Close My Eyes (40 page)

I look up, startled. Are they talking about Bernard O’Donnell?

‘And
she’s
the prime suspect?’ The other woman points to the piece of paper. ‘That was quick.’

My heart skips a beat. Could this be the woman Art is involved with?

The younger woman shrugs. ‘There was an anonymous tip-off giving her name and placing her at the scene.’

She holds the paper up. It’s a colour picture of a woman’s face with a few lines of print to the side. She pins it to the notice board at the far end of the counter. From where
I’m standing I can’t see the detail of the woman’s face. The officer I’m waiting to speak to is still on the phone, so I move over to the notice board. As the two women
drift away through the swing doors, I catch the younger one’s words.

‘They’ll be trying to trace her now.’

And then I reach the print-out and I stare at the picture and all my insides seem to shrivel and collapse. Because I know the photo well – it’s the one from my driving licence.

I stare and stare, forcing the realization to sink in.

The woman wanted by the police for O’Donnell’s murder is me.

I quickly turn away. Head bowed, I tear out of the police station.

I’m almost hyperventilating as I reach the pavement. I don’t know which direction Lorcan will appear from so I stand against the wall, glancing furtively up and down the street.
I’ve never known such fear as I’m feeling right now. It’s consuming me . . . eating me from the inside.

I force myself to go over what I just heard. The police received a tip-off that I was the murderer, that I was seen at the lock-up. And I
was
there. My fingerprints are on
Bernard’s things. If they find his mobile phone, they will find my voicemail message saying I’m actually
at
the lock-up and looking for him.

Trying to trace her now.

The female PC’s words echo in my head. My mind trips over itself, running on ahead to my being arrested and charged.

Still no sign of Lorcan.
Come on. Come on
.

Panic rises in my throat. I force it down. Lorcan appears, striding round the corner towards the station. I race over to him. Grab his arm.

‘We have to get out of here.’

He stares at me. ‘What are you talking about?’

I try to turn him around, but he resists. He’s too big and tall to force, so I stand in the street, and explain as quickly as I can.

‘So Art’s set me up,’ I finish. ‘Or the woman he’s with has.’

Lorcan frowns. ‘But all you have to do is explain why you went to meet O’Donnell,’ he says. ‘Give your side of the story.’

I shake my head. ‘They’ll find my fingerprints all over his stuff . . . I called him from outside the lock-up. God, I must have arrived
minutes
after he died.’

‘So?’ Lorcan holds out his hands. ‘That doesn’t make you guilty. How will they even know they’re
your
fingerprints?’

‘If I go in there they’ll take them. Even if I don’t, they’ll be able to get a set from Loxley Benson,’ I explain. ‘My fingerprints are on record there . . .
the entry system with the doors.’

‘But—?’

‘They’ve got a
Wanted
poster of me.’ My voice breaks.

‘
Jesus
, Art’s a lying bastard,’ Lorcan growls. ‘I knew he was stringing you along with all that “backing off” shite.’

I feel sick. ‘I don’t know. He said he and that woman had argued . . . that he was trying to convince her to leave me alone if I went away. Maybe he lost the argument. Maybe
she’s gone behind his back.’

‘Or maybe he just lied to you, Gen. Again.’

‘Okay.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Either he was lying to me about giving me a chance to back off – or the woman doesn’t want me to have that chance.’

Lorcan hesitates for a second. ‘I still think we should go inside and explain everything to the police. When it all comes out it’s going to be obvious that Art and this woman are the
ones with the motive for killing Bernard O’Donnell . . .’

I glance over at the police station. I’m so overwhelmed with fear that I half expect officers to swarm out of the building towards me. My throat feels swollen. I take a deep breath.

My phone rings. It’s Art.

‘Where are you?’ His voice is desperate. ‘You said you’d be here and you’re not. I can’t stay for long. She doesn’t know I’ve come to meet you.
Please, Gen, we don’t have time for—’

‘You lied to me.’ My voice is hoarse. ‘You said she was going to kill me. But you’ve set me up. The police think
I
killed Bernard and—’

‘No, Gen. I haven’t done
anything
. I don’t know anything about that.’

My mind is in freefall. I don’t know what to believe.

