Suspect

by Michael Robotham

  Teamwork is a complete mystery, particularly to the boys who see only the ball flashing into the back of the net and the personal glory of dancing around the corner post.

  At halftime we’re down four nil. The kids are sucking on quarters of orange. I tell them how well they’re playing. “This team is undefeated,” I say, lying through my teeth. “But you guys are holding them.”

  I put Douglas, our strongest kicker, in goal for the second half. Andrew, our leading goal-scorer, is fullback.

  “But I’m a striker,” he whines.

  “Dominic is playing up front.”

  They all look at Dominic, who giggles and shoves his hand down his pants.

  “Forget about dribbling, or passing, or scoring goals,” I say. “Just go out there and try to kick the ball as hard as you can.”

  As the game restarts I have a posse of parents bending my ear about my positional changes. They think I’ve lost the plot. But there’s a method to my madness. Soccer at this level is all about momentum. Once the ball is moving forward the whole game moves in that direction. That’s why I want my strongest kickers at the back.

  For the first few minutes nothing changes. The Tigers may as well be chasing shadows. Then the ball falls to Douglas and he hoofs it upfield. Dominic tries to run out of the way, falls over and brings down both defenders. The ball rolls loose. Charlie is closest. I’m muttering under my breath, “Nothing fancy. Just take the shot.”

  Accuse me of favoritism. Call me biased. I don’t care. What comes next is the most sweetly struck, curling, rising, dipping, swerving shot ever sent goalward by a size-six football boot. Such are the scenes of celebration that any independent observer must be convinced that we’ve won.

  Shell-shocked by our new strategy, the Lions fall apart. Even Dominic poaches a goal when the ball bounces off the back of his head and loops over the goalkeeper. The Tigers beat the Lions five goals to four. Our finest endorsement comes from Julianne, who isn’t what you’d call a dedicated football mum. I think she’d prefer Charlie to do ballet or to play tennis. Looking immaculate in a long black hooded coat and Wellingtons, she announces that she has never seen a more exciting piece of sport. The fact that she calls it a “piece of sport” is testament to how little she watches football.

  Parents are wrapping their children up warmly and putting muddy boots into plastic bags. As I gaze across the field I notice a man standing alone on the far side of the pitch, with his hands in the pockets of an overcoat. I recognize the silhouette.

  “What brings you out so early on a Saturday, Detective Inspector? It’s not the exercise.”

  Ruiz glances toward the jogging path. “There’s enough heavy breathers in this town already.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Your neighbors.”

  He unwraps a hard candy and pops it into his mouth, rattling it against his teeth.

  “How can I help you?”

  “Do you remember what I told you at our breakfast? I said that if the victim turns out to be the daughter of someone famous I’ll have forty detectives instead of twelve.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know your little nurse was the niece of a Tory MP and the granddaughter of a retired country court judge?”

  “I read about her uncle in the papers.”

  “I got the hyenas all over me—asking questions and shoving cameras in my face. It’s a media circus.”

  I stare past him toward London Zoo. No matter how hard I try to push the thought away, Catherine’s letter keeps surfacing in my mind. I have wrestled with the implications and weighed the possibilities. Nothing is any clearer. I need more time.

  Ruiz is still talking. “You’re one of the bright boys, right? University education, postgraduate degree, consultancy . . . I thought you might be able to help me out on this one. I mean you knew this girl, right? You worked with her. So I figured you might have an insight into what she might be mixed up in.”

  “I only knew her as a patient.”

  “But she talked to you. She told you about herself. What about friends or boyfriends?”

  “I think she was seeing someone at the hospital. He might have been married because she wouldn’t talk about him.”

  “She mention a name?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think she was promiscuous?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you so sure?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”

  He turns and nods at Julianne, who is suddenly beside me, slipping her arm through mine. Her hood is up and she looks like a nun.

  “This is Detective Inspector Vincent Ruiz, the policeman I told you about.”

  Concern creases her forehead. “Is this about Catherine?” She pushes back her hood.

  Ruiz looks at her as most men do. No makeup, no perfume, no jewelry and she can still turn heads.

  “Are you interested in the past, Mrs. O’Loughlin?”

  She hesitates. “That depends.”

  “Did you know Catherine McBride?”

  “She caused us a lot of grief.”

  Ruiz’s eyes dart to mine and I get a sinking feeling.

  Julianne looks at me and realizes her mistake. Charlie is calling her. She looks over her shoulder and then turns back to Ruiz.

  “How did she cause you grief?” he asks.

  Julianne makes no attempt to hide her anger. “She tried to ruin our marriage.”

  “Catherine didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” I say, cutting her short.

  Julianne shrugs. “OK, I’ll let you tell the story. I’ve promised Charlie a hot chocolate.”

  Ruiz doesn’t want her to go. “Perhaps we can talk later,” he says.

  Julianne nods and gives my arm a squeeze. “We’ll see you at the café.”

