Close Your Eyes (13 page)

‘We go over the statements, review the investigation, see if there’s anything the police might have missed.’

‘The two of us?’

‘We’re reviewing it – not solving it.’

Ruiz drains his glass and contemplates getting another. ‘In my opinion, which I know you’ll ignore,’ he says, ‘you may have allowed your personal feelings to cloud your judgement on this one.’

‘How so?’

‘You’re pissed off that your former student is treading on your territory.’

‘It’s not my territory. He’s compromised an investigation.’

‘And trashed your name?’

‘I don’t care about Milo Coleman. I want to make sure the killer gets caught.’

‘If you say so.’

Early afternoon and the high-altitude clouds in the western sky have formed a pale wash that grows lighter as the sun reaches its zenith. I’m driving west along the M4 through rolling hills that are swathed in vibrant yellow. When did the wheat, barley and corn of my youth become usurped by rapeseed?

Snatches of my conversation with Julianne keep replaying in my mind. Mostly I remember the look of uncertainty in her eyes. I have known this woman for more than half my life. I have seen her frightened for a missing child or an unborn baby or a husband bleeding to death in her arms – but never for herself. This time her body testified to it and her doubts were written on her face: the reality of her mortality and fear of what lies ahead.

Passing Bristol, I glimpse the Severn Bridge with its twin pyramids of wire, spanning the estuary. Ruiz is going to join me on Monday. The following day will be the funerals of Elizabeth and Harper. Ronnie Cray has suggested I be there. Family dynamics are on display at weddings and funerals – the subtle alliances and factions and old hatreds, patched up for the day, but never far below the surface. My mother barely acknowledges her sister-in-law, who she accuses of stealing a shortbread recipe thirty-five years ago, and my father hasn’t talked to his younger brother since 1986 because of an unpaid bet on a Cup Final.

My mobile chirrups. Emma thinks it’s funny to keep changing my ringtone. Charlie’s voice echoes through the car speakers. ‘I want the truth about Mummy.’

‘I thought she talked to you.’

‘She gave me some rainbow-and-dolphins speech about everything being fine and it’s no big deal.’

‘She
is
going to be fine.’

‘Don’t treat me like I’m a child,’ she says angrily, and I can picture the twin frown marks etched deeply above the bridge of her nose. ‘You’re a doctor, you know about this stuff.’

‘I’m a psychologist.’

‘But you studied medicine.’

‘I didn’t finish.’

‘Stop making excuses! Ovarian cancer – that’s serious, isn’t it? I mean, it can spread. It can be … you know … it can be…’

‘She might need an operation.’

‘A hysterectomy?’

‘We won’t know until she sees the oncologist on Wednesday. They might have to take out her ovaries or uterus. Then she’ll probably need a few rounds of chemotherapy.’

‘Oh, crap!’

‘What?’

‘Freya’s dad had chemo. He had a brain tumour.’

‘A lot of people have chemo.’

‘He died.’

‘That’s not going to happen to Mum.’

‘How do you know? You’re not a doctor!’ Her voice is breaking. ‘That’s why she asked you to come back, isn’t it? She’s afraid she’s going to die.’

‘No.’

‘Why then?’

‘She knew she might need an operation.’

‘Well, it’s not fair,’ says Charlie. ‘It’s not fair on you and it’s not fair on us.’

‘It’s not fair on
her
,’ I say.

Charlie sniffles.

‘We have to be strong,’ I tell her.

‘I’m scared.’

‘She’s scared too.’ There is a long silence. I can hear her chewing on her bottom lip. ‘Are we good?’

She sighs, and blows her nose. ‘Yep, we’re good.’

The minicab office takes up the front room of a pebble-dashed terrace in Old Street, Clevedon. A banner sign hangs from the first-floor windows, drooping at one corner. The waiting room has two plastic chairs and a low table where a dozen glossy magazines are curling with age. The dispatcher is sitting at a desk that is pushed up against a doorway to form a makeshift counter. She has ketchup-coloured hair and a mole on her top lip that seems to lift off like a fly and settle again every time she talks.

‘You want a car, love?’

‘I’m looking for one of your drivers – Dominic Crowe.’

‘He’s on the road.’

‘When is he due back?’

‘Unless you book him, I can’t be certain.’

