Close Your Eyes

by Robotham, Michael

  ‘Shhhhh. Relax. Close your eyes.’

  38

  Outside the long twilight has given way to night. Both girls are asleep when we get home. Charlie must be exhausted. I follow Julianne upstairs and prepare to go my separate way, but she takes my hand and pulls me towards her bedroom. The door is hardly closed before she kisses me, murmuring something I can’t understand, but I don’t ask her to repeat it. Her mouth is soft and she smells of wine and garlic and peppermint tea. Shushing and giggling like teenagers, we stumble to the bed and crash on to the mattress. I’m sure I hear Charlie’s door open and close thirty seconds later.

  ‘She’ll be scarred for life now,’ I say.

  ‘One more thing to blame us for,’ replies Julianne.

  ‘She can sort it out in therapy.’

  ‘Self-diagnose.’

  ‘Didn’t help me.’

  ‘No.’

  I am unzipping her skirt, pulling it down over her hips. I kiss her bare shoulders, her arms, the swell of her stomach, her hips. My hand slides up her thigh, passing through zones of deepening heat to the lace-enclosed swelling that makes her a woman. And when she’s naked, lying beneath me, I hold myself back, but she lets me know there’s no need and my breath quickens and a small cry escapes her lips and I wish I could hold on to this moment for another thirty years.

  Afterwards, she falls asleep beside me. It’s a strange feeling to be this happy and this terrified, to know that I’m gambling everything to gain everything. I will give this one last throw of the dice, but if I lose – if Julianne is indeed lost to me – I will walk away for good. I will not linger on the edges of her life as I have been doing for the past six years. This is not about giving up. It’s about choosing to stay afloat when the easiest option is to drown.

  Hours later when light edges the curtains and birds celebrate another morning, I stare at Julianne’s sleeping form, her lips barely apart and hair loose upon the pillow. She wakes, stirs, straightening her legs. Her eyes open. Her vision seems to cloud. ‘Was this a mistake?’

  ‘You said yourself we cannot change history,’ I reply.

  ‘This feels like we’re having an affair.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly have an affair – I’m married.’

  ‘So am I,’ she choruses.

  ‘You don’t speak of your husband very much.’

  ‘True, but he’s very dear to me.’

  She rolls away from my kiss. ‘Just going to the loo.’

  ‘Can you draw me a bath.’

  ‘That’s very decadent.’

  ‘I think I deserve one.’

  ‘You were good, but not that good.’

  I lie in the steaming water, replaying last night’s greatest hits. Julianne comes into the bathroom to brush her hair. ‘There’s something I need you to do today. I visited our solicitor and arranged to have our wills updated.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Charlie is eighteen now. If something happens to us, she can look after Emma.’

  ‘Nothing is going to happen to us.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’ She pulls back her hair and holds it in a clasp. ‘I’m about to have major surgery. It’s rule number one. I need you to sign off on the changes.’

  I know she’s right, but I want to argue. I don’t want to update our wills. We can do it next month or next year.

  There’s a knock on the bedroom door. ‘Where is everyone?’ calls Emma.

  ‘In the bathroom,’ replies Julianne.

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’

  ‘Having a bath.’

  Her eyes ogle through the steam. ‘Are you in there with him?’

  ‘Not in the tub, no.’

  ‘Good.’

  Charlie yells up the stairs from the kitchen.

  ‘Daddy, you should turn on the radio.’

  ‘What is it?’ asks Julianne.

  ‘They’re saying Milo Coleman is in a coma.’

  39

  Ronnie Cray isn’t answering her mobile. I try to reach her at the incident room and at police headquarters in Portishead, but am fobbed off, transferred and stonewalled until I get through to DI Abbott.

  ‘She’s taking some time off,’ Monk says cautiously.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Officially she took long service leave.’

  ‘And unofficially?’

  ‘The Chief Constable removed her. Bannerman got his way.’

  ‘Who’s in charge?’

  He hesitates. ‘Right now – I am.’

  ‘I just heard the news about Milo Coleman.’

  ‘I can’t comment.’

  ‘Come on, Monk, this is me.’

  ‘Exactly. You’ll be contacted by detectives in due course, Professor, and asked about your whereabouts last night.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Do I sound like I’m joking?’

  ‘I went to dinner with my wife and then we came home.’

  ‘Were you anywhere near the Princes Street car park in Bristol?’

  ‘Not even in the same city.’

  ‘Good to know.’

  He hangs up. The phone has grown damp in my white fist. Julianne has been listening. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I start getting dressed.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To see Ronnie Cray.’

  Medicated and moving freely, I unlock the garden shed and find an empty cardboard box. Tearing it roughly into the shape of the Volvo’s missing window, I wedge it hard into the gap left by the shattered glass and wrap masking tape around the frame of the door.

  Charlie is watching me from the front steps. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To see DCS Cray.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You’re not coming.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do I really have to explain?’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault yesterday. You said it yourself.’

  ‘You’re staying here, Charlie.’

  ‘Hold on – that’s not fair! I did nothing wrong. I won’t go out on my own again. I’ll stay with you.’

  Julianne has come outside. Charlie stops talking in mid-sentence. Julianne looks from face to face. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ I say.

