Close My Eyes (22 page)

‘We’d better make it count, then.’

I turn off the hall light and follow him up the stairs.

Up on the first-floor landing, Lorcan checks off the rooms, counting past windows until we reach the room we saw Rodriguez in just minutes earlier.

It’s an office. Small, with similar décor to the hall downstairs, and heavy brocade curtains at the window. A large oak desk stands against one wall alongside a matching bookcase.
Piles of papers are ranged neatly on the top of an elegant antique cabinet that runs under the window.

As I gaze around, Lorcan strides over to the desk, sits down and switches on the computer. It hums into life and Lorcan starts tapping away at the keyboard.

‘What are you doing?’ I say.

‘Checking to see if Rodriguez has got any files under your name,’ Lorcan says without turning round. ‘Why don’t you look inside that cabinet? But hurry, he could come
back any moment.’ I pull the curtains shut in case anyone notices the flickering computer light, then squat on the floor and flick through the papers on top of the cabinet. I make my phone a
torch so I can see what I’m looking at. Nothing but recent bills and invoices. I tug at the cabinet handles. The door is locked, but I can tell the lock isn’t solid. It would be easy
enough to snap the catch. Again I hesitate for a second. Lorcan is still bent over the computer.

I grit my teeth, then I grab the handles with both hands and wrench the doors open. The wood splinters easily.

‘Easy,’ Lorcan murmurs from the desk. ‘We still need to keep the noise down.’

‘I know.’ Trying not to think about the vandalism I’ve inflicted, I gaze inside. Stacks of box files meet my eyes. My heart sinks. It would take all night to go through this
lot properly.

I pull out the first file and flick through the contents. Mostly household bills, as far as I can see. I move on to the next box file. Conveyancing information on the purchase of the house. The
property cost £1.3 million. Rodriguez exchanged contracts about ten months after Beth.

I shove the papers back in the box. That proves nothing.

The next box file is full of family photos. Mostly showing Rodriguez as a young man surrounded by parents, aunts, uncles and cousins.

I move on to the next. It contains a selection of newspaper clippings and articles torn from magazines.

I look up at Lorcan. He is concentrating hard on the PC in front of him. He pushes back a curl.

‘How’re you doing?’

He grunts. ‘Can’t get past the password. I’m going to check the drawers of this desk. Maybe Rodriguez wrote it down somewhere. Lots of people do.’

I nod and turn back to my file. Most of these cuttings concern medical breakthroughs to do with IVF treatments. They are almost all dated from the early nineties, before the internet made paper
files less essential. I reach the bottom of the file and am about to shove it to one side when an entirely different cutting catches my eye.

It’s much more recent than the rest – dated nearly eight years ago – and is a small report from what looks like a local Oxford newspaper about a hit-and-run accident on the
outskirts of the city. A man was killed. I peer at his photo and at the name in the caption.

Gary Bloode, anaesthetist at Fair Angel maternity hospital.

It’s like a slap round the face.

I remember him now quite clearly – the way he chatted to me before he put me under, explaining how the injection would feel cold, asking me to count backwards from ten. He made a joke of
his name: ‘Bloode . . . yeah, patients tend to pass out at the sight of me.’ I didn’t see him afterwards. Didn’t think about him.

And now it seems he was killed in a mysterious hit-and-run accident, just a few weeks after taking part in Beth’s delivery. Exactly the same manner of death as Lucy O’Donnell. Surely
that can’t be a coincidence?

A soft, rattling sound from across the room makes me look up. Lorcan has prised open the top drawer of the desk and is shaking a small metal box he’s found inside. I watch as Lorcan opens
the box and picks out a memory stick.

‘This has a date written on the side.’

‘Tell me.’ I scramble to my feet, shoving the newspaper cutting into my bag.

‘June the eleventh.’

The room spins around me.

‘That was Beth’s birth date,’ I say.

Lorcan’s eyes meet mine. Without speaking, he pulls the top off the stick and turns back to the computer to insert it in the USB port.

My guts twist into a sickening knot.

And then, from downstairs, comes the sound of the front door opening. Lorcan turns to me in horror. I hold my breath, as the distinct sound of footsteps cross the hall and climb the stairs
towards us.

