Close Your Eyes (29 page)

Charlie shouts from upstairs. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Just stay there.’

I have reached the laundry. The door is open. I’m sure I locked it yesterday. Perhaps Ruiz has been back.

I take out my mobile and call him. He’s on the road.

‘Have you been to the farmhouse today?’

‘No.’

‘The laundry door is open. I think someone has been in the house.’

At that moment I hear the creak of floorboards.

‘It’s only me,’ says Charlie. ‘Can I come downstairs?’

‘Not yet.’

Ruiz hears the conversation. ‘You should get her outside. Don’t touch anything. I’m ten minutes away.’

Charlie is full of questions. I distract her by mentioning the kittens. Walking across the flagged yard, I glance over my shoulder at the farmhouse, half expecting to see a face peering from an upstairs window.

Inside the stable, we navigate between the empty drums and reels of fencing wire. The kittens have started to wander. Two are wrestling with each other, tumbling in the dusty straw. Charlie almost steps on one of them and admonishes herself, picking it up and holding it against her cheek.

Gathering the other kittens into the crevice of her lap, she scratches their ears and beneath their chins. ‘They’re adorable. Can we have one?’

‘You’re going off to university.’

‘What if Mummy says yes? Can we take one home and show her? Emma hasn’t had a kitten before. It can be her birthday present.’

Within two sentences Charlie has it all planned.

Ruiz pulls up and I meet him halfway across the yard.

‘You’re sure?’ he asks.

‘I’m sure I locked it. It was yesterday afternoon. You were here. We drove Elliot and his girlfriend into town.’

‘Did you check every room?’

‘No.’

‘OK, let’s do it now.’

Leaving Charlie with the kittens, I follow Ruiz into the house, still trying to recall how things looked yesterday, wondering if particular picture frames are angled the same way or whether the clothes were hanging in that order. Every shadow and corner has become a hiding place.

We’re standing on the first-floor landing. ‘You should call Ronnie Cray,’ says Ruiz. ‘She’ll want to know.’

‘Will they send a scene of crime team?’

‘Not unless something is missing.’

I remember Elliot Crowe’s visit to the farmhouse. He had wanted to come inside and got angry when I told him to leave. They say a junkie will steal from the dead and still cry at the funeral.

Outside the wind has picked up and a loose section of corrugated iron clangs against the joists of the chicken coop. I am crouched below a windowsill, squeezed between the diesel tank and the rear wall of the stables.

The psychologist has a daughter. She’s playing with the kittens, which are tumbling and squirming in her lap or clawing at the front of her long-sleeved cotton top. One of them climbs on to her shoulder.

‘Where are you going?’ she laughs, pulling the kitten back into her lap.

My knees hurt. I shift my weight. The diesel tank makes a hollow ringing sound as my heel hits the metal cradle. The girl’s head snaps up, staring at the window. I duck below the sill.

The girl is moving. I hear her put down the kittens and pick up a torch. She’s searching the horse stalls and storage areas, bouncing light off tools and dust-covered tack. Now she’s standing at the window. If she leans closer to the glass and looks down she will see my knees.

Almost without thought, my fingers have found the box-cutter in my pocket. Can I catch her before she screams?

Another sound. She’s at the side entrance, sliding the bolt. I scramble up and reach the door, hiding behind it as it opens. Through the narrow crack between the hinges, I see the fine downy hairs on her neck. Her hand is only inches from mine. I could reach out and touch her. I could run the blade across her throat.

The tin roof is clanging. She takes a step, looking right and left. I raise the blade. If she turns her head a little more …

‘Charlie, where are you?’

She looks over her shoulder. ‘Out here.’

‘The police are coming.’

‘Why?’

‘I think someone has been in the house.’

She turns back into the stables and closes the door, sliding the bolt into place.

‘We should wait outside,’ says the psychologist.

‘But I haven’t fed the mother yet.’

‘Hurry up, then.’

I edge along the wall until I reach the corner of the building and take cover in a little wilderness at the edge of the kitchen garden. Still hidden, I raise my head and take one last look at the farmhouse before taking off, running across the field, leaping thistles and cowpats.

