Close Your Eyes (14 page)

‘How did you and Elizabeth keep the affair secret for so long?’

‘I’m an architect. I’m good with details,’ he replies. ‘I’d tell my wife I was golfing with some old university buddies. Elizabeth would tell Dominic that she had a medical conference. We’d meet up and spend the weekend in Scotland or Portugal or some local hotel.’

‘Dominic didn’t suspect?’

‘We paid cash for everything. Never sent text messages or emails. I gave Elizabeth a mobile phone – my own personal hotline.’

‘Was there ever any question of her leaving her husband or you leaving your wife?’

This time he laughs.

‘What’s so funny?’ I ask.

‘The thought of me setting up house with Elizabeth is hilarious. We were fuck buddies, Professor. I think that’s the term for it. No strings attached. If anything, it made our marriages stronger.’

‘I wonder if Mrs Egan would agree.’

‘Please leave my wife out of this.’

‘You seem to have done that already.’

The comment seems to light a flame behind his eyes. Perhaps he does
feel
something for someone other than himself. Then again, Egan doesn’t strike me as a man who spends a great deal of time regretting his mistakes or doubting himself. Instead he has all the swaggering self-possession of a high-functioning narcissist, incapable of introspection or second thoughts. Bertrand Russell once said that the problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, and wiser people so full of doubts.

‘Tell me about the business partnership with Dominic Crowe,’ I ask.

Egan recounts how the two of them met fifteen years ago – an architect and a builder – and decided to team up, borrow money, develop properties and ride the building boom.

‘How did it work out?’

‘We struggled early, but were doing pretty well until the GFC ripped the guts out of the economy. Demand fell. Credit dried up. We had half-finished projects and no buyers. Suppliers were demanding payment. We needed to put more money into the business but Dominic couldn’t raise his share. I offered to buy him out but he wasn’t interested. He hit up Elizabeth’s mother. She loaned him the money, but insisted that Dominic sign over his half of the business to Elizabeth.’

‘And you did a deal with her to get the whole company?’

‘I had first option to buy it.’

‘When did Dominic realise?’

‘When we were drawing up the papers, he saw the contract and knew that I had the power to push him out. He hired a private detective. He followed Elizabeth and photographed us together. Dominic filed for divorce. His share of the company was in Elizabeth’s name, but the loan meant her mother was the real owner. Dominic got nothing.’

‘Did you and Elizabeth plan this?’

‘No, not really, but it suited both of us.’

‘What happened after the divorce?’

‘Elizabeth wouldn’t sell to me.’

‘She double-crossed you.’

‘I think she liked the idea of having me on a leash.’

‘How did you feel about that?’

‘Fine and dandy,’ he says sarcastically. ‘I got rid of one deadweight partner and inherited another, who was even less use to me. Once we started making money again, Elizabeth wanted to take the profits out and I wanted to reinvest.’

‘You fought?’

‘We disagreed.’

‘Were you still sleeping with her?’

‘I wouldn’t have touched her with a fifty-foot pole.’

‘You phoned on the afternoon she died. What did you talk about?’

‘I can’t remember. It was probably something to do with the business.’

‘On a weekend?’

He shrugs his shoulders.

‘Did you arrange to meet her that evening?’

‘No.’

‘You had sex with her.’

‘No.’

‘Your semen stains were found in her car.’

‘Along with how many others?’

‘Where were you on that Saturday night?’

‘Home with my wife.’

His secretary knocks on the door. Pretty and leggy, she’s almost a younger, slimmer version of the woman in the photograph. She has brought him a coffee.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here,’ she says, adding, ‘I would have offered you something.’

‘That’s OK, Emily, Professor O’Loughlin won’t be staying.’

The secretary’s eyes widen just a fraction, but she looks at her boss warmly. She’s wearing a flared skirt that billows slightly as she turns. Egan notices. The door closes.

‘Do you know what dogging is, Mr Egan?’ I ask.

‘Sex with random strangers in public places.’

‘Is that something you enjoy?’

‘Sounds like a recipe for an STD.’

‘I’d appreciate an answer to my question.’