I stand frozen to the spot as the footsteps reach the landing. For a second I brace myself, ready for Rodriguez to burst in and confront us. And then I realize that the
footsteps are fading slightly. He must be heading
away
from this room, walking along the corridor in the opposite direction. My heart leaps. I’d assumed he’d noticed the broken
window downstairs but maybe he hasn’t seen it.

Does that give us a chance to get away?

I catch Lorcan’s eye. He looks as desperate as I feel. He takes the memory stick out of the computer. With a single, soft stride he’s at the door, peering outside.

I close my eyes, my heart drumming against my throat. I can’t believe I’m in this situation. I’m nearly forty – a married and respectable sometime author and tutor
– and I’m about to be caught red-handed having broken into someone’s house with a man who is not my husband.

For some reason Morgan’s face appears in my mind’s eye, complete with the shocked expression she would almost certainly be wearing if she could see me now. A throb of nervous
laughter threatens to burst out of me.

‘Gen!’ Lorcan’s fierce whisper jolts me back into the moment. ‘Come here!’

I race to the door and stand beside him. The corridor leading off the landing is empty. I peer into the shadows, my heart pounding.

‘Where is he?’ I hiss, all the humour of the situation evaporating.

‘Must have gone into one of the other rooms,’ Lorcan whispers. ‘Let’s go.’ He grabs my hand and leads me out.

We creep silently along the corridor. I can hear Rodriguez now. He sounds like he’s moving furniture . . . pulling open doors. A series of dull thuds echo towards us, as if he’s
dropping piles of books on the floor.

Lorcan drops my hand as we reach the top of the stairs. I scurry down, trying to tread as lightly as possible. Lorcan speeds down behind me. Across the hall, I reach the front door first.
There’s something wrong with the way it’s hanging on its hinges but there’s no time to examine it properly. Holding my breath I push it open. The door creaks noisily. I freeze, a
trickle of sweat running down my neck, even as the cold air outside sweeps over my face.

Upstairs, the thudding noises stop. Footsteps sound along the corridor.

‘Run!’ Lorcan hisses in my ear.

I tear through the door and across the drive. Lorcan pounds after me. The gravel churns under our feet, the noise huge and harsh in the still night air. I reach the gate, panting, and glance
back to see if Rodriguez has seen us . . . if he’s following. As I scan the first-floor windows, my eyes are drawn to the office we just ran away from. The curtains are open and the light is
on. A male figure stands at the window, staring out at us.

‘
What
?’ Lorcan says, his mouth dropping open in shock.

Because the light in the room is glinting off the man’s blond hair and, even though his pale face is in shadow, he is most definitely not Dr Rodriguez.

‘Who the hell was that?’ Lorcan grips the steering wheel, manoeuvring onto the main road.

Ten minutes have passed but, inside the warmth of his car, with Oxford vanishing in a blur of buildings and street lamps, it feels more like ten hours.

I sit back in the passenger seat and close my eyes. I can hardly believe what we just did . . . the risk of it . . . the illegality.

‘I don’t know but he must have broken into the house after us,’ I say. ‘We didn’t leave the front door like that.’ For a second I feel like bursting into
tears. And then another thought strikes me. ‘Oh God, do you think we left fingerprints?’ My eyes are wide open with horror.

‘Hundreds,’ Lorcan says grimly. He glances over at me and I suddenly remember the memory stick, marked with Beth’s birth date, that he found in Rodriguez’s desk.

‘Do you still have—?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Lorcan pats his pocket, then draws out the stick. ‘My laptop’s on the back seat. Do you want to take a look at what’s on this?’

I reach round and drag the rucksack on the back seat towards me. A white MacBook is inside – an oldish model with dirt in a crack that runs along the casing. I open the computer and insert
the memory stick.

A line of code flashes up, then the message that the contents are encrypted.

‘I can’t read it,’ I say. ‘I mean, it
won’t
read.’

Lorcan glances across at the computer which is propped open on my lap.

‘Shit,’ he says.

I look out of the window. We’re passing fields and trees. I’m reminded, as I often am outside London, how quickly cities turn to countryside. There’s a misty glow over the
treetops. In fact . . . I strain my eyes, certain I can see snow in the distance.

‘What do we do now?’ My voice reflects how I feel after all the energy and excitement of the past few hours: flat and lifeless.

‘You need to see whatever’s on that stick,’ Lorcan says, changing gear. ‘I’ll get Cal to take a look. That’s my son – he’s an IT geek, remember, I
told you? He’s genius with stuff like that.’