The sign above her head says:
Anywhere in Clevedon for £3.50.

‘I’ll book him.’

‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I’ll tell him when he gets here.’

She flicks on the radio.
‘Hey, Nic, got a fare waiting at the office.’
She meets my gaze and keeps talking.
‘He asked for you by name? … Didn’t say … Skinny, my age, curly hair … doesn’t look like one … You want me to ask? … OK, I’ll tell him…’

She turns to me. ‘He’ll be ten minutes. Are you a reporter?’

‘No.’

‘We’ve had lots of reporters in here. Some of them lie.’

‘I’m not a reporter.’

I can see her finger hovering over the button of the two-way, itching to spread the latest bit of news. Smiling politely, I pick up a magazine and read about how Kate Middleton is losing her baby weight and getting back into shape. Who’d be a princess?

A few minutes later a car pulls up outside.

‘That’s your ride,’ says the woman.

Dominic Crowe gets out and opens the rear door. Tall and loose-limbed with a shock of dark hair, he has Harper’s high forehead and sharp cheekbones beneath a five o’clock shadow.

‘I’ll sit up front,’ I tell him.

He shuts one door and opens another. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘Show me the sights.’

‘That’s not how it works. I drop you somewhere and you pay me.’

‘How far will twenty quid get me?’

‘I’m not giving you a blow job, if that’s what you mean. So what’s this about?’

I tell him the truth. He doesn’t get annoyed or try to avoid the subject. If anything he seems grimly accepting. ‘I’ve been interviewed three times already. Surely you can find some better use for your time.’

‘I’m a psychologist – I ask different questions.’

He smiles wryly. ‘Yeah, well, I probably need my head read; I was married to that woman for twenty-four years.’

He gets behind the wheel and we drive down Chapel Hill and along Lindon Road until we reach Clevedon Pier. He pulls into an angled parking space overlooking the rocky beach where swaths of mud and shingle have been exposed by the outgoing tide. I can see people walking along the pier, stopping to read the name plaques on the benches.

‘It falls forty-seven feet,’ he says.

‘What does?’

‘The tide – they say it’s the second highest in the world.’ He lowers the window and rests his elbow outside, before motioning to the pier. ‘About forty years ago the outward spans collapsed when the legs failed. It took years of haggling, but eventually it was rebuilt.’

‘You’d make a good tour guide,’ I say.

‘It’s where I grew up.’

We sit in silence for a while, pretending to listen to noise that isn’t there. His long, tapered fingers are sliding over the steering wheel.

‘Did they tell you I had a nervous breakdown?’ he asks.

‘No.’

‘I beat up my former business partner and set fire to his car.’

‘For sleeping with your wife.’

He makes an imaginary gun and shoots himself in the temple. ‘Not very clever, huh?’

‘It shows you have a temper.’

‘I wanted to wipe the smug look off his face.’

‘And what did you want to do to Elizabeth?’

He grows more circumspect. ‘I know people think I killed her. I mean, I hated her guts and maybe I said a few things I regret, but…’

‘But what?’

‘I didn’t want her dead.’ He looks at me sorrowfully. ‘You have to understand what she did to me. I worked seven days a week, keeping our heads above water, but that bitch was never going to drown. Instead she sailed off into the sunset with my fucking money. I lost everything.’

‘Your wife took out a restraining order against you.’

‘I lost my temper. I shouted. I didn’t hit her.’

‘That’s not what her mother and sister told police.’

He makes a
pffffft
sound. ‘Have you met them? They’re like a coven – the witches of Clevedon. I blame her mother. She thinks all men are destined to disappoint her sooner rather than later. Elizabeth’s father walked out on the family just after Becca was born. Ever since, the mother has been predisposed to hate men. You know she once told Elizabeth that whatever happened she should marry a man who worshipped her, so that she’d never be dumped or abandoned. Don’t you think that’s horrible advice to give a daughter? Forget about love. Go for security.’

His eyes drift across the beach where seagulls are hovering against the breeze like tethered kites. The shadow sweeps across the water, changing the colours, and I can imagine some ancient sea monster swimming just below the surface.

‘You left an abusive message on Elizabeth’s voicemail the day she died.’

