Close Your Eyes

by Robotham, Michael

On the outskirts of Portishead I stop and ask directions at a pub called the Albion. The door, heavy and wide, resists me and I have to lean my weight to pull it open. I see a notice pinned to the frosted glass.

  Police Appeal For Assistance

  DID YOU SEE ANYTHING?

  Mother and daughter Elizabeth and Harper Crowe were murdered in their farmhouse near Clevedon on or about midnight Saturday 6 June.

  Were you in the vicinity of Windy Hill Farm between 10 p.m. on Saturday to early Sunday morning?

  Did you see anyone acting suspiciously?

  Please call Crimestoppers on 0800 555111

  The publican is a round, short-armed Bob Hoskins type with booze-flushed cheeks and a boxer’s nose. The place is almost empty and he’s reading a newspaper between his elbows. ‘Customer,’ he yells. A woman emerges from the cellar, her copper-coloured hair bunched high on her head with several strands plastered to her neck.

  ‘What can I get you, love?’

  ‘I’m looking for Windy Hill Farm?’

  Her smile fades. ‘Are you a reporter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t look like a copper,’ says the publican, folding the Daily Mirror. ‘Maybe you’re another rubbernecker. We’ve had ’em all in here. Grief tourists, amateur detectives, true-crime nutters…’

  ‘I’m none of those,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe he’s looking to buy the place,’ says the woman.

  The man scoffs. ‘I wouldn’t spend a single night in that house.’

  ‘Since when were you so squeamish?’

  ‘As if you’d live there! You jump at your own shadow.’

  I’ve triggered an argument and they seem to have forgotten me. I clear my throat. ‘Windy Hill Farm?’

  They stop bickering and immediately begin again, this time disagreeing over the directions. She says it’s two miles, he says three.

  ‘Look for the flowers,’ she says definitively. ‘You can’t miss them.’

  I drive on, following the coast road, crossing rolling hills and descending into swales, past white-painted cottages, farmhouses and livestock yards. Stunted trees are clinging to the ridges, bent arthritically as though crouching in expectation of future storms.

  As predicted, I come to a mound of flowers and soft toys that has obscured the fence beneath. There are cards, candles and hand-painted signs. One of them reads: Justice for Elizabeth and Harper. Crime scene tape has been threaded between the gateposts and torn by previous vehicles. Faded and fraying, it flaps like leftover party decorations.

  Turning off the road, I cross a cattle grate and drive along a rutted track with six-foot-high hedges on either side. I see nothing until I turn the next corner and a whitewashed two-storey farmhouse comes into view, tucked hard against the ridge, protected from the worst of the prevailing winds.

  An unmarked police car is parked near the front gate. Ronnie Cray gets out of the passenger seat and rocks her neck from side to side, hoisting her trousers high on her waist. For some reason her spiky hair is never dyed the same colour as her eyebrows and creates the impression that she’s wearing a wig. With Cray I’m never sure if I should hug her or slap her on the back. She holds out her hand, takes my fist and pulls me into an embrace that’s brief enough to be a chest bump.

  She’s accompanied by another familiar face, Colin Abbott, better known as ‘Monk’, a black Londoner who is a foot taller than his boss. Monk has been promoted since I saw him last – he’s now a detective inspector – and his tight curls are starting to grey, clinging to his scalp like iron filings on a magnet.

  ‘How are the boys?’ I ask. He’s got three of them.

  ‘They’re good,’ he says, crushing my hand. ‘The eldest is up to here –’ Monk touches his shoulder.

  ‘Sign him up for basketball.’

  ‘I would, except he inherited his mother’s hand-eye.’

  ‘Can’t catch?’

  ‘Not even a cold.’

  Other pleasantries are exchanged and exhausted. Cray grows impatient. ‘Afternoon tea is over, ladies, you can gossip later.’

  ‘So who has been using my name as a reference?’ I ask.

  ‘Emilio Coleman.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Late twenties, good-looking, fancies himself. He says he studied under you.’

