Close Your Eyes (35 page)

Police have issued an arrest warrant for a twenty-six-year-old man wanted for the murders of Somerset mother and daughter Elizabeth and Harper Crowe.

I turn up the volume.

The suspect has been named as Elliot Crowe, the adopted son and stepbrother of the victims. The warrant follows a police raid at first light this morning when two SWAT teams broke into a bedsit in Eastleigh, Bristol. Forensic teams have since used earth-moving equipment to dig up the rear garden.

A spokesman for Avon and Somerset Police would not comment on whether anything was found during the search, but said the investigation was ongoing.

I glance at Julianne, who hasn’t reacted. Zen-like in her calm, she has bundled up her hair and pinned it high on her head with a tortoiseshell clasp.

‘Why would he kill his mother and sister?’ she asks quietly.

‘He’s a drug addict,’ I say, as if no other explanation were needed.

‘Well, I’m glad its over.’

At the hospital there are stairs, and more stairs and swinging double doors. Julianne has a private room. She puts her suitcase next to a locker and hangs her dressing gown on a hook behind the door. I watch as she unpacks, putting her bedsocks, underwear and a loose-fitting dress on separate shelves. Her cup with a flexible straw goes on the bedside table, next to the photograph and a twin pack of Polo mints.

‘I can’t find my phone charger.’

‘I’ll bring one tomorrow.’

‘That’s not the point – I know I packed it. What if my battery runs out?’

‘It won’t.’

‘I should have brought my little radio.’

‘You’ve got the TV.’

‘I’m going to miss
The Archers
.’

‘You’ll catch up.’

Sitting on the mattress, she bounces a little as though testing the springs.

‘You don’t have to stay.’

‘I don’t have anywhere I’d rather be.’

She leans back against the bedhead. A clock ticks on the wall, louder than before.

‘What time is the surgery?’ I ask.

‘First thing in the morning.’

‘Can I call you beforehand?’

‘It might be very early.’

‘What happens then?’

‘After the operation I go to the recovery room.’

‘I’ll come in the morning.’

‘No, don’t come until I’m awake. Stay with the girls.’

‘Should I bring them?’

She thinks about this. ‘No, leave them at home until you’ve seen me. I might be groggy. I want to look my best.’

‘They won’t care.’

‘It’s not for
them
.’

Further along the corridor comes the sound of ‘Happy Birthday’. There is also a beeping sound like an alarm, which halts after a few moments. A nurse puts her head around the door and stops in mid-sentence, surprised to see me.

‘I’m sorry about the noise,’ says Becca Washburn, recovering her composure. ‘One of the patients is having a birthday. There’s plenty of cake to go around. Would you like a piece?’

We shake our heads.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ asks Becca, stepping into the room. ‘The TV is dodgy, I’m afraid. It can only get two channels: Sky News and UK Gold.’

‘I’m not bothered,’ says Julianne.

‘Well, I’m off home, but I’ll be working tomorrow,’ says Becca. ‘If you need anything, just press the buzzer. There are nurses on duty all night.’

After she’s gone, Julianne turns to me. ‘That’s the woman we saw in the café.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you know she worked on this ward?’

‘No.’

Visiting hours are almost over. I hug Julianne tightly and almost lift her off the ground. Half a head shorter, she looks up at me. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Call me if you want to talk.’

‘I’ll be fine. I have my book to read and friends have been calling me ever since I broke the news. They all want to come and visit, but I’ve told them to wait until I get home.’

‘It’s nice they care.’

‘They’re all asking about you.’

‘Me?’

‘They want to know if we’re back together.’

‘What do you tell them?’

‘I tell them it’s a work in progress.’

Leaving the hospital, I drive through Bristol to Eastleigh, turning off Fishponds Road into a bleak-looking street full of cheap terraces, bedsits and council flats. Police cars are parked outside one particular house, flanking a forensic service van.

After driving past the address, I pull over and walk to the next corner. Climbing on to a brick wall, I can see across the rear gardens of a dozen terraces to where arc lights are blazing. Police have used a small mechanical digger to scrape aside weeds and carve out a trench in the dark brown soil. Now they’re erecting a tent to protect the area.

