“I want you to get me out of here,” I say, a little too abruptly.
He begins by explaining that the Police and Criminal Evidence Act gives the police forty-eight hours in which to either charge a suspect or let them go, unless they’ve been granted leave by the courts.
“So I could be here for two days?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s ridiculous!”
“Did you know this girl?”
“Yes.”
“Did you arrange to meet her on the night she died?”
“No.”
Simon is making notes. He leans over the notebook, scribbling bullet points and underlining some words.
“This is one of those no-brainers,” he says. “All you have to do is provide an alibi for the thirteenth of November.”
“I can’t do that.”
Simon gives me the weary look of a schoolteacher who hasn’t received the answer he expects. Then he brushes a speck of fluff from his suit sleeve as if dismissing the problem. Standing abruptly, he knocks twice on the door to signal that he’s finished.
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I killed her?”
He looks bemused. “Save your plea for a jury and pray it never gets that far.”
The door closes after him but the room is still full of what he has left behind—disappointment, candor and the scent of aftershave. Five minutes later a woman police constable takes me along the corridor to the interrogation room. I have been in one before. Early in my career I sometimes acted as the responsible adult when juveniles were being interrogated.
A table and four chairs take up most of the room. In the far corner is a large tape recorder, which is time coded. There is nothing on the walls or the windowsill. The WPC stands immediately inside the door, trying not to look at me.
Ruiz arrives, along with a second detective, who is younger and taller, with a long face and crooked teeth. He wears a smart suit and has taken great care combing his hair because he wants his fringe to make a statement, as well as cover a bald spot.
Simon follows them into the interview room. He whispers in my ear, “If I touch your elbow I want you to be quiet.”
I nod agreement.
Ruiz sits down opposite me, without bothering to remove his jacket. He rubs the hand across the whiskers on his chin.
“This is the second formal interview of Professor Joseph Paul O’Loughlin, a suspect in the murder of Catherine Mary McBride,” he says for the benefit of the tape. “Present during the interview are Detective Inspector Vincent Ruiz, Detective Sergeant John Keebal and Dr. O’Loughlin’s legal representative, Simon Koch. The time is 8:14 a.m.”
The WPC checks that the recorder is working. She nods to Ruiz. He places both his hands on the table and links his fingers together. His eyes settle on me and he says nothing. I have to admit it is a very eloquent pause.
“Where were you on the evening of November thirteenth this year?”
“I don’t recall.”
“When I asked you that question several days ago you said you were at home.”
“I said normally I would have been home.”
Ruiz’s face twists in anger. “Mr. Koch, can you please instruct your client that his semantics are not helping anyone, including himself.”
Simon leans close, cups his hand to my ear and whispers, “Try not to piss him off.”
Ruiz continues. “Did you work that day?”
“Yes.”
“What time did you leave the office?”
“I had a doctor’s appointment at four o’clock.”
“What time did it finish?”
“Shortly before five.”
The questions go on like this, asking for specifics. Ruiz is trying to pin me down. He knows, as I do, that lying is a lot harder than telling the truth. The devil is in the detail. The more you weave into a story, the harder it is to maintain. It becomes like a straitjacket—binding you tighter, giving you less room to move.
Finally he asks about Catherine. Silence. I glance at Simon who says nothing. He hasn’t said a word since the interview began. Neither has the younger detective, sitting to the side of and slightly behind Ruiz.
“Did you know Catherine McBride?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you first meet her?”
I tell the whole story—about the self-mutilation and the counseling sessions, how she seemed to get better and how she eventually left the Marsden. It feels strange talking about a clinical case. My voice sounds vaguely strident, as though I’m trying too hard to convince them.
When I finish I open the palms of my hands to signal the end. I can see myself reflected in Ruiz’s eyes. He’s waiting for more.
“Why didn’t you tell the hospital authorities about Catherine?”
“I felt sorry for her. I thought it would be cruel to see a dedicated nurse lose her job. Who would that benefit?”
