Close Your Eyes

by Robotham, Michael

  I’m on the stairs when she calls me back. There’s no sign of an apology or any warmth in her voice, but her attitude has softened and she offers me tea or coffee. I decline.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  I take a seat.

  She sighs and begins. ‘At the end of last summer we had a woman turn up at the shelter. She had a bandage on her forehead. It must have been fresh because blood was leaking through the gauze. I thought her husband had beaten her, but she denied that he’d touched her. Then I wondered if she might have done it to herself. We get some cutters here, but they don’t usually touch their faces. Eventually, she told me that she’d been attacked in a park while walking her dog. She was choked until she blacked out. When she came to she had blood streaming down her face. She thought she’d been scalped until she looked in the mirror.’

  ‘Was she having an affair?’

  ‘We don’t ask questions like that. Makes no difference.’

  ‘Did she go to the police?’

  ‘I encouraged her to make an official complaint, but she had no idea who attacked her. She was embarrassed. Ashamed. Distraught. She’d left her kids behind – that’s how bad she felt.’

  Miss Collier opens a filing cabinet and retrieves a manila folder. ‘I met her husband. I had him pegged as the controlling sort, but he was very calm and measured when he came here. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to find his wife. With her agreement, I put them in a room together. They talked for hours. Hugged. Cried. She left the shelter that night.’

  ‘To go home?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘I’m very keen to talk to her.’

  ‘I can’t give you her name.’

  ‘Whoever attacked her is still out there – he’ll keep going unless he’s stopped.’

  There is a moment when we stare at each other and I know she’s caught between her loyalty to a victim and her desire to punish the man responsible.

  ‘I’ll call her,’ she says. ‘She can decide.’

  41

  A shadow passes behind the leaded glass panels of the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ asks a voice from within.

  ‘Joe O’Loughlin. Patricia Collier called you.’

  Two beats of silence and the deadlock releases. The woman is dressed in a white shirt with a round collar and tailored trousers. Her face looks almost bloodless until I recognise the heavy layer of powder that makes her look like a Japanese Kabuki actress. Applied most thickly to her forehead, the foundation conceals her scar.

  She turns immediately and I’m expected to follow – along the hallway and down a set of flagstone steps into a modern kitchen with polished stone benches and brushed steel appliances. Someone has written a poem in magnetic words on the American-style double fridge.

  music is the sound of feelings

  the beating of wings and chant of the wind

  of rain and waves and babies crying

  play your crying fiddle don’t beat an angry drum.

  ‘I don’t know what to call you,’ I say.

  ‘Gabrielle.’ She looks at the wall clock. ‘My husband will be home at one. I don’t want him to … I mean … if we could be finished by then…’

  In her early forties, she has dyed hair and fine-boned features that make her look unearthly and ethereal, as though if I reached out and touched her I would grasp only shadowed air.

  ‘I love my husband,’ she announces, as though wanting to make that clear before we start. ‘I know that sounds insincere when I tell you what I did, but it’s no less true now than it was when it happened. I made a mistake. My husband has forgiven me. I will not take this any further.’

  ‘I understand.’

  She perches on a stool at the kitchen bench and takes a sip of water from a tall glass.

  ‘Have you heard of a website called Friends Reunited?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I signed up a year ago. I thought I might track down some old school friends and find out how they’d fared over the years. Instead I found Simon. It’s almost a cliché, isn’t it – old flames reunited, childhood sweethearts.’

  ‘You used to date?’

  ‘We grew up only a few streets apart in Sheffield. His dad and my dad worked together at the brewery. The school did a play that year – A Midsummer Night’s Dream – I was Titania and Simon played Puck. After our last performance there was a cast party. I lost my virginity to Simon that night. It was nothing to write home about – but I guess everyone says that.’

  The statement hangs in the air. An overly loud cuckoo clock sounds from somewhere upstairs.

  ‘You probably think I’m foolish, at my age. I have two children and this lovely house and a husband who loves me…’

  ‘I’m not here to judge you.’

  She closes her eyes and continues. ‘About six weeks after I joined the website I received a message from Simon. He didn’t believe that I was really me until I mentioned the cast party and what my father had wanted to do to him. Soon we were sending each other a dozen emails a day. Teasing. Laughing. Reminiscing. We swapped phone numbers. He called me. We talked for hours. That’s the thing about meeting someone for the second time. Flirting with them. Falling for them. Wanting them. It happens so quickly because they already have a connection, a common history.’

  ‘Where does he live now?’

  ‘Sheffield. He never left.’

  ‘When did you get together?’

  ‘We arranged to meet up in Bristol and have lunch. It was as though the years just fell away. He looked the same. I felt embarrassed. We talked for more than four hours. It was just wonderful. Afterwards, he gave me a peck on the cheek and said he was happy to have found me again.

  ‘We were both married, both had children, we knew where the boundaries were, but things changed after that. Simon arranged a business trip to Somerset. I told my husband I was meeting a friend for lunch. Afterwards, we went for a walk on a beach and couldn’t stop kissing. It was better than teenage fumblings. It was tender. Exciting. I felt young again. Breathless. One thing led to another…’ She looks up at me, searching for understanding. ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you ever been unfaithful?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did your wife punish you?’