  I think again. Emilio Coleman? Emilio? I mentored an older student called Milo through his thesis at the University of Bath. That was four, maybe five years ago. Milo was clever but lazy. He spent more time using his skills to bed undergrad students than passing his exams. I remember his first suggestion for a thesis was ‘Do loud music and excess alcohol make women more likely to have sex on a first date?’

  ‘So he is one of yours,’ says Cray, making it sound as though I’m personally responsible.

  ‘What did he do?’ I ask.

  ‘Mr Coleman offered his services to the previous SCO, using your name as a reference. He was allowed to look at statements and photographs. He then went straight to the media.’

  My heart sinks. Cray continues. ‘By revealing details that were deliberately withheld from the public such as the position of the bodies, injuries and markings on the wall, he has allowed potential suspects to claim they read about the case in the papers. We also have fewer ways of weeding out the timewasters and false confessions.’ She lowers her voice. ‘This is what happens when you don’t return my calls, Professor. We get amateur fucking hour.’

  ‘This is hardly my fault.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you taught this clown.’

  ‘I saw him once or twice a semester.’

  ‘I’m not here to argue with you. I want you to make this better.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Review the case. Look at the statements and decision-making. Tell us what we’ve missed.’

  ‘Are there any suspects?’

  ‘Too many,’ she grunts. ‘The local community thinks we’ve cocked this up. Tempers are starting to fray. There’s a public meeting tonight. I want you to be there.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Let’s call it a show of friendship.’

  ‘That’s not my definition of friendship.’

  Cray rolls back her shoulders and smiles, her eyes twinkling. ‘That’s the thing about us, Professor, we can agree to disagree and it doesn’t affect our deep and abiding bond. Come on, I’ll show you the scene.’

  3

  Detectives have a way of talking that condenses information into bullet points and dispenses with a lot of prepositions. It’s a sort of verbal shorthand that colleagues understand instinctively. Ronnie Cray launches into it now.

  ‘Two victims, mother and daughter, Elizabeth and Harper Crowe, aged forty-three and seventeen or possibly eighteen…’

  ‘Possibly?’

  ‘It was Harper’s birthday on the Sunday. We don’t know if she died before or after midnight.’

  A gust of wind blows through the trees, making me feel restless. I study the farmhouse, which is seventeenth-century, Grade II listed, with mullioned windows and flowerboxes on the sills. It’s set on sixteen acres, with an orchard, walled garden, old granary, stables, milking shed and chicken-coop.

  ‘Looks like a bed and breakfast.’

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ says Cray, running fingers over her scalp. ‘Three months ago Elizabeth Crowe applied for a licence to set up a B&B. A council inspector gave her a list of work that had to be done – installing fire doors, emergency lighting, new bathrooms and proper signage. She had tradesmen coming in and out of this place for the past month.’

  ‘How was she funding it?’

  ‘Bank loan and her divorce settlement.’

  I notice the splintered wooden panel on the front door. Someone punched a hole big enough to reach through and turn the latch. Cray keys open the padlock. The door swings inward. Duckboards are arranged like stepping stones down the length of the hallway. I look at my shoes.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she says, reading my thoughts
. ‘Forensics have been over the place twice.’ We step inside. My eyes fall upon a pockmarked mirror in a gilt frame and an assortment of walking sticks in an umbrella stand.

  ‘The bodies were discovered at 7.33 a.m. Sunday the seventh of June. Harper was upstairs and Elizabeth in the sitting room.’

  ‘Who found them?’

  ‘A neighbour, Tommy Garrett, lives with his grandmother. They have a farm just beyond those trees.’ She points across a field.

  ‘What was he doing here?’ I ask.

  ‘Says he heard the burglar alarm when he got up to start milking. Doreen made him finish his chores before he came across. He jumped the fence and went to the back door first. Then he walked around to the front and saw the busted door. He came inside and found Mrs Crowe.’

  ‘Did he go upstairs?’

  ‘Says not. The first responders found him raving, kicking at the fence and screaming.’

  ‘Is he a suspect?’

  ‘Top of the list.’ Cray looks at Monk. ‘How would you describe Tommy Garrett?’

