Authors: Michael Robotham
What shall I do?
– Follow her home.
No, it’s too soon.
– When?
Tomorrow.
I can hear Charlie crying. The noise seems to flow down the throat of the chimney and through the wall, every sob unzipping a part of me until I feel excoriated and exposed.
Julianne arrives home just after eleven. I hear her key in the lock and her weight on the stairs. I meet her on the landing.
‘Is everything all right?’ she asks.
‘Charlie is upset.’
‘What happened?’
‘I screwed up!’
Julianne hesitates. She motions me to her room and closes the door. I sit on the bed while she removes her make-up. I feel as though I’m striking a match at the opening of a cave, uncertain what lies inside.
‘Charlie has applied to study psychology,’ I say. ‘It’s because of what happened – the kidnapping. I tried to talk her out of it. I messed it up.’
Julianne doesn’t react. She splashes water on her cheeks and buries her face in a towel. The slightest nod of sympathy or understanding will bring me grovelling to my knees.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘This is my fault.’
‘You really have to stop blaming yourself for everything,’ she says, matter-of-factly.
‘What?’
‘Charlie made this decision – not you.’
‘When did you know?’
‘I didn’t – not for certain – but she’s been borrowing books from the library and sneaking them into the house.’
‘What sort of books?’
‘Criminology. Psychology.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
She shrugs. ‘I thought Charlie might satisfy her curiosity and move on.’
‘Are you disappointed?’
‘There are worse reasons to study a subject,’ she says, squeezing a splodge of toothpaste on to her electric brush. ‘I don’t care if she’s a firefighter or a schoolteacher or a penniless poet – as long as she’s happy.’
I contemplate this as she brushes her teeth, wondering why I’m so upset. Was I worried what Julianne would say, or is this
my
problem? Am I frightened for Charlie or for me?
Julianne rinses, spits and rinses again. ‘Have you noticed how Charlie dresses quite modestly, compared to her friends?’
‘She’s always been body-conscious.’
‘No, I think it’s more than that. She rarely goes to dances or parties. She likes old romantic movies and Hollywood musicals.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Charlie hasn’t had a boyfriend since she was fifteen – and even then it was that deadbeat Jacob, who abandoned her in London. He was the “test” – all girls bring at least one bad boyfriend home.’
‘Did you?’
‘Absolutely.’ She nudges the bathroom door, which half closes. ‘I think Charlie was more affected by what happened than either of us realise. She’s still looking for answers.’
I hear the toilet flush. Julianne comes into the bedroom.
‘Charlie wants to come with me tomorrow – as my driver,’ I say.
‘Will she be safe?’
‘Of course.’
‘Maybe she needs to spend more time with you.’
‘Should I try to talk her out of studying psychology?’
‘Don’t talk. Listen.’
Ronnie Cray calls me early next morning. I can hear phones ringing in the background and the clacking of keyboards.
‘Theo Meredith has been cleared,’ she says, eating breakfast as she talks. ‘He trains greyhounds and was picking up a new dog in Dorset on Tuesday afternoon. We’ve confirmed that he didn’t get home until seven, expecting Naomi to be there. He assumed she had gone out on an errand and didn’t start to worry until nine o’clock, when she wasn’t home or answering her mobile. He began calling her friends and family.’
Cray pauses, takes another mouthful … ‘And you might be right about the adultery angle. Naomi started an affair with her boss more than a year ago.’
‘The veterinarian?’
‘He’s married with three kids. His eldest girl is only two years younger than Naomi – randy bugger!’
‘Who told you?’
‘Naomi’s best friend.’
‘Where was this vet on Tuesday evening?’
‘Nestling in the loving bosom of his wife.’
‘Did he meet Naomi online?’
‘She answered a job advertisement in the local paper.’
‘What about having sex in public?’
‘The office sofa was more his speed.’
Cray crumples greased paper next to the phone and belches softly. She gives me a progress report on the other victims – different towns, different jobs, no links between them.
‘Turns out adultery isn’t a popular topic of conversation,’ she says. ‘We do have one new lead. Remember Dominic Crowe’s former business partner?’
‘Jeremy Egan.’