Dogs are barking. Curtains move. I can feel myself being watched. I jump down and retrace my steps until I reach the front of the building. Two uniformed police officers are standing outside on the footpath, while another – PC Benjamin – guards the front door. Ducking under the crime scene tape, I reach her before the other officers can react. She signals them that it’s OK.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ I say.

‘It’s my job, sir,’ she says resolutely, standing a little straighter. Her eyes are puffy and red.

‘I was sorry to hear about Milo,’ I say. ‘How is he?’

Fear momentarily clouds her face and she cannot hide the tremor in her voice. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Have you been to see him?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

She lowers her voice. ‘I broke up with Milo.’

‘When?’

She hesitates. ‘We had an argument last night. I stormed out of a restaurant.’ Her voice grows more desperate. ‘I took a cab home. I wouldn’t let him drive me. Perhaps if I’d … if I hadn’t…’

‘You are not to blame for what happened.’

‘Don’t you see – Elliot Crowe must have been watching us. He must have followed Milo to the car park.’

‘Did you see Elliot?’

‘No, but they found Milo’s wallet dumped in a rubbish bin in the back lane.’ She motions over her shoulder.

‘Why would Elliot Crowe attack Milo?’

‘Because of what Milo said on the radio,’ says Bennie. ‘He got too close to the truth. Milo said it was Elliot who killed his mother and sister, and he was right. They found the murder weapon buried in the garden.’

‘How did they find it?’ I ask.

‘Metal detector.’

‘How did they know where to look?’

Bennie ignores the question. She glances at her colleagues. ‘You have to leave, sir.’

‘Listen, Bennie, I’ve kept your secret. I haven’t told anyone about you and Milo, but you were probably the last person to see him before the attack. They’re going to find out. You should make a statement.’

Bennie doesn’t answer.

‘I want to look inside,’ I say.

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Five minutes.’

‘No.’

I take out my mobile. ‘I make one call and everybody knows the truth about you and Milo.’

If looks could kill …

PC Benjamin opens the door and steps to one side. ‘You have two minutes.’

The smell inside the bedsit is indescribable. It’s a junkie’s nest, ravaged by neglect. Discarded bottles of vodka, whisky, gin and schnapps are lying amid overflowing ashtrays, burger wrappers and dirty clothes. Stepping over discarded shoes, unopened letters, dry bread rolls and bags of rubbish, I reach the kitchen. Something that might be vomit has dried in a yellow-red patch on the floor and food is congealed on every plate, saucepan and available surface. As hard as I try, I cannot equate such squalor and self-loathing with the sense of calm and afterthought that characterised the farmhouse murders.

I’m often accused of giving people too much credit and ignoring the worst in their natures because I’m sympathetic towards the underprivileged and exploited. But I don’t accept the label that I’m soft on criminals or a bleeding heart. I simply understand the contradictions and paradoxes, the layers of personality within each of us.

Why do good people do bad things? There are lots of reasons – denial, peer pressure, tunnel vision, low self-esteem, ignorance, arrogance, disorder, competition, time pressure, cognitive dissonance, addiction, settling old scores or recovering losses. I could keep going, but the point is that nothing is black and white except for mathematics and pandas.

Elliot Crowe’s life tumbled out of control owing to some combination of the above. His biological parents are either dead or they abandoned him. His adoptive mother was unfaithful and brutally efficient at getting everything she could from her divorce. Like all addicts, Elliot is skilled in deception. He deceived himself that first moment he slid a needle into his vein or inhaled from a crack pipe. He told himself it wouldn’t become an issue. And later he justified every action because he was hooked, taken, spoken for; or the dragon was in charge.

The result is an angry, bitter and addicted man; greedy, selfish, self-loathing and calculating, but I’m not convinced that he’s a killer. To begin with, he’s not stupid enough to have kept the murder weapon and he’s not clever enough to have staged the crime scene – not without help. The killer wasn’t a trophy-taker and the knife isn’t some treasured artefact.