‘Gen,
listen
. I don’t have much time. Twenty minutes, max. I
have
to get back to . . . to the house. She thinks I’m there. I . . . I’ve persuaded her to
go out before she leaves for good; see Bitsy, take care of a few things round here. But she’ll be back in half an hour and I need to be there, so I can tell her you’re doing what needs
to be done and . . . and then they’re going abroad so there’s not much time.’

They.

‘She’s taking Ed? Abroad?’ My voice breaks over his name. No. Not after all this. I can’t lose my baby again. ‘She’s leaving with him “for good”?
No, Art,
please
.’

‘It’s the best thing,’ Art says. He sounds desperate. ‘Please, Gen, it’s taken everything for me to get her to agree to leave Shepton and
not
come after
you.’

‘But she
has
come after me. She’s gone to the pol—’

‘The police won’t be able to make any charges stick, Gen. If we’re going to meet it has to be
right now
. If I’m not home for when she gets back in half an hour
she’ll panic – maybe even change her mind. You have to understand that I’m trying to protect you. I’m trying to keep you safe. Now, where are you? I can only wait another
twenty minutes. Then I
have
to go.’

‘I’m on my way,’ I lie. ‘I just need a bit more time to get away from Lorcan. Please wait.’

‘Okay, but hurry.’

I switch off the call and turn to Lorcan. ‘She’s going away. She’s taking Ed.’

He stares at me. ‘All the more reason to go back in and explain everything to the police.’

‘No.’ A beat passes. Lorcan is right, of course. We
should
go to the police and tell them everything. But being right isn’t the point. ‘It will take too
long,’ I say. ‘By the time I’ve convinced them I didn’t have anything to do with Bernard’s death –
if
I can convince them – Art’s woman
could have taken Ed anywhere . . .’

‘But—’

‘It’s happening
now
. Art said they’re meeting back at the house in thirty minutes and she’s going to take Ed abroad straightaway.’ I hesitate. The traffic
is still rushing past, the street still full of busy shoppers. It’s a noisy, hectic scene but, for the first time since I set off from home yesterday, I see what I have to do.

Lorcan’s eyes fix on me. ‘So what are you saying?’ he asks, uncertainly. ‘D’you want to go away too, like Art said?’

‘Not if it means me living like a fugitive
and
knowing that Ed is alive and never seeing him.’ I close my eyes for a second, imagining that future . . . the upheaval of
leaving my entire life behind . . . the agony of knowing my child is out there somewhere, growing up without me. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No way. I’m not running away.’

‘Then . . .?’

‘I’m so sorry you’re mixed up in all this,’ I say. ‘I will totally understand if you want to leave right now.’

‘Not a chance,’ he says. ‘Just tell me what you think we should do.’

I give him a quick hug, his stubble brushes, rough, against my cheek. And then we get back in the car and I tell him my plan.

Lorcan drives like a madman back to the house in Shepton Longchamp. He parks outside and I check the time. Art should still be waiting for me at the Dog & Duck I imagine him pacing up and
down by the door looking out for me.

‘You sure about this?’ Lorcan asks.

I look at the big brick house beyond the gates. It’s almost dark now and lights are on in several of the downstairs rooms. Ed is inside. I have to find him and take him with me to the
police. It’s the only way to make sure he isn’t taken away from me forever. Once the police test his DNA and believe he is my son, everything else will fall into place. I know it will
be scary for him. But I wouldn’t ever forgive myself if I didn’t try.

What if one day Ed finds out about me? What if he tracks me down? What if he asks why I didn’t fight for him?

‘Art should still be in the pub,’ I say. ‘He said
she
was out too and wouldn’t be coming back until after him. If that’s true, then Ed will be at home
alone with the girl who picked him up from school.’

‘But there could be security,’ Lorcan protests. ‘And for all you know, Art and the woman could both have come back already . . .’

‘No, not yet.’ I’m trying to convince myself. ‘Anyway, they won’t be expecting us.’

Lorcan shakes his head. ‘Just keep your eyes open, okay?’

‘I will. Let’s go.’

As we get out of the car, a wry smile sweeps Lorcan’s face.

‘What?’ I say.

‘It’s nothing. Just that when I saw you for the first time at Art’s you looked so lost. Like . . . all confident on the outside but desperately sad too, as if life had beaten
you down. And now look at you – it’s like you’re on fire.’