  ‘I punished myself.’

  ‘Did she forgive you?’

  It’s a good question.

  ‘I hope so,’ I say, thinking about last night with Julianne.

  Gabrielle can’t sit still. She waters an indoor plant and wipes the spilled droplets that have beaded on the bench-top.

  ‘My husband says a marriage should be like a strong tree with its roots deep in the ground. It can be buffeted by storms, but will not fall. He is a good man. Secure. Safe.’

  ‘How long did the affair last?’

  ‘A few months – we only slept together twice.’

  ‘Your husband found out?’

  ‘No, it was Simon’s wife. She found a receipt. Not for the accommodation – we were always very careful – but for a bottle of champagne that Simon ordered. She thought that was odd and phoned the restaurant. The manager remembered us. Simon denied everything but his wife began watching him. She tried to access his email account. She looked at his text messages. Finally she hired a private detective and had Simon followed. He took photographs of us leaving a hotel together. Simon begged her for another chance. We stopped seeing each other. That should have been the end of it, but then this…’ She points to her forehead.

  ‘Who else knew about the affair?’

  ‘I told nobody.’

  ‘What about Simon?’

  ‘His wife knew. I don’t know about anyone else.’

  ‘Do you remember the name of the private detective?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you ever meet him?’

  She shakes her head.

  Moving her forward, I ask her to describe the day of the attack in detail – a rainy afternoon
in August. She took the dog for a walk between the showers, her usual route – through the park, past the tennis courts and around the cricket field. Early evening, she crested a gentle rise and the path turned through a glade of trees, a shadowed dell, a muddy bend, uneven ground …

  ‘Close your eyes and concentrate on every detail,’ I say, breaking down each moment. I want her to feel the breeze on her cheeks and see the patches of damp watery light. What was she wearing? Did she pass anyone on the path, or notice any cars?

  Her whole body has started to shake.

  ‘Did you see his face?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘He asked me if I wanted to die.’

  ‘Did you recognise his voice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he have an accent?’

  ‘No.’

  Cracks are forming in the powder on her forehead.

  ‘Do you have any idea who would do this to you?’

  Her head rocks from side to side unconvincingly.

  ‘You must have asked yourself that question,’ I say.

  She falters. ‘Yes, but I have no proof. Simon’s wife is Sicilian. She comes from a big family. Four brothers. You probably think I’m stereotyping her as the hot-headed Italian, but she could have sent one of her brothers to warn me off.’

  ‘Did she ever threaten you?’

  ‘No.

  ‘Have you heard from Simon since the attack?’

  She avoids my gaze. Her mobile is ringing. She glances at the screen and her pupils dilate slightly. She ignores the call, covering the phone with her hands.

  ‘Do you know anyone called Maggie Dutton?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Naomi Meredith?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Two other women who were choked unconscious.’

  I can see Gabrielle wanting to ask the obvious question. Did he cut them?

  I run through a list of names: Dominic Crowe, Jeremy Egan, Dion Ferguson. None of them triggers any response.

  ‘What about Elliot Crowe?’

  She frowns. ‘I might have heard that name.’

  ‘His mother and sister were murdered at a farmhouse outside of Clevedon.’

  She inhales sharply and a hand flutters to her mouth. ‘Was it the same person – the one who attacked me?’

  ‘I believe so. Listen to me, Gabrielle. I need to ask you some questions that you may find embarrassing, but it’s important you tell me the truth.’

  She nods.

  ‘Have you ever had sex in public with random strangers or let others watch you?’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Have you swapped partners or gone on dating websites?’

  ‘No.’ She is growing more and more distressed.

  ‘Somebody else discovered your affair. Could anyone have read your emails? Or followed you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you seen together?’

  ‘No, please, I think you should leave. My husband is due home. I’m lucky he forgave me.’

  I could always spot them. They’d arrive in separate cars or at different times, or would sometimes book an extra room to hide their subterfuge. Others pretended to be married, telling me stories about leaving the kids at home, or having a second honeymoon.

  Fake names and false addresses were pretty standard, along with paying cash and travelling at least twenty miles from home, so they wouldn’t bump into someone they knew.

  Some arrived with overnight bags, others without even a toothbrush, while a few would act out Pretty Woman fantasies, pretending to be high-class hookers in long overcoats with precious little else underneath.

  The men usually took charge, while the women hung back. I would ask for a credit card swipe ‘for incidentals’ and this would prompt offers of a cash deposit or a handshake with twenty quid pressed into my palm. Some men were very specific about the room they wanted. The floor had to have at least two exits – the stairs and a lift – with no CCTV cameras. They didn’t sign for room service bills or buy porn on the in-house movie channels.

  Many didn’t bother staying the whole night. They ordered champagne, shagged and showered and were away by midnight, home to their ‘other halves’. The gym bags and tennis racquets were a nice touch – providing an excuse for their freshly perfumed selves.

