion still doesn’t suspect that you know about his date with Elizabeth?’
‘My husband’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.’
‘Are you going to tell him?’
‘I’m saving it up for a rainy day.’
A car pulls into the driveway – a seven-seater Hyundai with sticky finger marks on the passenger windows a
nd colourful booster seats strapped in the back. Dion hurries up the steps carrying bags of groceries, anxiously looking from face to face. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘These two men from the council have come back to talk to you,’ says his wife.
‘Right. Yes. Good. I’ll just give you these.’
His wife smiles at me knowingly as she takes the groceries.
‘You said you wouldn’t come back,’ mutters Dion, once she’s out of earshot.
‘You sell fitness equipment,’ I say. ‘Did you go to a fitness convention in Clevedon last September?’
‘No.’
‘You seem pretty certain,’ says Ruiz.
‘I don’t do the conventions,’ explains Dion. ‘That’s someone else’s job. I visit the gyms and fitness centres, but the company has a special team for the expos and trade shows. They choose the younger reps.’
‘You arranged to meet Elizabeth Crowe on the night she died. You were going to pay her money.’
‘I gave her nothing.’
‘You withdrew the money, but your wife found out.’
‘No, no.’
‘Don’t lie to us, Dion.’
‘OK, OK, Elizabeth wanted money, but I didn’t pay her, I swear. My missus got suspicious. I couldn’t risk it. That’s the truth. Scout’s honour.’
‘You were in the Scouts?’ asks Ruiz.
‘Yeah.’
‘That figures.’
Dion glances behind him at the house. ‘How did you find out about the cash?’
‘Your wife told us.’
His mouth opens. ‘What?’
‘She knows everything about you, Dion,’ says Ruiz. ‘The dating agency, the late-night porn-watching, your date with Mrs Crowe…’
The realisation sinks in and I can almost see Dion’s mind working through the consequences. ‘So all this time…’
‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ says Ruiz. ‘She hasn’t bin-bagged your sorry arse, so maybe she still loves you.’
I drag the discussion back to the point. ‘Did you meet up with Elizabeth Crowe on the evening she died?’
Dion nods.
‘Where?’
‘Clevedon Court Woods on Tickenham Road.’
‘Who chose the location?’
‘She did.’
‘And then?’
‘I told her I wasn’t going to be blackmailed.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Laughed at me and told me to go home to my wife. I don’t think she cared about the money – it was just some power trip for her.’
‘So you followed her home and killed her,’ says Ruiz.
‘Noooo! Never! You got to believe me. I’m not a killer. I’m a coward. Ask my wife.’
We leave Dion standing in the garden, looking like a condemned prisoner about to be executed slowly over the next twenty years. He’s wondering why his wife said nothing to him, why she cared so little.
‘I know I shouldn’t feel sorry for him,’ says Ruiz, ‘but that guy couldn’t get laid if he was dipped in chocolate and shitting Italian shoes.’
Midday. Julianne will be out of surgery by now. I want to be there when she wakes. I picture myself quizzing the doctors, answering calls and bringing Julianne her make-up when she’s ready to receive visitors. And, when they’re gone, I’ll sit beside her on the bed and we’ll watch afternoon game shows and old movies.
Ruiz drives me back to Clevedon so I can pick up my car. Travelling in silence on baking roads, we pass through the outskirts of town where doors and windows have been thrown open, trying to catch the breeze.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asks.
‘I keep wondering what I’ve missed.’
‘Maybe there’s nothing. You talked about the lion’s gaze, but what if there’s nobody throwing sticks?’
This has something to do with the timelines. Father Abermain visited the farmhouse at 9.35 p.m., by which time Harper was at the Salthouse pub with Sophie Baxter and Blake Lehmann. Harper argued with Blake and was home by eleven. Later Blake and Sophie rode a motorbike to Windy Hill, but nobody answered the door. Blake left a present on the doorstep, which Tommy Garrett picked up and took home.
There are too many names, too many possibilities. Maybe Ruiz is right – I’m ignoring the obvious. Elliot killed his family.
I change the subject. ‘Charlie said she found the house in Harper’s drawing.’
‘She did well,’ says Ruiz. ‘It was a nursing home. She thinks Harper might have been sketching one of the residents.’
‘Where was it?’
‘Above Ladye Bay.’
‘That’s near where Maggie Dutton was attacked.’
