Close Your Eyes by Michael Robotham Read Free Book Online Page A

whispering: ‘Everyone knows it’s her ex-husband. He used to beat her up.’ She glances over her shoulder. Seeing me, she stiffens and her lips tighten into lines, as though challenging me to disagree with her.
    Another woman comments, ‘I taught Harper at primary school – such a sweet thing – now I’m scared for my own children.’
    There are more shouts and jeers. The undecided are being swayed. Terry Bannerman raises his arms. On the wrong side of obese, he has one of those deep, baritone radio voices that don’t require a microphone to reach the back of a room.
    ‘Calm down, people, we’re all friends here.’
    I find myself cringing at his choice of words. The phrase annoys me – the fake bonhomie of it, the implied bond: how does he know we’re all friends? The killer could be in the crowd.
    Bannerman lowers his arms. ‘Let’s allow this little lady to say her piece and then we’ll hear from someone who
knows
what they’re talking about.’
    Cray gives him a ‘fuck you’ glance. Bannerman responds with a half smile.
    The DCS begins again, trying a different approach. ‘Catching this killer is a job for all of us, not just the police. We need public support. You have to be our eyes and ears.’
    ‘Oh, we’ll catch him,’ says a man at the front. ‘And we’ll string him up.’
    ‘I’m not talking about vigilantism,’ replies Cray. ‘Look around you. Someone has likely given this killer an alibi. It could be a misguided wife, or disbelieving girlfriend, or a well-meaning mother or friend. If you have any suspicions, I urge you to call the Crimestoppers number. Your information will be treated with the utmost sensitivity and your identity will be protected.’
    ‘What about the attack on the coastal path?’ a woman yells.
    I glance at Monk and give him a questioning look. He leans closer and whispers. ‘A woman was attacked on the outskirts of Clevedon, same day as the murders.’
    ‘Is it linked?’
    ‘Not that we can tell.’
    Bannerman has grown impatient for his turn. ‘All I’ve heard so far are lots of fighting words and feeble excuses from the police,’ he says in a grandiose rumble. ‘Seems to me the DCS is feeding us a load of BS.’ The crowd laughs and heads nod appreciatively. ‘Now we have the police telling us that somehow
we’re
responsible for this. It’s
our
fault that nobody has been arrested.’
    ‘That’s not what I said,’ protests Cray.
    Bannerman ignores her. ‘Do you know how long it took the police to catch Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper? Five years. In that time he killed thirteen women and attempted to murder another seven. Later we discovered they could have caught him much earlier, but the police failed to put the clues together. Sutcliffe bashed a prostitute six years before he ever killed one – but nobody thought he might be a suspect until it was too late. And do you know what the police told the community back then? “We’re doing everything we can. It’s under control. Trust us.” Sound familiar?’
    Cray interrupts him. ‘You cannot equate this case with the Yorkshire Ripper.’
    ‘I don’t see why not,’ says Bannerman. ‘There’s a ripper on the loose. How many more women have to be attacked or murdered before you do your job? How many nights do these good, law-abiding citizens have to be prisoners in their own homes?’
    ‘We are doing everything possible to—’
    ‘You’re doing everything possible to protect your arse,’ says Bannerman. ‘You had your turn, DCS Cray. Let someone else have a say. We have our own expert – the man who blew the whistle on your incompetence – the psychologist who resigned from the investigation because the police were misinforming the public and putting us in danger. I want to welcome to the stage Emilio Coleman – better known as the Mindhunter.’
    That’s when I see Milo. Dressed in skinny jeans, open-necked shirt and blue blazer, he’s not the same callow youth I remember