Eighty yards seems longer. Reaching the copse of trees, I throw myself behind a fallen log and catch my breath as more vehicles begin arriving.

After crawling through a bramble hedge, I climb over the barbed wire fence and fall into the leaf litter. Lying on my back, I stare up at the branches and the clouds moving behind the leaves.

You nearly killed her.

– I would have killed her.

She did nothing wrong.

– She almost saw me.

One day you’ll make a mistake. What then?

– Closure.

Ronnie Cray squints into the brightness of the afternoon. ‘I’m not doubting you, Professor, but nothing seems to be missing and there’s no sign of a break-in.’

‘The laundry door was open.’

‘Maybe you didn’t close it properly.’

‘I locked it yesterday. We came in through the kitchen.’

She holds up her hands, accepting my word. Behind her Monk appears out of the trees, striding across the field. He looks normal-sized from a distance, but keeps growing as he gets nearer.

‘There are fresh footprints near the fence,’ he says, scraping cowshit off his shoes.

‘Did you check on Tommy Garrett?’ asks Cray.

‘His grandmother hasn’t seen him since breakfast.’

‘What about Elliot Crowe?’ I ask. ‘He was here yesterday.’

‘I’ll send someone to his last-known address, but that kid is slipperier than a Teflon-coated turd.’

The DCS rocks impatiently from foot to foot, keen to leave. She has more important things to do than investigate a possible break-in. I tell her about the sketches that Charlie discovered in Harper’s room. She doesn’t seem interested.

‘They fill in Harper’s timeline,’ I say.

Cray ignores me and walks towards her car. I chase after her, blocking her path.

‘Have I done something to upset you?’

‘What?’

‘I get the impression that I’m wasting your time.’

‘Right now – yes, you are.’

‘So I should go home.’

‘Suit yourself,’ she mutters. ‘I’ve had a gutful of psychologists.’

I step back, but Cray doesn’t pass. Her jaw flexes. ‘When did you last talk to Milo Coleman?’

‘After the funerals.’

‘Not since then?’

‘No.’

‘An hour ago he went on radio and linked Naomi Meredith’s murder to the farmhouse killings. He knew about the bleach and the symbol carved on her forehead.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘None of those things were made public. How did Coleman find out?’

‘You think I told him?’

‘Did you?’

‘No, and I’m offended that you think so little of me.’

‘You’re pissed off – join the fucking queue,’ she says bitterly. ‘The Chief Constable has gone nuclear. He expressly told us not to link the cases.’

I contemplate telling her about Bennie and Milo, but I have no evidence that she leaked details.

Cray is still talking. ‘Milo Coleman is all over the radio and TV, calling the killer a sad sadistic pervert fixated on adultery. How in fuck’s name did he find out?’

I don’t answer. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘My job,’ she replies. ‘Mr Coleman is in possession of information only the killer could have known, which makes him a suspect. That being the case, I’m going to crawl up his rectum and set up camp until I find out what he was doing on the night of the murders.’

When the detectives have gone, Ruiz joins me at the gate, offering me a boiled sweet from a tin that he keeps in his pocket.

‘The Fat Controller doesn’t look happy – did someone set fire to her nipple tassels?’

‘The Chief Constable has expressed every confidence in her.’

‘Oh, shit!’

‘Yeah.’

Ruiz almost looks sorry for her. He returns the tin to his pocket. ‘The big detective told me something interesting. They’ve found two other choking victims – one in Torquay and the other in Weymouth. The reports came from two A&E departments at local hospitals. Same deal – the attacker carved a letter into their foreheads.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘One male, one female, both married.’

‘Were they having an affair?’

‘Someone has gone to interview them.’

I try to picture the scene. A detective turning up on the doorsteps of two different spouses, asking if they were sleeping with each other and who might have discovered their infidelities. Doors are going to be slammed. Toes bruised.

‘So we have six people with the letter “A” carved into their foreheads – four women and two men. Naomi was definitely having an affair. Most of the others have denied it.’

‘They’re probably lying,’ says Ruiz.

‘Agreed.’

‘All of which begs the question – where do Elizabeth and Harper Crowe fit into this?’