‘His wife changed her statement last night. She says Egan wasn’t at home on the night Elizabeth and Harper Crowe were killed.’
‘Why did she give him an alibi?’
‘He promised to stop sleeping around.’
‘And what does Egan have to say?’
‘Lawyered up the moment we came knocking and declined to give us a DNA sample.’
‘Did you ask him about Tuesday?’
‘Says he was working late.’
‘With his secretary?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Lucky guess.’
Cray has to go. We agree to talk later. I knock gently on Charlie’s door. She’s awake.
‘You’re not dressed,’ I say.
‘Why?’
‘I need a driver.’
Wearing her best jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a short leather jacket, Charlie sits forward in the seat with her back straight and both hands on the wheel. She drives with assured movements, one hand touching the other as she corners the Volvo. I wonder what happened to the gangly adolescent whose limbs were like rogue knights rebelling against the Crown.
I know she wants to ask me about the case, but she won’t because she’s worried that I might change my mind. Instead she talks generally about criminal behaviour. She asks me my opinions on Eysenck’s ‘Trait Theory’ – the view that criminality is the product of biological and psychological traits rather than rational choice. It is the age-old nature versus nurture debate that’s been played out for two centuries.
‘I’ve read about phrenology,’ she says, ‘but that seems a bit primitive – reading bumps on people’s heads doesn’t sound very scientific.’
‘Not when we can map the human genome.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Most trait theorists don’t suggest that a single biological or psychological feature can explain criminality,’ I say. ‘Each of us has a unique set of characteristics that explain behaviour. Some people might inherit criminal tendencies, some have neurological problems, some have blood chemistry disorders and some have shitty childhoods.’
‘But it’s not predetermined?’
‘A few people think so, but it’s not the mainstream belief.’
Just after nine o’clock we pull up outside a ramshackle group of buildings and pole sheds on the eastern approach to Bristol Airport. The sign on the gate says
Vale Boarding Kennels and Cattery
. As the engine dies, the dogs start barking – one setting off the other.
‘You should wait in the car,’ I say to Charlie.
‘How long will you be?’
‘That depends on whether they talk to me.’
Opening a painted iron gate, I walk through a neat garden to the door of the house. A young woman constable answers my knock. She’s been appointed as the family’s liaison officer, assigned to keep them briefed on the investigation and keep the media at bay.
‘The guv said you might come,’ she says, glancing past me. ‘We had reporters outside until midnight. I expect they’ll be back.’
A gruff male voice calls from inside. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s not a reporter,’ the constable replies, looking at me apologetically.
I step fully into the small cluttered sitting room. Introductions are made. Naomi’s father is a big square-headed man with hair shorn down to stubble and farmer’s hands, calloused and scarred by machines. His name is Tony and he scrutinises me with jittering, hopeful eyes, as though wishing I might bring him news that a mistake has been made and his daughter is still alive. His wife, Lorraine, is smaller, diminished, with brittle grey hair and a beak-like nose.
‘A psychologist – what good are you?’ she says, before raising her hand, embarrassed by the harshness of her own question.
‘I’ll make a pot of tea,’ suggests the constable, disappearing into the kitchen.
Lowering myself into an armchair, I sink into the worn cushion until my bum feels as if it’s touching the floor. There are family photographs on the mantelpiece and side table – and someone has pulled several albums from the bookshelf and opened them on the coffee table.
‘I’m hoping you might tell me about Naomi,’ I say. ‘It can help me understand what happened.’
‘Understand?’
‘By knowing Naomi, I move a step closer to knowing the man who did this to her,’ I explain.
Tony raises his eyebrows. ‘You think she knew him?’
‘I think he followed her. I think he knew where she lived.’
‘Our Naomi doesn’t mix with people like that,’ says Lorraine.
‘People like what?’
‘Perverts. Rapists.’
‘Naomi wasn’t raped,’ says Tony, as though wanting it made clear.
I begin gently, asking if they’ll show me the albums. Lorraine lets me sit beside her on the sofa. She turns the pages, pointing to pictures and telling me the stories behind them. Naomi is their youngest. Her two brothers are both married and have children. One lives in Scotland and the other in New York.
