Close Your Eyes (33 page)

‘When?’

‘August. She was early forties. Married. The surgeon couldn’t give me her name because of the whole doctor-patient privilege thing, but he suggested I visit the Rape Crisis Centre in Bristol. I figure they’re more likely to talk to you.’

‘What’s the address?’

‘I’ll text it to you now.’

The Avon and Somerset Rape Crisis Centre has no sign above the door or any other hint of its function apart from metal bars on the lower windows and a CCTV camera at each corner, tilted to cover the entrance.

I press an intercom and hear three tones echoing through distant rooms.

‘Can I help you?’ asks a woman’s voice.

‘I’m looking for Patricia Collier.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Joe O’Loughlin. I’m a clinical psychologist.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No.’

I slip my business card through the mailbox and wait, glancing at the camera, sure that I’m being watched. After five minutes, I press the intercom again.

‘Are your pants on fire?’ asks the woman.

‘I thought you’d forgotten me.’

‘Oh, yeah, I’m that stupid.’

I wait for another few minutes until twin deadlocks turn and the door swings open, giving a little
eek!
on stiff hinges. The large woman is attractive in the fullness of her figure and roundness of her face. ‘You can call me Ros,’ she says, ‘we use first names here. The boss is in her office.’

Following her up a set of narrow stairs, we pass through a large lounge area with an indoor climbing frame and boxes of toys. Several women are kneeling on the floor playing with toddlers. Along one wall there are shelves with clothing bins organised into ages and sizes.

I’m shown into a small room crammed with a desk, filing cabinets and boxes. There are posters on the wall showing battered women and crying children. One of them reads:
Don’t be silenced – say no to domestic violence
.

Patricia Collier is standing by the window. The white streak in her dark hair looks almost luminous. She’s wearing jeans, a sweatshirt and heavy boots. ‘Thank you, Ros,’ she lisps, not acknowledging me. Then she sits and swivels her chair. My business card is on the desk in front of her.

‘How can I help you, Professor?’

I glance at the empty chair, but she’s not going to offer me a seat. Clearly, I’m expected to say my piece and get out.

‘At the request of Avon and Somerset Constabulary I have been reviewing the investigation into the murders of Elizabeth and Harper Crowe. On the same day a woman was choked unconscious on a footpath in Clevedon and had the letter “A” carved into her forehead. There have been other similar attacks.’

Barely a flicker registers on Ms Collier’s face.

‘Do you know of any similar incidents?’ I ask.

‘We don’t discuss the details of women who come to us for help.’

‘I understand that, but this is important.’

‘Every attack is important. A third of women in Britain are victims of domestic violence.’

‘These people weren’t attacked by a spouse.’

‘Partner, boyfriend, father, son, brother – makes no difference. A fist is a fist.’

Ms Collier begins rattling off domestic violence figures as though hitting me with a combination of punches. I wait until she runs out of statistics and then try again.

‘There have been other attacks. On Tuesday night a young woman was murdered. She had the same symbol cut into her forehead.’

This information causes a tremor in her eyes, but only for a moment.

‘Well, Professor, you’d best run along and catch him before he does it again.’

Her animosity has sucked the warmth from the air.

‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time,’ I say, turning to leave.

Ms Collier seems surprised that I’ve given up so easily. ‘Are you married?’ she asks.

‘Separated.’

‘Have you ever raised a hand to a woman?’

‘No. Have you ever hit a man?’

‘Plenty.’

‘I hope they deserved it.’

‘Every one of them,’ she says defiantly. ‘You probably think that makes me a hypocrite. I don’t care. I stopped giving men the benefit of the doubt a long time ago. Too many women are dead because male judges refused to give them protection, or some bullshit evidence from a psychologist set their violent boyfriend or husband free.’

I’m almost at the door, but cannot let the accusation go unanswered.

‘You’re right, Ms Collier. What would I know? I’ve only spent twenty years treating battered women, rape victims, paedophiles, baby-shakers and children so traumatised by abuse they wet themselves at the sound of a male voice. You might keep some women safe, but I pick up the pieces. I make them whole again. But thanks for the gender appraisal and the advice.’

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.’

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.’