He sighs and glances out of the window where cranes are lifting another girder into place. ‘My private life is none of your concern.’

‘Did you introduce Elizabeth to dogging?’

‘She was a very adventurous and highly sexed woman. Once she identified what she wanted she always found a way of getting it.’

‘She didn’t get you.’

‘She didn’t
want
me … not to keep, just to borrow occasionally.’

‘For sex?’

He smiles. ‘Good a reason as any.’

‘How is the dogging scene around Clevedon?’

Egan stands and stretches. ‘I get the impression you enjoy asking these questions. Maybe that’s how you get your jollies.’ He grins. ‘Or do you prefer to watch? That little shake of yours makes you look like a dirty old man.’

I glance again at the photograph on his desk, feeling desperately sorry for his wife. Rarely do I lose my temper because it’s unprofessional, but this man’s self-absorption and arrogance have fed ‘the wrong wolf’. As a young boy I had a book of fables and myths. One of my favourites was an old Cherokee legend about a grandfather who tells his grandson about the two wolves that are fighting inside each of us. One wolf is full of anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, false pride and ego. The other is full of joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, truth and compassion. The grandson asks, ‘Which wolf will win?’ And his grandfather answers, ‘The one you feed.’

‘I’ve met a lot of people like you,’ I say, getting to my feet, meeting Egan eye to eye.

‘I doubt that,’ he replies.

‘No, I have. You believe you’re better than everyone else and feel you have some special right or privilege that allows you to forgo the rules or moral sensibilities that govern the rest of us.’

‘You don’t know me.’

‘You play golf. Right-handed. You wear a fingerless glove on your left hand. You pulled a muscle in your neck and can’t rotate it fully, which makes it hard on the follow-through and also means you wince slightly when you turn your head to the left.

‘Your wife bought you that sweater. Cashmere. It’s what she buys you every birthday, which is one of the reasons you think she’s boring. She’s also fat, gone to seed and turning into her mother, which is why you sleep in separate bedrooms. No, I’m wrong. You have a flat here in town. She stays at the big house with the boys.

‘I noticed your Range Rover parked downstairs. New. Personalised plates. Mud on the wheels. You don’t hunt or ride – I checked your profile on LinkedIn – but you’ve been out in the countryside. Have you introduced your secretary to the dogging scene? No, she’s too young. She worships you. You can’t risk scaring her away.’

Egan’s composure disintegrates and he looks ready to reach across the desk and put his hands around my throat. His mobile begins chirruping on his desk. Momentarily distracted, he glances at the screen, not recognising the number. By then I’m at the door, one hand in my pocket, pressing a button to end the call.

Tommy Garrett has been interviewed since early morning by two teams of detectives working in shifts, allowing him ten-minute breaks every hour, giving him soft drinks and sandwiches when he’s hungry. He’s still dressed in his work clothes – cowboy boots, jeans and a heavy-cotton shirt with only one sleeve rolled up, the other buttoned down.

Whenever they ask Tommy a question that he cannot answer he hunches a little more and stares at the back of his hands. Either that or he closes his eyes, as though trying to think through the confusion the questions are causing.

Watching on the CCTV feed, I notice that one detective moves around the room while the other stays seated. Tommy struggles to follow both and has to twist back and forth in his chair. There is a mirror in the room. Occasionally he looks at his reflection, raising his hand to make sure it’s him. It’s almost as if he’s watching a TV show or movie rather than experiencing a real-life interrogation.

I have seen a lot of lonely, socially inept young men in my consulting room. Almost always they were the slow kid, the dumb kid, the fat kid from school – the last one picked for teams, who changes behind a towel or chain-puffs on an asthma inhaler, or stutters his way through classes never raising his hand to answer a question; the one everyone seems to forget when they send out class birthday invitations. Most of them grow up to overcome their awkwardness and low self-esteem. They find a friend or a decent role model or a girl who recognises their potential. But a few suffer depression and ongoing social anxiety. They slide into alcohol and drug abuse or develop a pathological perfectionism because they hate their former selves.

Cray is standing beside me, watching the screen.

‘He should have a lawyer,’ I tell her.

‘We gave him the opportunity.’