  ‘Slow,’ is the reply, ‘although he didn’t waste any time selling his story to the tabloids.’

  ‘That was probably the grandmother,’ says Cray, ‘but I’m not underestimating the kid’s potential.’

  I look at a rectangle of sandy sunlight on the worn floorboards. ‘You said Elizabeth was divorced.’

  ‘Eight months ago,’ replies Cray.

  ‘Her ex?’

  ‘Dominic Crowe is a local builder. They were married twenty-four years. About a decade ago Crowe set up a development company with his best friend, an architect called Jeremy Egan, but Dominic had to sell his stake during the GFC. Elizabeth bought him out. She had family money. Insisted the company be put in her name. Then she divorced him and took the lot.’

  ‘That must have been galling.’

  ‘He’s suspect number two,’ says Monk.

  At the far end of the hallway I can see a large open plan kitchen. Immediately to my left is a dining room with a polished mahogany table and matching chairs. The mantelpiece has framed photographs and a bronze statue of a fox. Several watercolours are hanging on the wall: landscapes and coastal scenes.

  Cray hands me two photographs. The first shows an attractive blonde of middle years with hair just brushing her shoulders. She has a slightly crooked smile and blue eyes beneath thinly plucked eyebrows. The second image is of her daughter, Harper, whose eyes are more grey than blue and her darker hair is pulled into a ponytail. Pretty and athletic, her smile exposes a narrow gap between her two front teeth.

  ‘Harper was found upstairs in bed, suffocated, most likely with a pillow. No sign of sexual assault. Minimal disturbance. The mother was found here.’

  Turning right, I step into the sitting room. The atmosphere suddenly changes. It’s as though someone has opened a door or window, subtly altering the air pressure or temperature. My eyes are drawn to the smeared reddish brown symbol above the fireplace – a five-pointed star framed by a circle – whose lower edges seem to be seeping out of the plasterwork as if the wall were bleeding.

  Certain symbols evoke a visceral response – triggering reactions before we even have thoughts. The pentagram is one of them. Regarded as a pagan sign, it dates back much further, to ancient Mesopotamia. Over the millennia it has been an emblem of Freemasonry, a knight’s insignia, a protection against evil, a badge of royalty and a Christian symbol representing the five wounds of Christ. I don’t know what it represents in this context – something twisted and vile, a calling card or statement of intent.

  Elsewhere in the room the furniture has been pushed back. The sofa is against the main wall and twin armchairs are on either side of the window. Candles have been placed around the room and I notice a Bible open on the coffee table. The pages are covered in fingerprint dust.

  ‘I took the liberty,’ says Cray, opening a folder of crime scene photographs. Despite the markings on the wall, I’m not prepared for the visual impact of the images. At first glance they look like staged publicity shots from some Hollywood B-grade horror movie where buckets of blood have been thrown around. A woman’s body is lying on the floor, her arms and legs outspread, her palms facing upwards in supplication. Her semi-naked body has been butchered. Violated. Insulted. Defiled.

  I have seen death before. I have seen autopsies and accident victims and the remains of children, yet nothing can desensitise a person to a scene such as this – the sheer horror, sadness, disbelief, puzzlement and anger, the senseless brutality and the sick display of artistry.

  ‘She was stabbed thirty-six times,’ says Cray, ‘most of them after death. You can see he focused on her genitals, but the post mortem found no evidence of a sexual assault either before or after.’

  Another image shows the victim’s face. Her eyes are open, but there is no evidence of pain or horror on her face. I hope she died quickly. I hope she didn’t suffer.

  ‘I don’t think I can help you,’ I whisper.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m a clinical psychologist. You need someone who handles cases like this – someone who understands them. Call Broadmoor or Rampton.’ I’m already turning away, walking along the hallway, seeking fresh air.

  ‘I don’t want anyone else,’ says Cray, an edge to her voice now. ‘Trust me, Professor, I don’t want you here, but this goes beyond friendship or whether you have the stomach to look at those photographs. I don’t understand it either. It’s beyond my comprehension. But I’ve seen you do this. I’ve seen you piece together a crime. You can read minds—’

  ‘I can’t read minds.’