  We watch her leave, stepping gracefully between muddy puddles and patches of turf. Ruiz tilts his head to one side as though trying to read something written sideways on my lapels.

  My credibility is nonexistent. Whatever I say he’s not going to believe.

  Ruiz crushes the hard candy between his teeth and grinds it into sugary water. “So how did my murder victim try to ruin your marriage?”

  “That’s an exaggeration. It was all a misunderstanding. Catherine made an allegation that I sexually assaulted her under hypnosis. She withdrew the complaint within hours, but it still had to be investigated.”

  “How do you misunderstand something like that?”

  I tell him how Catherine had confused my professional concern for something more intimate—about the kiss and her embarrassment. Her anger.

  “You turned her down?”

  “Yes.”

  “So she made the complaint?”

  “Yes. I didn’t even know until after it had been withdrawn, but there still had to be an inquiry. I was suspended while the hospital board investigated. Other patients were interviewed.”

  “All because of one letter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you talk to Catherine?”

  “No. She avoided me. I didn’t see her again until just before she left the Marsden. She apologized. She had a new boyfriend and they were going up north.”

  “You weren’t angry with her?”

  “I was bloody furious. She could have cost me my career.” Realizing how harsh that sounds, I add, “She was very fragile emotionally.”

  Ruiz opens the page of a notebook and begins writing something down.

  “Don’t make too much of it.”

  “It’s just information, Professor. Just like you I collect pieces of information until two or three of them fit together.”

  Turning the pages of his notebook, he smiles at me gently.

  “It’s amazing what you can find out these days. Married. One child. No religious affiliation. Educated at Charterhouse and London University. BA and MA in psychology. Taken into custody in August 1980 for projecting the image of a swastika on South Africa House during a Free Mand
ela demonstration in Trafalgar Square. Twice caught speeding on the M40; one outstanding parking ticket; denied a Syrian visa in 1987 because of a previous visit to Israel. Father a well-known doctor. Three sisters. One works for the United Nations refugee program. Your wife’s father committed suicide in 1994. You have private medical insurance, an overdraft facility of £10,000 and you’re car tax is due for renewal on Wednesday.”

  He looks up. “I haven’t bothered with your tax returns, but I’d say you went into private practice because that house of yours must cost a bloody fortune.”

  He’s getting to the point now. This whole spiel is a message to me. He wants to show me what he’s capable of.

  His voice grows quiet. “If I find that you’ve withheld information from my murder inquiry I’ll send you to jail. You can practice some of your skills firsthand when you’re two up in a cell with an inmate who wants you to give it up for Jesus.”

  He closes the notebook and slips it into his pocket. Blowing on his cupped hands, he adds, “Thank you for your patience, Professor.”

  Ruiz is twenty yards away from me and I still haven’t moved. He’s just threatened me with withholding information. If I tell him about Catherine’s letter he’ll think I’ve been purposely holding it back. Why do I always do this—try to rationalize every element of a problem before letting it go?

  Why, after so long, would Catherine write to me? Who mailed the letter? Why would she make a wild declaration of love, unprompted, pouring out her feelings, risking the pain of a rebuff?

  That’s what Catherine did when she was hurting—she reopened old wounds. Maybe this was a manifestation of self-harm. Instead of using a razor blade she used words to open herself up. I can imagine her doing this. I can even picture her, sitting alone, writing quickly as if in danger of missing the moment. “Sorry if I’ve caused you grief,” is the phrase she used in her letter. She had no idea.

  Ruiz is fifty yards away, a moving silhouette against the metal railing fence. I catch up with him before he reaches York Gate. He turns at the sound of his name. Instead of telling him about the letter I begin explaining why I didn’t tell him sooner. It’s like getting snagged in a whirlpool current and being dragged into the center.

  “Where is this letter now?” he asks without rancor.

  “At home in my desk.”

  He doesn’t ask how I know it’s from Catherine. When I reach the bit about the phone number and the call to Liverpool he’s talking on his mobile. That’s when I realize that he already knows about the call! It’s the only explanation. Either my phone, or more likely Catherine’s, is being bugged.

  My heart gives a random thump, as though suddenly changing to a different rhythm. That’s why he turned up today. He’s known all along.

  9

  Another Monday afternoon and Bobby is late again. Meena gives him the curt, cold treatment. She wanted to go home early.

  “I would hate to be married to your secretary,” he says, before checking himself. “She’s not your wife is she?”

  “No.”

  I motion for him to sit down. His buttocks spread out to fill the chair. Tugging at the cuffs of his coat, he seems distracted and anxious.

  “How have you been?”

  “No thanks, I’ve just had one.”

  I pause to see if he realizes that his answer makes no sense. He doesn’t react.

  “Do you know what I just asked you, Bobby?”

  “Whether I want a tea or coffee.”

  “No.”

  A brief flicker of doubt crosses his face. “But you were going to ask me about the tea or coffee next.”

  “So you were reading my mind?”

  He smiles nervously and shakes his head.