‘He’s vulnerable. Impressionable. You mustn’t put words in his mouth.’

‘Don’t tell me how to do my job, Professor.’

There is a sharp edge to her voice. Our friendship has boundaries and I have to be careful what I say.

‘What do you know about him?’ I ask.

‘Father walked out on him. Mother is dead. Raised by his grandmother from the age of eight. Below-average intelligence. Arrested twice for public nuisance. No charges.’

‘What did you find at the house?’

‘Plenty of porn on his computer.’

‘What sort of porn?’

‘We’re still going through the hard drive.’

‘The killer may have rape fantasies. You should be looking at anything that involves violence and coercion. What about the murder weapon?’

‘Nothing yet, but we found bloodstains on one of his shirts – the lab has it now. There was also a stash of women’s underwear. Looks like he’s been collecting for a while.’

Tommy is gazing at the mirror. He seems to be studying the detectives. Counting them. Wondering how two became four.

Cray pinches her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. ‘He denies being at the farmhouse that night. He says you tricked him into saying that.’

‘Can I talk to him?’

‘That’s not such a good idea.’

‘He talked to me once.’

I follow her along the corridor to the interview room. She knocks twice. The door opens. Tommy looks up, cocking his head to one side, reminding me of a bird in a cage. Cray tells the interview team to take a break and checks her watch before announcing the time, date and names of those present for the recording.

Taking a seat directly in front of Tommy, I wait until he looks at me … and then longer.

‘How are the k-k-kittens?’ he asks.

‘They’re good. I’m going to feed the mother later.’

‘You have to change her water.’

‘I will.’

My eyes wander over his face. There are tiny black specks in the brown of his irises like ants trapped in honey. ‘When I talked to you at the farmhouse, you told me that you watched Elizabeth and Harper.’

He shakes his head.

‘I’m not judging you, Tommy. We all have secret desires. Sometimes we do things that we know aren’t right. It’s as though we have another voice in our heads. I know you want a girlfriend. Someone to love. Someone to hold. You’re not sick. We don’t choose who we fall in love with. And sometimes we do things that we regret later. We hurt people we love. Did you hurt Elizabeth or Harper?’

‘I w-w-wasn’t there.’

‘You told me you were watching.’

He frowns and moistens his lips with the tip of his tongue. Hair is plastered to his forehead and he looks feverish and pale.

‘I can help you, Tommy, but I need the truth. You told me that you saw someone else at the farmhouse that night. You said he was lighting candles.’

Tommy sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve.

Cray opens a manila folder and shows Tommy a photograph of Dominic Crowe.

‘Do you know who that is?’ she asks.

‘Harper’s dad.’

The next photograph is of Jeremy Egan.

Tommy nods.

‘Have you ever seen him at the house?’ asks Cray.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘In Elizabeth’s bedroom?’

He nods.

‘What about that Saturday night?’

‘I d-d-didn’t see him. The man was behind the c-c-curtains.’

‘What about this person?’ Cray shows him a photograph of Blake Lehmann.

‘That’s Harper’s boyfriend.’

‘Was he at the house that night?’

Tommy frowns in concentration. ‘I heard his m-m-motorbike.’

‘How do you know it was him?’

‘Dunno.’

I decide to take him back to earlier in the day, asking him to remember what he was doing. He talks about fixing a fence, changing the oil on the tractor, cleaning the milking machines. He grows more confident with his answers because I’m not accusing him of anything. His stutter disappears.

‘You told me that you saw Mrs Crowe come home. It had just got dark. There was someone lighting candles behind the curtains.’

Tommy hunches his shoulders, not looking at me.

‘Did you hear his voice?’

‘He were singing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘No, not singing … chanting.’

‘Did you hear the words?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see Mrs Crowe?’

‘No.’

‘Did you hear her voice?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I went home.’

I nod to Cray, who reaches beneath the table and produces a plastic bag. ‘We found this under your mattress, Tommy. Do you wear women’s underwear?’

‘N-n-n-nah.’

‘Who do they belong to?’

Tommy shakes his head.

‘Are they Harper’s?’

‘N-n-no!’