‘Elizabeth slept with her husband’s best friend and had sex in public with a married man.’

‘There was nothing carved on her forehead.’

‘Harper died from a blood choke.’

‘And then there’s the bleach…’

Charlie is inside, sorting through Polaroids on the kitchen table. Ruiz breaks into a huge grin. ‘Hello, princess, do I get a hug?’

‘Not if you call me princess.’

He hugs her anyway and Charlie responds awkwardly, hands at her sides. ‘When did you get so tall?’ asks Ruiz.

‘I’m not twelve any more.’

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

‘Why would I want one of those?’

‘A girlfriend then.’

‘Dream on.’

Charlie picks up one of the Polaroids to show me – a photograph of an old man whose face is so pitted and creased that his cheeks resemble moonscapes. He has an absent-minded smile and seems to be staring into space, as though he’s reminiscing about the past.

‘It’s the man in the sketch,’ she says. ‘The one Harper was drawing on the sixth of June.’

I study the photograph and the sketch. She’s right. It’s the same man. His eyes have more warmth in the drawing and he seems more grounded in the present.

‘And I also found this one,’ says Charlie, holding up a photograph of the house in the sketchbook. ‘Maybe I can find it.’

‘Now you want to play detective?’

‘Keeps me out of trouble.’

‘I don’t want you knocking on any strange doors.’

‘I’ll stick to the high street.’

‘Or taking sweets from dirty old men.’

Ruiz looks up. ‘Who’s a dirty old man?’

‘Talk of the devil,’ says Charlie.

The large detached Edwardian house is in a fashionable part of Clevedon, overlooking Fir Wood where the trees are hanging heavily in the heat. I ring the bell. Bare feet come thundering towards the door, which quakes as locks and bolts are keyed and slid. It opens and reveals a sandy-headed boy, his face below the lock, peering up at me sceptically. He is bare-chested, wearing swimming trunks. A TV is playing somewhere within – applause followed by an English voice:
‘Advantage, Miss Sharapova.’

‘Is your mummy home?’ I ask.

He looks at Ruiz. ‘Are you policemen?’

‘No.’

He closes the door and I hear the same bare feet retreating down the hallway. Softer footsteps follow. A woman appears, opening the door a crack. I can only see one half of her face.

‘Maggie Dutton?’

‘What do you want?’

‘I was hoping we could ask you a few questions about an incident that occurred a month ago.’

‘Are you the police?’

‘No, I’m a psychologist.’

Her eyes flick to Ruiz and back to me. ‘I withdrew my statement. You shouldn’t be here.’

‘I understand that you—’

‘Did the police give out my address? That’s not allowed. What about my privacy?’

‘Another woman has been attacked.’

Something changes in her eyes, but she regains her composure. ‘I have nothing to say.’

The door is closing.

‘Her name was Naomi Meredith. She was twenty-nine.’

‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘She’s dead, Mrs Dutton.’

The door stops moving and opens a little wider, revealing her face. A large square bandage covers much of her forehead. Lowering her eyes, she stares at her right hand braced on the door, debating what to do. She could close it so easily. Lock us out.

‘Just you,’ she whispers.

‘I’m not police either,’ says Ruiz.

‘I don’t care – you look like one.’

Ruiz nods and says he’ll wait for me. I follow Maggie into the front room, which has oak panelling, oversized sofas and fittings from another age. I imagine a bell beneath the rug to summon servants. Perhaps she has family money.

The TV has been turned down, but I can still hear the gentle
thwock
of tennis balls and the harsh grunts of the players, punctuated by applause. Maggie takes a seat. Thin and fair-haired, with high cheekbones and a short upturned nose, she’s wearing trousers and a white blouse, loose around her neck. She sits bolt upright with her knees pressed together, hands on her lap, looking slightly dazed and disbelieving, like a refugee applying for asylum. Her rather prominent eyes are fixed on the floor and periodically she tugs at the collar of her blouse where it touches her neck.

Crayons are scattered on the low table next to a child’s drawing of a knight who appears to be slaying a dragon, although the dragon resembles a dog and the knight looks like a robot.