  ‘Motivations then, stimulus, impulses, whatever you want to call it – I need your help.’

  I don’t respond. I can’t find any words. Cray is waiting. She suddenly looks much older than when I saw her last. Exhaustion has pouched the skin below her eyes and deepened the wrinkles on her forehead.

  Every fibre of my being is screaming at me to walk away. Just go. Get in the car. Don’t look back. Today has been a good day for me. Julianne has asked me to come home. She would hate me even being here. She’ll blame me. Yet almost without thinking, I am collecting details and picturing events.

  Taking the photographs from Cray, I stand in front of the fireplace, holding up individual images, positioning myself where the photographer did, looking through his lens and trying to recreate that morning. Elizabeth was naked except for a light dressing gown. Urine stained the front. How is that possible? The first stab wound severed her carotid artery. Arterial blood sprayed the armchair nearest her head. She lost control of her bladder. He laid her down gently, before going berserk.

  This is what I do – I look at the scene and imagine the act, replaying it in my mind, identifying the psychological markers that underpin each element of human behaviour. I have seen and heard many disturbing things in my consulting room. I have treated the sad, the lonely, the disconnected, the angry, the anxious, the jealous, the suicidal and the murderous. I have plumbed the depths of human misery yet I know that there is always another layer, darker and more dangerous.

  ‘Were there traces of blood in any of the bathrooms?’ I ask.

  ‘In the laundry,’ says Cray.

  ‘What about upstairs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Latent prints?’

  ‘Forty-eight full or partial prints from the house – most of them match with the family. A concentration of blood was found inside the front door, along with a smeared shoe print.’

  I walk along the hallway into the kitchen. There are twin cups draining beside the sink next to a single wine glass. Rubber gloves are hanging on the tap. The Aga stove is cold.

  Cray is still talking. ‘Forensic services collected fibres from the rug. There were old semen stains on the daughter’s bedding. The DNA results match her boyfriend. The mother had multiple semen stains on the front seat of her car, but none on her sheets. We’ve run the DNA through the database. Nothing yet.’

  ‘Was the mo
ther seeing someone?’ I ask.

  ‘Not exclusively,’ says Cray, grimacing slightly.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Do you know what dogging is, Professor?’

  ‘I have come across the term, but maybe you should enlighten me.’

  Cray lowers her eyes, uncomfortable with the topic. ‘Some people get off on committing sexual acts outdoors in semi-public places. There’s a whole subculture around it – rules of engagement, etiquette, websites…’

  ‘And Elizabeth Crowe was into this?’

  ‘That’s our belief. We have at least one statement that puts her at a dogging site performing a sexual act in public and we have the semen stains in her car.’

  ‘So her killer could have met her or watched her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That makes it more difficult.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Cray runs through the hours preceding the murders. ‘Elizabeth had told her sister she was staying in for the evening, but a mobile phone trace shows she left the farmhouse just after eight-thirty. We tracked her movements to Clevedon Court Woods on Tickenham Road. It’s a known dogging site. Secluded. Private.’

  ‘Did anyone see her there?’

  ‘We set up a mobile incident room and tried to talk to drivers, but word spread pretty quickly. Nobody bothered turning up.’

  ‘Could she have arranged to meet someone?’

  ‘Nothing has showed up on her text messages, phone records or emails, but she could have planned it earlier.’ Cray rubs at her eyes, which are puffy from lack of sleep. ‘There’s another complication. We know that Mrs Crowe joined an online dating agency six months ago. She went on two dates – both with local men.’

  ‘Did she have sex with them?’

  ‘They denied it at first. One of them was married. His semen stains were found in Elizabeth’s car. The other is a widower. He had sex with her at a flat in Bristol. The widower has an alibi for the night of the murders. The married man is still on our radar.’

  A dripping tap makes a dull plinking sound like someone plucking on a single harp string. Standing at the kitchen sink, I gaze out the window where the shadows are lengthening and trees are etched against the ridgeline. Something catches my eye – a movement near the stables. A ginger-and-black tabby cat is sniffing at the rubbish bins.