‘They’re due to arrive today,’ says Lorraine, pointing to a picture of her three children together.
I hear about Naomi’s childhood. How she lost her milk teeth early but had zero cavities. How she once met the Queen and won a short-story competition and was bridesmaid at two weddings on the same day. Naomi had asthma as a child but the attacks reduced in her teens. She went to a local Catholic primary school but followed her friends to the nearest comprehensive. After finishing her A-levels she spent a year as a housemother at a boarding school in Scotland. Later she did a secretarial course and got a job as a receptionist at an animal hospital in Weston-super-Mare.
Bright. Funny. Shy. Self-conscious. She thought she was overweight, but none of the diets ever seemed to work. She loved vintage clothes and spent a lot of time scouring second-hand shops and online sellers, looking for dresses and jackets.
Lorraine has some more photographs on her phone. They show Naomi dressed up in some of her buys, smiling at the camera. Until now, I haven’t appreciated how much joy existed in this young woman. She had a different personality from Elizabeth or Harper. Elizabeth was blessed with natural poise and charm – aware of how her physical looks and personality could captivate someone. Naomi was always surprised when boys showed an interest in her.
She met her husband, Theo, at a church social when they were both in their early twenties. He was her first proper boyfriend. They married in 2009 and rented a cottage in Cleeve.
I ask if Naomi was streetwise and perceptive? Would she make eye contact with a stranger, or look away? Would she struggle or fight back?
‘My girl would have fought,’ says Tony. ‘We didn’t teach her to be pushed around.’
‘Would she have talked to him?’
‘She was a friendly girl.’
‘Flirtatious?’
His voice hardens. ‘Friendly.’
My mind goes back to the churchyard. Why did he choose that place? Most predators trawl busy footpaths or well-used shortcuts. This man didn’t watch a dozen women walk past and wait for the one that matched his fantasy. He followed Naomi. Either that or he knew she was coming. If he caught the bus, someone must have noticed him. If he waited in the graveyard he risked being seen.
‘I have to ask you a difficult question, but it’s important otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Was Naomi seeing anyone else?’
Tony bristles. ‘She was a good girl.’
‘She loved Theo,’ says his wife. ‘They were trying for a baby.’
‘You see, I’m trying to understand why her attacker carved the letter “A” into her forehead.’
The couple don’t answer. They
can’t
answer. A daughter isn’t likely to tell her parents about an illicit love affair. She will let them think she’s the same sweet girl they raised to be polite, proper and to make them proud. Every parent makes excuses for their children. We mitigate. We forgive. We change the narrative. All because their blood is our blood. Hope springs eternal in the human breast. Tomorrow is another day. Next year will be better. We will save money, lose weight, quit smoking, exercise more, fall in love and be fulfilled.
These are my thoughts as I leave the house and walk through the garden. Charlie has been at the kennels, putting her fingers through the wire mesh, accepting licks from the dogs. I wave and she acknowledges me, walking across the damp grass. In the meantime, a vehicle pulls up and parks beside the Volvo. Father Abermain is dressed in his usual attire, neatly pressed black trousers and a white open-necked shirt with small gold crosses pinned upon each collar.
I say good morning and he smiles – an automatic response from someone who must meet so many people in his job.
‘Professor Joe O’Loughlin. We met briefly on Tuesday – at the Crowe funerals,’ I say.
‘Of course, of course,’ he says, shaking my hand. I can see him making a conscious effort to memorise my name for next time.
‘I didn’t realise that you knew Naomi’s family,’ I say.
‘Yes, for many years. Naomi used to help run my Sunday scripture classes.’
‘When was that?’
‘Before she married.’
Extremely precise in his movements and speech, Father Abermain is, I suspect, the sort of person who revels in being needed, but once the miracle has been worked he loses interest and moves on. Maybe that’s my natural scepticism at work, rather than any prejudice against organised religion.
‘When did you see Naomi last?’ I ask.
He contemplates the question, drumming his fingers on his chin. ‘Oh, let’s see, a month ago. My cat was sick. I took him to my vet. I had no idea Naomi was working there. I barely recognised her. So grown-up.’