‘Really?’ Hope fills me again.

‘Sure.’ Lorcan shrugs, his voice gruff. ‘Might as well get some use out of that expensive education Elaine insisted on.’ He hesitates. ‘Cal’s really smart
when it comes to computers, maths . . .’

He tails off, sounding awkward. I sense he’s just embarrassed, self-conscious about showing pride in his boy.

‘Was that something you and Elaine disagreed on, the private education?’

‘Not really, it’s just she can be a bit . . .’ Lorcan pauses, clearly trying to choose his words carefully, ‘. . . a bit insistent and . . . well, I don’t like
being told what to do.’

I raise my eyebrows, noticing for the first time how his face in profile is perfectly proportioned. ‘Nobody likes being told what to do.’

‘I guess that’s true,’ Lorcan replies with a smile.

He falls silent and I stare out of the window again. Snow is drifting down now . . . just the lightest of flakes, swirling in the headlights of the car.

‘Are you sure about all this? About helping me?’ I say, realizing as I speak how much I’m hoping Lorcan will reassure me. How important it feels to have his support.

For a second he says nothing, just checks the wing mirror, then he clears his throat.

‘I told you before,’ he says. ‘I get it.’ He glances over. ‘I get you.’

The atmosphere in the car tenses. The freezing world zooms past, outside.

A shudder runs through my body. Nothing feels steady or safe any more. Even sitting inside this warm car while the snow blows outside doesn’t feel properly real. I’m alone with my
thoughts and fears and yet I have to talk . . . I have to tell someone.

‘I dream about her,’ I say, my voice so low it’s almost a whisper. ‘I’ve been dreaming about Beth since she was born. I . . . I never told anyone but . . . now
I’m wondering . . .’ I hesitate. It’s so hard to let myself speak this terrifying, crazy thought out loud. ‘Lorcan, do you think I could be dreaming of a real
person?’

A long pause. ‘Anything’s possible.’ Lorcan’s voice is as soft as mine.

The lights gradually brighten around us and I realize we are already on the Westway, about to drive onto Euston Road. I press my hand against the window. Light flakes swirl outside the
window.

‘When do you next see Cal?’

‘Tomorrow. I’ll call him when I get home . . . see if he can come over earlier than we planned, for breakfast,’ Lorcan says. ‘I can’t promise he’ll be round
first thing, but he’ll definitely come if I offer to cook him all his favourites.’

‘Which are?’ I smile, pleased Lorcan is talking about his son.

‘Bacon, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, scrambled eggs.’ Lorcan slows at a T-junction and takes the left turn.

‘That your party piece?’ I ask. ‘Or can you cook anything?’

‘You should try my Thai green curry.’ He grins. ‘I like cooking. Anyway, I’m better at it than his mum, so he won’t turn down the offer of a meal. Elaine’s
into all that macrobiotic shite.’

‘How long were you two together?’ I ask, trying to sound casual.

‘We were barely together at all.’ Lorcan glances in the rear-view mirror. ‘She runs a health centre now, but when I met her she wanted to be an actress. We were at drama school
together. I . . . well, we tried to make it work for a while after Cal, but it was never going to happen long term. She’s crazy, though I’m sure she’d say the same about
me.’

‘Not true love, then?’ I ask lightly.

‘With Elaine? I thought it was at the time, but . . .’ He tails off. ‘There were people afterwards, off and on, there’s someone in Ireland, actually, but . . .’ He
shrugs. ‘I don’t know . . . that’s not serious . . .’

‘No?’ It doesn’t surprise me to hear Lorcan is seeing someone. Serious or not, the news leaves me feeling a bit disappointed. ‘You don’t like letting people in
much, do you?’

He glances sideways at me. ‘Neither do you,’ he says with a smile.

We turn off the Euston Road and drive in silence up through Camden and Kentish Town. Lorcan drops me at the corner of my street. Outside, the snow is falling more heavily than it was in Oxford,
though it doesn’t appear to be settling.

‘I’ll call you in the morning, yeah?’ he says. ‘See if there are any more houses you’d like me to break into with you.’

‘Sure.’ I get out of the car.

‘Bye.’ He leans across the seat to peer up at me. I hold his gaze for a moment then stride off down the street. As I walk up my front path, I try to shake off the sense that
I’m more connected to Lorcan, back in his car, than I am to my own home and my husband inside it.