‘I regret that, but I was provoked. Elizabeth told Harper that I’d cancelled our lunch on her birthday.’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘She was always trying to turn Harper against me. I think she worried that our daughter might love me more.’

‘Was Elizabeth really that insecure?’

‘No, but she held grudges.’

‘How did you and Harper get on?’

‘Great, you know, we’ve always been tight, but after the divorce it got harder.’

‘Did you resent that?’

‘Sure. Look I know I put the police offside by acting tough and being uncooperative, but I would never have hurt my daughter.’

He unbuttons the cuff of his shirt and pulls it upwards. Harper’s name is tattooed on his left forearm in a swirling script. His Adam’s apple rises and falls as he swallows. He pulls the sleeve down again.

‘Did your wife have more than one affair?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

‘She must have loved you once.’

‘I hope so.’

The words seem to turn to dust in his mouth. I ask whether Harper had a favourite toy when she was little.

‘A brown teddy bear with chewed ears,’ he replies. ‘She once left it on a train to London. It took me three days to get it back. Cost a fortune in couriers.’

‘Who else knew about the bear?’

He rocks his head from side to side. ‘I have no idea. Her friends. Family.’

‘Where were you the night they died?’

‘Working. Driving.’

‘You finished at midnight.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why did you turn your mobile off?’

‘I was tired. I didn’t want the dispatcher calling with any more jobs. Any fare at that hour is usually drunk or bleeding.’

‘Which means you don’t have an alibi.’

‘I don’t need one. I’m innocent.’

Running his hands over the steering wheel, he watches a child being carried on her father’s shoulders along the seafront. Something inside him seems to shred.

‘Who do you think killed your ex-wife and daughter?’ I ask.

His voice grows thick. ‘Elizabeth invited the wrong man home.’

Jeremy Egan works out of an office on Portishead docks, overlooking the harbour where the flotilla of moored yachts and launches is so white it hurts my eyes. One corner of his office has a table displaying his latest project – a scale model of a grand old Victorian hotel that he’s redeveloping into luxury apartments. I recognise the building – the Regency. It’s where I stayed with Julianne and the girls when we spent a weekend in Clevedon.

Egan notices my interest. ‘Looking to buy?’ he asks. ‘We still have a two-bedroom available.’

‘How much?’

‘Three hundred and fifty thousand.’

‘A tad rich for me.’

He smiles knowingly and suggests I take a seat. Tall and good-looking with shoulder-length hair and a foppish fringe combed down over his forehead, Egan reminds me of an overgrown schoolboy home on holidays from Eton. The accent completes the picture. Not good or bad. I went to a boarding school and hated every moment. Other boys seemed to flourish in these all-male domains, the fittest surviving in a Darwinian sense, or perhaps I mean
Lord of the Flies
.

His desk is completely empty except for his mobile phone and a framed photograph of a pretty dark-haired woman and two dark-haired boys. Teenagers. Strapping lads in Bath Rugby kit.

‘Nice family,’ I say.

‘Thank you.’ He doesn’t look at the picture. ‘You said you were helping the police.’

‘Reviewing the case.’

‘Well, I’ve given a statement. There’s nothing I can add.’

‘When did you stop sleeping with Elizabeth Crowe?’

The bluntness of the question seems to offend his sensibilities. He recovers and straightens, patting his fringe.

‘My relationship with Elizabeth ended more than a year ago.’

‘Did your wife know about the affair?’

‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’

‘She forgave you. Some would say you got off easily.’

‘What is it you want to know, Professor? You seem intent on antagonising me.’

‘When did the affair start?’

‘Six or seven years ago, I can’t remember the exact date. We’d just completed a project and went out to celebrate. Dominic got drunk. I helped him get home, put him to bed, Elizabeth offered me a nightcap. One thing led to another…’

‘You screwed your best friend’s wife while he was sleeping in the next room?’

‘Snoring. Elizabeth seemed to get off on that.’ He smiles. ‘The look on your face is priceless.’

‘Most people would make an excuse.’

‘I don’t need an excuse,’ he says. ‘You’re not my wife or my priest or my bartender. I don’t have to justify or explain my actions. Shit happens. People fall in love and out of love. They fuck whom they want to fuck. Honour is for knights and virgins and Muslim fathers who murder their daughters.’

‘Charming.’

He touches his fringe again. It’s almost a nervous tic.