Close Your Eyes (34 page)

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’.

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 shocked 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.

I hear the motorbike rumble down the drive and I breathe again. Clean up. Change my clothes. I notice the Bible and the candles in the sitting room. I need to lay a false trail – more than one. I paint the bloody pentagram on the wall and light the candles. I break open the front door and trigger the alarm. On the doorstep I discover a birthday present for Harper – a peace offering from her boyfriend. I take it with me, along with the knife.

Who am I? I know about loving relationships, fidelity and family, but something has warped my sexuality. I’m angered and frustrated by acts of betrayal. Perhaps I come from a family torn apart by divorce or infidelity. Either that or I’ve been scorned by a girlfriend, or cuckolded by a wife.

I am not an adolescent. My sophistication and forensic awareness have come with age and experience. I have done this before, which is why I deserve respect, not insults and scorn. I am watching the media coverage. I know what they’re saying about me.

Most of my victims have never come forward. They’re too embarrassed or won’t risk the public shaming, but the murders of Elizabeth and Harper were different. I crossed a line. Initially, this terrified me. I was frightened of what I’d become … what I was capable of … but now I relish those memories, which colour my world – the smell of her hair, the beating of her heart.

‘I need a piece of paper,’ I say to Ruiz.

He takes out the battered notebook that he carries everywhere. The pages are dog-eared and buckled by sweat, held together by a rubber band. He tears one out and I begin writing.

– mid-twenties to mid-forties, most likely at the higher end of the range, with a high sex drive and burning sense of betrayal.

– known to Elizabeth or Harper.

– confident of his surroundings. He has good working knowledge of local footpaths and bus timetables, which is why he could attack and disappear quickly without being noticed or attracting suspicion.

– he’ll most likely work in a service job or something that takes him away from home, but brings him into contact with people.

– good verbal and social skills – enough to avoid suspicion.

– physically strong.

– forensically aware.

– highly intelligent, but with a poor academic record.

– his family and friends may not even consider the possibility that he could be responsible.

– he will not be abnormal.

– he will not look guilty.

– he is escalating.

– this will happen again.

When I finish writing, I read the page again. Four of the primary suspects match elements of the profile – Dominic Crowe, Jeremy Egan, Dion Ferguson and Elliot Crowe. But nothing that I’ve written explains how Elizabeth and Harper fitted into the killer’s picture. Elizabeth had a history of infidelities, but no symbol was carved into her forehead. Harper was single, eighteen, unsullied by life. She is the anomaly.

I look up at Ruiz. ‘I think we’ve been looking at this the wrong way around.’

‘How so?’

‘We’ve been focusing on Elizabeth because she bore the brunt of his anger, but what if Harper was the real target?’

‘He barely touched her.’

‘That’s my point – it was an act of contrition, maybe of love.’

Ruiz leans over the table, propping on his elbows. ‘So we’re back to the father or the boyfriend.’

‘Or some other admirer.’

‘Tommy Garrett?’

‘No. Jeremy Egan talked to Harper at the pub that night.’

‘You think he wanted to add Harper to his list of conquests?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Unless Elliot had a thing for his sister,’ says Ruiz. ‘They weren’t biological siblings. It’s happened before.’

‘Harper wasn’t sexually assaulted. She represented something to the killer that Elizabeth didn’t. She was pure. She was blameless. She didn’t deserve to die – but had to.’

‘Perhaps she saw something or knew something,’ says Ruiz.

Instinctively, I know he’s right. The answer lies somewhere in the timelines. Folding the sheet of paper, I put it into my pocket and tell Charlie to collect her things.

‘Where are we going?’ she asks.

‘I have to take your mum to the hospital.’

‘I wanted to keep looking for the house – the one in the sketch.’

‘No, not on your own.’

She’s about to argue, but Ruiz interrupts, ‘I’ll look after her. Just tell me when you want her home.’

A shaft of sunlight, teeming with dust motes, spills through the window and paints a square of light across the queen-sized bed. Julianne’s small suitcase has been packed and repacked. She doesn’t know whether to take pyjamas or a nightgown.

‘A nightgown makes more sense, don’t you think?’

‘Absolutely,’ I say.

‘Dr Percival said I might need a catheter.’

‘True.’

‘I should maybe take two nightgowns – just in case.’

‘Good idea.’

‘Are you going to agree with everything I say?’

‘Probably.’

I’m trying to be supportive and positive, but my heart is knocking against my chest. Julianne picks up a photograph of the girls and puts it on top of the folded clothes. Her mother is waiting downstairs with Emma.

There are hugs and forced smiles and instructions repeated about meals and separating ‘the whites’ and a birthday party that Emma has been invited to on Sunday.

‘We’ll be fine,’ says her mother. ‘You’ll only be gone a week.’

‘We promise not to fall apart,’ I add.

‘And you’ll miss me.’

‘Oh, we will.’

‘I thought Charlie would be here,’ says Julianne, looking outside. ‘Did you call Vincent?’

‘They’re fine. Charlie will call you later,’ I tell her, wishing I could make our elder daughter suddenly appear.

On the drive to the hospital I keep making small talk, yet I feel strangely detached from things around me. The radio is playing in the background – news at the top of the hour.