I smile back.
I am
on fire – determination burns through me to my bones. We approach the gates. I peer through the bars, taking the house in more carefully. It’s a clue to
the identity of the woman. She must have money, that’s for sure. The house is large and old and detached, with stone walls and columns propping up the front porch. There are three floors,
with a wide bay window on either side of the front door. The front garden is elegantly laid out, with a patch of lawn to the left of the drive and carefully tended shrubs in the flower beds. Two
pretty ficus trees stand on either side of the front porch. It’s definitely the kind of house I’d expect Charlotte to live in.

We work our way round the gate. It extends into the trees that form a border between the house and the road. I cut my hand on one of the spikes climbing over. Lorcan rips his shirt. But seconds
later we’re down on the soft earth in the dark shadow of the trees. I wait under cover of their low branches and watch Lorcan cross the gravel to the front door. My heart is thudding as he
rings the doorbell. Seconds tick past. The early evening air is mild. No breeze. A dog barks in the distance.

The door opens. It’s on the chain. ‘Hello?’ It’s Kelly, the girl who picked Ed up from school earlier. She sounds suspicious.

‘Hi there,’ Lorcan says. He’s putting on an English accent like he did at the school. ‘I’m sorry to bother you; we met in the playground earlier, actually. Er . . .
my son brought a DS home with him. I think it belongs to Ed. God, I’m so embarrassed, but I think Sammy might have taken it earlier today. I’m so sorry not to call in advance but we
couldn’t find the class list and my wife has seen you coming in here with Ed so we knew this was home.’

‘I don’t think its Ed’s,’ Kelly says uncertainly.

‘Are you sure?’ Lorcan says. ‘Would you mind asking him?’

‘I don’t—’

But before Kelly can finish her sentence, Lorcan hurls himself at the door with such force that the chain breaks and in a split second he is over the threshold and inside the house. He grabs
Kelly’s arm and twists her round, his hand over her mouth. Kelly struggles, she’s trying to shout out, but Lorcan is stronger. He pulls her backwards along the hall. I rush across the
gravel and slip inside after him. A vase on the hall table catches my eye. It looks vaguely familiar, but there’s no time to work out where I’ve seen it before. As I reach the stairs,
Kelly sees me. Her eyes widen with alarm. Heart beating fast, I race up to the first floor.

I’m moving as quietly as I can. There’s no sound from any part of the house. I reach the landing at the top of the stairs. It’s ultra-modern, excessively neat and expensively
decorated. Smart and stylish. Now I’m inside, the decor seems fresher and younger than Charlotte West would choose. I pass a delicate china ornament – abstract, a curving shape like a
wave. It suddenly all seems very French. There’s definitely an international flavour to the furniture and the paintings. Much more Sandrine than Charlotte.

I tiptoe across the hessian flooring, taking in a row of carved wooden disks on the window ledge overlooking the back garden. I try the first door I come to. A blue-and-white tiled bathroom. I
move on. The next room looks like a spare room: with pale yellow curtains at the window to match the yellow-trimmed quilt on the bed. One of Art’s jackets has been flung over the quilt. An
overnight bag I recognize from home stands next to it. Does that mean Art sleeps here? Or just stows his stuff here? I move on. Another spare room. This one much larger, with an en-suite bathroom.
Still no sign of Ed.

I scuttle back across the landing. There are just three more doors to try. I open the first. It’s a little office area with a desk and a computer. A few toys – a train and a couple
of teddy bears are scattered on the floor. They’re the only sign that a child even lives in this house.

I pull the door to and try the next. As soon as I push it open I know that I’ve found him. It’s a kid’s room, with a bookcase crammed with books, a huge toy bin and bunk beds
against the far wall. The curtains are drawn and a night light spins on the bedside table, sending shadows dancing around the room. Ed is fast asleep on the bottom bunk. I creep towards him, my
heart pumping furiously. He looks so peaceful as I approach, a lock of dark hair falling over his small face. I stand over him for a second. Again, I see my father. I try to work out what it is . .
. the mouth, yes, but what else? The shape of his chin? The curve of his cheek? And then I see that it’s in the space between his features: the set of his eyes and the shape of the gap
between his nose and his mouth.