  ‘I hope you enjoyed your stay, Mr Foster or Mr Smith or Mr Howard,’ I’d say, and then watch that moment of indecision before the penny dropped and they remembered which fake name they’d used.

  ‘Yes, of course, absolutely,’ they’d reply.

  ‘Perhaps you’d consider signing up to our loyalty programme?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘We give you fifty per cent off your next stay with us.’

  ‘No, not this time.’

  ‘Does Mrs Foster need help with her bags?’

  ‘No, she’ll be down shortly.’

  ‘You forgot your receipt.’

  ‘Throw it away.’

  ‘I can post it to you.’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary.’

  Finding their real names and addresses wasn’t particularly difficult. DVLA employees are very helpful. I’d call and say that someone had scraped a car in the hotel car park and driven away without leaving details. ‘The driver looked young. I think she panicked. I wouldn’t want to get her into trouble. That’s why I didn’t call the police.’

  I filled out a form, paid a small fee and the name and address were supplied.

  In the beginning I sent anonymous letters to their wives and husbands, but the same men (and women) kept coming back; repeat offenders, so to speak, forgiven but unrepentant, schooled in deceit. Most of them got better at hiding their activities, using secret email accounts and separate mobiles, keeping spare clothes and checking their pockets for receipts.

  That’s why I had to teach them a lesson. I had to ask them a question with only one answer.

  ‘A’.

  42

  A passing shower has freshened the air, leaving behind a light mist and droplets that cling to leaves and blades of grass. Ruiz seems to want to feel it on his cheeks, raising his face to the sky. Despite his gruff exterior he is not a pessimist by nature. In a long career as a detective he witnessed countless acts of violence and cruelty, but these have not shaken his faith in people. Human beings might be unreliable, stupid, self-serving and prone to disappointing him, but most were still fundamentally well meaning.

  ‘So all of them were having affairs or lying about it,’ he says, without sounding judgemental.

  ‘Except for Milo Coleman,’ I say.

  ‘Who pissed the killer off.’

  ‘Or got too close.’

  ‘And we still don’t know how this guy is finding his victims. What about Friends Reunited?’

  ‘Apart from Gabrielle Sallis, none of the others were registered.’

  Ruiz digs into his pocket and takes out his tin of sweets. ‘So we’re looking for a common thread between at least seven victims from different areas, different jobs, different ages. Maybe this guy dangled lots of hooks in the water by signing up to various websites.’

  ‘Which would make him almost impossible to find.’

  Charlie is nursing a soft drink at a pavement table. She wanted to go into town with the sketchbook, but I won’t let her walk the streets alone. Ronnie Cray was right – this isn’t my problem. I should let the police handle the case and take Charlie home. We could spend the afternoon with Julianne before she goes into hospital. Yet I cannot rid myself of a disquieting ache in my lower belly, an agitation connected to a thought that I cannot put into words. Some people kill impulsively, in the heat of the moment. Their brain snaps or they are overcome by extreme rage or jealousy or another primary emotion. Afterwards they are horrified by what they have done, haunted by the sheer amount of blood. They panic. They flee. They make mistakes.

  The farmhouse killer would have been s
hocked by the blood and frightened by his actions, but his mind stayed focused and sharp. He didn’t bring the weapon. He made the decision when he arrived at the farmhouse, committing two murders that seemed contradictory and paradoxical – one savage and the other almost reverential. F. Scott Fitzgerald once said that the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in mind at the same time and still be able to function. This man could do that.

  If acting alone, he must have killed Harper first. Either she let him inside or she was asleep when he entered her bedroom and he choked her before she could react. By comparison, the scene downstairs resembled an abattoir. Aroused and unforgiving, he exploded in rage and corrupt lust, stabbing Elizabeth thirty-six times. Afterwards, out of breath, his adrenalin still surging, he knelt beside her body. He looked at his bloody hands. He saw what he’d done. The truth expanded in his chest.

  Many killers would have panicked. Some would have vomited at the smell and sight of a disembowelled body. Not this man. He calmly took off his clothes, bundled them up and carried them to the laundry.

  I try to imagine myself in his mind. I am covered in blood, walking through the house. Harper is lying upstairs in her bed, arranged to look like a storybook princess. Something made him stop in the hallway. Blood dripped from his fingertips on to the wooden boards.

  I close my eyes and feel my heart begin racing. Someone is coming. They’re going to find me. A motorbike approaches the house. I cannot turn off the lights in time. Instead I stand behind the door and wait.

  Someone knocks. I don’t answer.

  ‘I know you’re in there,’ says a voice. ‘Let me talk to Harper. Is that you, Mrs Crowe? Please let me in. I want to tell her I’m sorry.’

  A second voice, female: ‘I’m here, too, Mrs Crowe. We’re sorry it’s so late.’

  I wait. I hear them walk away. Not away … they go to the side of the farmhouse. I hear gravel rattling against Harper’s bedroom window. They’re calling her name. Arguing.