  She sees the broken window and wants an explanation.

  ‘Somebody smashed it,’ says Charlie.

  ‘I can see that. Why?’

  ‘I left my phone on the seat,’ says Charlie.

  ‘Someone stole your phone?’

  I jump in. ‘No, I scared them off.’

  ‘You saw them?’

  ‘No, what I mean is, someone else must have scared them off. I didn’t see them. Nothing was taken.’

  Julianne looks at Charlie and back to me. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ says Charlie. ‘We’re just leaving, aren’t we, Daddy?’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ says Julianne.

  It’s Charlie’s turn to look from face to face. ‘Why?’

  ‘I need your help,’ says Julianne, but what she really means is ‘you’re staying at home because I’m worried’.

  Charlie glances at me, hoping I’ll support her cause, but instead I look away.

  ‘That broken window,’ she says, spinning back to her mother, ‘shall I tell you what really happened?’

  ‘It was my phone!’ I blurt. ‘I left it on the dashboard. It was stupid.’

  Charlie raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to say more.

  ‘Listen, I’m not feeling very coordinated today. Would you mind if Charlie drove me? We won’t be long.’

  Charlie grabs the keys from my hand before her mother can counter.

  I kiss Julianne on the cheek and whisper, ‘I think I’m making progress on this whole psychology idea.’

  The car pulls out. Julianne yells after me. ‘Remember to look at the wills.�
��

  Ronnie Cray lives in a farmhouse on the outskirts of Bristol in the green-belted hinterland beyond the council houses, barricaded shops and fight-prone pubs. She once bred horses, but now looks after animals that have been abandoned or mistreated. I’ve never seen her ride. I can’t even imagine it.

  She doesn’t answer the door, so I walk towards the barn, dodging the muddy puddles. I can hear her talking to someone on the phone.

  ‘Listen, princess, I got horses to feed. You got nails to paint. Why don’t you call your delivery guy and ask him when he’s going to be here. Then we’ll both have a nice day.’

  The sight of me doesn’t improve her mood. She’s dressed for work in baggy jeans, an oversized shirt and wellingtons. Her right hand is bandaged.

  She ends the call. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I heard the news.’

  ‘And what – misery needs company, I suppose?’

  She turns away, moving deeper into the barn. The place smells of straw, dung, leather and saddle soap.

  ‘Why aren’t you at work?’ I ask.

  ‘The Chief Constable felt I’d lost focus and wanted a fresh set of eyes on the case.’

  ‘And the real reason?’

  ‘The hounds were baying.’

  ‘Bannerman?’

  ‘I never thought I’d see the day when a talkback radio host ran a murder investigation.’

  ‘What happened to your hand?’

  ‘What hand?’

  ‘The bandaged one.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Show me.’

  She lets me unwrap the soiled strapping, revealing discoloured flesh and swollen knuckles.

  ‘What did you hit?’

  ‘A wall.’

  ‘Clever.’

  ‘You should see the wall.’

  ‘Can you flex your fingers?’

  She makes a fist, grimacing slightly.

  ‘Did you get this X-rayed?’

  ‘I’m keeping it iced.’

  She looks past me out the large double doors. ‘Is that your Charlie?’

  I nod.

  ‘I heard about yesterday afternoon. They’re looking for Elliot Crowe.’

  ‘I’m more interested in what happened to Milo Coleman.’

  Cray sucks in a breath. ‘He was found just after midnight in a stairwell at the Princes Street car park in Bristol. No signs of violence except for abrasions on his knees and a bruise on his neck.’

  ‘A blood choke?’

  ‘He’s in a coma, on life support.’

  ‘Was anything carved on his forehead?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  Cray tilts her chin down and flexes her fingers. ‘If I were a betting woman – which I’m not – I’d say it’s because he went on radio and called a sad sadistic prick “a sad sadistic prick”. Then again – it’s not my case. I’m not paid to have an opinion any more.’

  I motion for her to give me her hand and begin rewrapping the bandage. When I’m finished she picks up a bag of horse-feed and slings it over her shoulder. A cloud of chaff dust floats around her head. She carries the bag to a scarred wooden bench and slices it open with a penknife before filling the feeding troughs.

  ‘So that’s it – you’re giving up?’ I say. ‘This guy is killing at will and that doesn’t bother you.’

  ‘Bother me? My career is hanging by a thread, Professor. They’re pushing me out.’

  ‘Milo Coleman is in a coma. What if this guy comes looking for me?’

  ‘You haven’t pissed him off.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Cray doesn’t answer. I follow her to a different corner of the barn, feeling exhausted yet fired up by something other than the ceaseless introspection and pointless internal dialogue relating to my marriage and my sick wife.

  ‘You dragged me into this. You asked for my help. Now you’re telling me to walk away?’

  The DCS sighs and turns. Her eyes are just as bright, but the lines under them are more pronounced. ‘I will never understand you, Professor. You’re not getting paid. You won’t get any credit. If things go wrong, they’ll look for someone to blame. Yet knowing all of that – you’re still here, tearing strips off me. Go home. This is not our responsibility any more.’