Right now he’s running or holed up somewhere with his girlfriend, most likely in a squat or derelict building. He won’t stay hidden for long. Scum always floats to the top.

‘Where have you been?’

‘I had errands to run.’

‘Did you remember the bread?’

‘No.’

‘That’s all I asked you to do.’

‘I’ll go now.’

‘Supper is ready. I picked up fish and chips from our favourite place.’

‘Put mine in the oven.’

‘You’re hopeless. You’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ She taps my head with her knuckles. ‘Knock, knock, is there anyone home in there?’

‘Don’t do that.’

‘What?’

‘That.’

‘I’m only teasing.’

‘Don’t treat me as if I’m an idiot.’

‘Well, stop acting like one. Eat your supper.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Fine, then.’

She pulls the plate away and carries it into the kitchen where she opens the pedal bin and dumps my supper inside. Then she comes back and sits down, grinning at me smugly. It’s that same self-satisfied, condescending smile that she always uses when I’ve disappointed her. I’ve never been good enough. I don’t spend enough time with her. I’m not sensitive to her needs. I’m not smart enough. I don’t earn enough money. I’m not ambitious. I fail on every count, yet I love her and I defend her.

When I complain about her taunts and bullying she says that I’m exaggerating, or imagining things or whining. If I spend too long at work I’m a workaholic. If I take a day off I’m lazy. She preys on my fears and weaknesses, my compassion and my imperfections. She pushes me away and then tries to be affectionate. If I rebuff her or I don’t respond immediately, she says I’m being cruel and uses that as an excuse to push me away again, showing me that I’m undesired, unwanted, unloved, unlovable.

‘Where are you going?’ she asks.

‘Out.’

‘Why?’

‘The nursing home called,’ I lie.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know – that’s why I’m going there.’

She says something else but I don’t hear the words. Instead I imagine them. She makes me so angry that I want to lash out and hurt someone; I want to punish them, I want to purge myself of the poison that build up inside me.

It’s still light outside when I reach the nursing home. It is the smell I can never get used to – a combination of a male urinal and an RSPCA shelter. I once worked at an animal shelter. I was sixteen. Mostly I had to hose out the cages from the night before, but once I saw them putting down the dogs that couldn’t be rehomed. They fired a bolt gun into their brains and burned the bodies, but no amount of carbolic acid and air freshener could take away the smell of piss and shit and fear.

My father is in the lounge watching a TV infomercial for a food processor. He cocks his head to one side, birdlike, and sneaks glances at his reflection in the concave security mirror bolted high on one wall.

‘That’s only you,’ I say, waving at our reflections. He looks baffled at a level beyond anything rational. I sit next to him on the sofa and pick up the TV remote.

‘Don’t change it,’ he says.

‘Why not?’

He points to the screen. ‘It can chop as well.’

A nurse arrives. My father smiles but it’s not a real smile. It’s as if someone has asked a child to say ‘cheese’ for a photograph.

‘Are you all right, Arthur?’ she asks.

He doesn’t reply.

‘It must be nice to have your son come to visit. You should be sitting outside. It’s a lovely evening.’

‘Not today,’ he says, turning back to the TV.

The nurse gives me a sympathetic shrug and asks if I’d fancy a cup of tea. I tell her no. She bends to straighten a pile of magazines on the low table.

‘Are you engaged?’ I ask.

‘Pardon?’

‘I noticed your engagement ring. It’s lovely.’

‘Thank you.’ She examines her hand proudly.

‘When is the big day?’ I ask.

‘Not until October.’

‘Well, I hope you live happily ever after.’

‘That’s a very sweet thing to say.’

After she’s gone I spend another half-hour trying to have a conversation with my father, who is unavailable, out to lunch, missing in action, AWOL. Then I walk through the dining room and on to a patio where rose bushes have created a thorny perimeter stopping patients from wandering off. One of the orderlies, a skinny Jamaican, is sneaking a cigarette. He flicks it away and grabs the handles of empty wheelchair. Then he recognises me.

‘Shit, mon, you scared me!’ He retrieves the cigarette. ‘Thought you were the boss lady.’