  “Do you believe in God?” he asks.

  “Do you?”

  “I used to.”

  “What happened?”

  “I couldn’t find him. He’s supposed to be everywhere. I mean, he’s not supposed to be playing hide-and-seek.” He glances at his reflection in the darkened window.

  “What sort of God would you like, Bobby—a vengeful God or a forgiving one?”

  “A vengeful God.”

  “Why?”

  “People should pay for their sins. They shouldn’t suddenly get forgiven because they plead they’re sorry or repent on their deathbed. When we do wrong we should be punished.”

  The last statement rattles in the air like a copper penny dropped on a table.

  “What are you sorry for, Bobby?”

  “Nothing.” He answers too quickly. Everything about his body language is screaming denial.

  “How does it feel when you lose your temper?”

  “Like my brain is boiling.”

  “When was the last time you felt like this?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Who made you angry?”

  “Nobody.”

  Asking him direct questions is pointless, because he simply blocks them. Instead I take him back to an earlier point and let him build up momentum like a boulder rolling down a hill. I know the day—November 11. He missed his appointment that afternoon.

  I ask him what time he woke. What did he have for breakfast? When did he leave home?

  Slowly I move him closer to the point where he lost control. He had taken the Tube to the West End and visited a jeweler in Hatton Garden. He and Arky are getting married in the spring. Bobby had arranged to pick up their wedding rings. He argued with the jeweler and stormed out. It was raining. He was running late. He stood in Holborn Circus trying to hail a cab.

  Having got this far, Bobby pulls away again and changes the subject.

  “Who do you think would win a fight between a tiger and a lion?” he asks in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to know your opinion.”

  “Tigers and lions don’t fight each other. They live in different parts of the world.”

  “Yes, but if they did fight each other, who would win?”

  “The question is pointless. Inane.”

  “Isn’t that what psychologists do—ask pointless questions?”

  His entire demeanor has changed in the space of a single question. Suddenly cocky and aggressive, he jabs his finger at me.

  “You ask people what they’d do in hypothetical situations. Why don’t you try me? Go on. ‘What would I do if I was the first person to discover a small fire in a movie theater?’ Isn’t that the sort of question you ask? Would I put the fire out? Or go for the manager? Or evacuate the building? I know what you people do. You take a harmless answer and you try to make a sane person seem crazy.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “That’s what I know.”

  He’s talking about a Mental Status Examination. Clearly, Bobby has been evaluated before, yet there’s no mention of it in his medical history. Each time I put pressure on him, he reacts with hostility. It’s time to crank it up a notch.

  “Let me tell you what I know, Bobby. Something happened that day. You were pissed off. You were having a bad day. Was it the jeweler? What did he do?”

  My voice is sharp and unforgiving. Bobby flinches. His hackles rise.

  “He’s a lying bastard! He got the engraving wrong on the wedding bands. He misspelled Arky’s name, but he said it was my mistake. He said I gave him the wrong spelling. The bastard wanted to charge me extra.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I smashed the glass on his counter.”

  “How?”

  “With my fist.”

  He holds up his hand to show me. Faint yellow-and-purple bruising discolors the underside.

  “What happened then?”

  He shrugs and shakes his head. That can’t be all. There has to be something more. He talked of punishing “her”—a woman. It must have happened after he left the shop. He was on the street, angry, his brain boiling.

  “Where did you
first see her?”

  He blinks at me rapidly. “Coming out of a music store.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Queuing for a taxi. It was raining. She took my cab.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “I don’t remember her.”

  “How old was she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You say that she took your cab—did you say anything to her?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What did you do?”

  He flinches.

  “Was she with anyone else?”

  He glances at me and hesitates. “What do you mean?”

  “Who was she with?”

  “A boy.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Maybe five or six.”

  “Where was the boy?”

  “She was dragging him by the hand. He was screaming. I mean, really screaming. She was trying to ignore him. He dropped like a dead weight and she had to drag him along. And this kid just kept screaming. And I started wondering, why isn’t she talking to him? How can she let him scream? He’s in pain or he’s frightened. Nobody else was doing anything. It made me angry. How could they just stand there?”

  “Who were you angry at?”

  “All of them. I was angry at their indifference. I was angry at this woman’s neglect. I was angry with myself for hating the little boy. I just wanted him to stop screaming . . .”

  “So what did you do?”

  His voice drops to a whisper. “I wanted her to make him stop. I wanted her to listen to him.” He stops himself.

  “Did you say anything to her?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “The door of the cab was open. She pushed him inside. The kid was thrashing his legs. She gets in after him and turns back to get the door. Her face is like a mask . . . blank . . . you know. She swings her arm back and bang! She elbows him right in the face. He crumples backward . . .”

  Bobby pauses and then seems about to continue. He stops himself. The silence grows. I let it fill his head—working its way into the corners.

  “I dragged her out of the cab. I had hold of her hair. I drove her face into the side window. She fell down and tried to roll away, but I kept kicking her.”