Ruiz takes his eyes from the road. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’
‘Which puts both Harper and Maggie Dutton in the same proximity on that Saturday afternoon.’
‘You think maybe Harper saw something?’
‘Did Charlie talk to anyone at the nursing home?’
‘Visiting hours were over. She wanted to go back today.’
I look at my watch. We don’t have time to do it now.
When my father was diagnosed with dementia, I would make him lists and print them in capital letters on five-by-seven cards using coloured felt-tip pens. It was like programming a computer, reducing everything to a binary code. I hung one card over the sink: Wash face. Pull stopper from sink. Wring out flannel. Brush teeth. Another went next to his bed: Put on underwear. Pants. Shirt. Socks. Slippers. Go to breakfast.
I gave up trying to teach him some things – such as how to post a letter or withdraw his pension from the Post Office. Sometimes he’d look at me as though I was the moron, but then he’d smile and do what I asked. Mostly he likes to walk, which is why I take him out when I can. I let him loose and he always come back. He’s like a homing pigeon or a bird dog.
The nursing home receptionist, Mrs Hamilton, is an overly cheerful woman who is addicted to watching TV soaps. She talks about the characters as though they’re real people and has been in mourning ever since Pauline died in EastEnders in 2006. She stops me as I lead my father across the entrance foyer.
‘There was someone looking for you,’ she says.
‘When?’
‘Just now – maybe ten minutes ago – she had some photographs of your father.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘I said you’d taken him for a walk.’
‘You’re sure she had photographs?’
‘And a sketch.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘I saw her heading towards the beach. You might still catch them.’
‘Them?’
‘She was with her sister. I think they were going for a swim.’ She glances through the large bay window. ‘I hope they hurry. Looks like we’re in for a storm.’
My father has already gone back to his room. He’ll be unlacing shoes and sitting on the bed, waiting for someone to tell him what to do next. Mrs Hamilton is still talking about the weather, but my mind is elsewhere. Calmly I walk out of the main doors, and down the front steps and across the sloping lawn. This is what I feared – the photographs can expose me. Somehow I have to get them back and keep the girl quiet. She’s brought her sister along. That complicates things. What will I tell her? What excuse can I use?
Harper didn’t stay quiet. She didn’t believe my story. I saw her that afternoon on the coastal path. I still had the box-cutter in my pocket and blood on my hands. Maggie Dutton lay bound and gagged and bleeding in the undergrowth.
‘Did you hear a woman scream?’ Harper asked.
‘No. It must have been a seagull.’
She looked along the footpath, unsure what to do. She had a large sketchbook beneath her arm and a zipped case of pencils and charcoals.
‘Where are you off to?’ I asked.
‘I’m going to sketch the cliffs.’
‘I’m just going to see my dad,’ I told her, motioning back along the path in the same direction that she�
��d come. ‘You should come and sketch him. You always said he had a great face.’
‘Would he mind?’
‘He won’t care. He doesn’t know what day it is.’
And so she came with me to the nursing home and sketched my father in a corner of the garden and took photographs with her Polaroid camera. I washed my hands under a tap and hid the box-cutter amid the rose bushes. I didn’t think about the sketches or the photographs until later when Harper called and said she’d seen a story on the TV about a woman being attacked on the footpath.
‘Did you see anything?’ she asked me.
‘No.’
‘But you must have walked right past her.’
‘Who?’
‘The woman who was attacked.’
‘I didn’t see anything.’
‘The police are asking witnesses to come forward – anyone who was on the footpath. We should call them…’
Jogging across the narrow lane, I reach the entrance to the footpath and take the steps to a viewing platform overlooking the bay. The clouds are churning overhead and thunder rumbles in the distance.
I scan the shoreline. Families are packing up, folding umbrellas and collecting toys. Small sunburnt children are being washed off, squealing at the cold, but not wanting to leave the water.
Charlie is sitting on a rock watching a younger girl paddling. Her sister looks about eight or nine, dressed in denim shorts and a T-shirt, carrying her sandals.
Swinging between boulders, I move closer. A group of teenage boys is also looking at Charlie. They’ve been drinking. Smoking a little weed. One of them asks Charlie if she wants to join them. She shakes her head.
‘You promised I could go for a swim,’ says the little girl, gazing down at her toes. The nails are painted bright pink.
‘Later,’ replies Charlie.
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
47
Close Your Eyes Page 30