  She leaves the barn and walks across a field, hunched forward as though she’s fighting against a headwind. Two dogs come bounding to meet her, their tails happily wagging in anticipation. She cups their heads in her hands, rubbing behind their ears, while they gaze at her loyally.

  ‘You know why I love dogs more than people?’ she shouts, everything about her softer. ‘Feed them and pet them and they’ll love you when no one else will.’

  40

  My makeshift cardboard ‘window’ is somewhere behind us on the motorway, having been sucked out by the rushing air. I’ve never been good at DIY. Charlie is driving and shouting questions, wanting to know about Milo. I have no answers.

  My mobile is ringing. Ruiz gets straight to the point. ‘I’ve been asking myself what I’d do if someone carved an initial in my forehead.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’d find him and beat the shit out of him.’

  ‘Understandable.’

  ‘Then I’d visit a plastic surgeon to see what could be done.’

  ‘Wise move.’

  ‘So I called a few specialists in Bristol and came up with another victim. A surgeon remembered a woman coming in with knife wounds on her forehead. She wanted him to patch her up so it wouldn’t leave a scar.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘August. She was early forties. Married. The surgeon couldn’t give me her name because of the whole doctor-patient privilege thing, but he suggested I visit the Rape Crisis Centre in Bristol. I figure they’re more likely to talk to you.’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘I’ll text it to you now.’

  The Avon and Somerset Rape Crisis Centre has no sign above the door or any other hint of its function apart from metal bars on the lower windows and a CCTV camera at each corner, tilted to cover the entrance.

  I press an intercom and hear three tones echoing through distant rooms.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asks a woman’s voice.

  ‘I’m looking for Patricia Collier.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Joe O’Loughlin. I’m a clinical psychologist.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No.’

  I slip my business card through the mailbox and wait, glancing at the camera, sure that I’m being watched. After five minutes, I press the intercom again.

  ‘Are your pants on fire?’ asks the woman.

  ‘I thought you’d forgotten me.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I’m that stupid.’

  I wait for another few minutes until twin deadlocks turn and the door swings open, giving a little eek! on stiff hinges. The large woman is attractive in the fullness of her figure and roundness of her face. ‘You can call me Ros,’ she says, ‘we use first names here. The boss is in her office.’

  Following her up a set of narrow stairs, we pass through a large lounge area with an indoor climbing frame and boxes of toys. Several women are kneeling on the floor playing with toddlers. Along one wall there are shelves with clothing bins organised into ages and sizes.

  I’m shown into a small room crammed with a desk, filing cabinets and boxes. There are posters on the wall showing battered women and crying children. One of them reads: Don’t be silenced – say no to domestic violence.

  Patricia Collier is standing by the window. The white streak in her dark hair looks almost luminous. She’s wearing jeans, a sweatshirt and heavy boots. ‘Thank you, Ros,’ she lisps, not acknowledging me. Then she sits and swivels her chair. My business card is on the desk in front of her.

  ‘How can I help you, Professor?’

  I glance at the empty chair, but she’s not going to offer me a seat. Clearly, I’m expected to say my piec
e and get out.

  ‘At the request of Avon and Somerset Constabulary I have been reviewing the investigation into the murders of Elizabeth and Harper Crowe. On the same day a woman was choked unconscious on a footpath in Clevedon and had the letter “A” carved into her forehead. There have been other similar attacks.’

  Barely a flicker registers on Ms Collier’s face.

  ‘Do you know of any similar incidents?’ I ask.

  ‘We don’t discuss the details of women who come to us for help.’

  ‘I understand that, but this is important.’

  ‘Every attack is important. A third of women in Britain are victims of domestic violence.’

  ‘These people weren’t attacked by a spouse.’

  ‘Partner, boyfriend, father, son, brother – makes no difference. A fist is a fist.’

  Ms Collier begins rattling off domestic violence figures as though hitting me with a combination of punches. I wait until she runs out of statistics and then try again.

  ‘There have been other attacks. On Tuesday night a young woman was murdered. She had the same symbol cut into her forehead.’

  This information causes a tremor in her eyes, but only for a moment.

  ‘Well, Professor, you’d best run along and catch him before he does it again.’

  Her animosity has sucked the warmth from the air.

  ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time,’ I say, turning to leave.

  Ms Collier seems surprised that I’ve given up so easily. ‘Are you married?’ she asks.

  ‘Separated.’

  ‘Have you ever raised a hand to a woman?’

  ‘No. Have you ever hit a man?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘I hope they deserved it.’

  ‘Every one of them,’ she says defiantly. ‘You probably think that makes me a hypocrite. I don’t care. I stopped giving men the benefit of the doubt a long time ago. Too many women are dead because male judges refused to give them protection, or some bullshit evidence from a psychologist set their violent boyfriend or husband free.’

  I’m almost at the door, but cannot let the accusation go unanswered.

  ‘You’re right, Ms Collier. What would I know? I’ve only spent twenty years treating battered women, rape victims, paedophiles, baby-shakers and children so traumatised by abuse they wet themselves at the sound of a male voice. You might keep some women safe, but I pick up the pieces. I make them whole again. But thanks for the gender appraisal and the advice.’