“That’s the only reason?”
“Yes.”
“Were you having an affair with Catherine McBride?”
“No.”
“Did you ever have sexual relations with her?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“Five years ago. I can’t remember the exact date.”
“Why did Catherine call your office on the evening she died?”
“I don’t know.”
“We have other telephone records which indicate that she called the number twice in the previous fortnight.”
“I can’t explain that.”
“She wrote a letter to you?”
I shrug.
“Your name was in her diary.”
I shake my head.
Ruiz slaps his open palm violently on the table. Everyone jumps, including Simon. “I require something more than a wink and a nod, Professor O’Loughlin. This interview is being taped. How did you know Catherine McBride was last seen wearing a red dress? This information was withheld from the media.”
“I told you. One of my patients mentioned a girl in a red dress with scars on her arms.”
“Oh, that’s right, he had a dream.” Ruiz’s voice is laced with sarcasm. He drops to a whisper. “You met Catherine that night.”
“No.”
“You lured her away from the Grand Union Hotel.”
“No.”
“You tortured and killed her.”
“No.”
“This is horseshit!” he explodes. “You have lied, denied and conspired to hinder this investigation. You have deliberately withheld information and have spent the last three weeks constructing an elaborate charade about a former patient in an effort to steer police away from you.”
“I have done no such thing!”
Simon touches my arm. He wants me to be quiet. I ignore him.
“I didn’t touch Catherine. I haven’t seen her.”
“I want to speak with my client,” says Simon, more insistently.
To hell with that! I’m done with being polite. “What possible reason would I have for killing Catherine?” I shout. “You have my name in a diary, a telephone call to my office and no motive. Do your job. Get some evidence before you come accusing me.”
The younger detective grins. I realize that something is wrong. Ruiz opens a thin green folder which lies on the table in front of him. From it he produces a photocopied piece of paper, which he slides across in front of me.
“This is a letter dated July fifteenth, 1997. It is addressed to the senior nursing administrator of the Royal Marsden Hospital. In this letter Catherine McBride makes an allegation that you sexually assaulted her in your office at the hospital. She says that you hypnotized her, fondled her breasts and interfered with her underwear—”
“She withdrew that complaint. I told you that.”
My chair falls backward with a bang and I realize that I’m on my feet. The young detective is quicker than I am. He matche
s me for size and is bristling with intent.
Ruiz looks exultant.
Simon has hold of my arm. “Professor O’Loughlin—Joe—I advise you to be quiet.”
“Can’t you see what they’re doing? They’re twisting the facts . . .”
“They’re asking legitimate questions.”
A sense of alarm spreads through me. Ruiz has a motive. Simon picks up my chair and holds it for me. I stare blankly at the far wall, numb with tiredness. My left hand is shaking. Both detectives stare at it silently. I sit and force my hand between my knees to stop the tremors.
“Where were you on the evening of November thirteenth?”
“In the West End.”
“Who were you with?”
“No one. I got drunk. I had just received some bad news about my health.”
That statement hangs in the air like a torn cobweb looking for something to cling to. Simon breaks first and explains that I have Parkinson’s disease. I want to stop him. It is my business. I’m not looking for pity.
Ruiz doesn’t miss a beat. “Is one of the symptoms memory loss?”
I’m so relieved that I laugh. I didn’t want him treating me any differently. “Exactly where did you go drinking?” Ruiz presses on.
“Different pubs and wine bars.”
“Where?”
“Leicester Square, Covent Garden . . .”
“Can you name any of these bars?”
I shake my head.
“Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?”
“No.”
“What time did you get home?”
“I didn’t go home.”
“Where did you spend the night?”
“I can’t recall.”
Ruiz turns to Simon. “Mr. Koch, can you please instruct your client . . .”
“My client has made it clear to me that he doesn’t recall where he spent the night. He is aware that this does not help his situation.”
Ruiz’s face is hard to read. He glances at his wristwatch, announces the time and then turns off the tape recorder. The interview is terminated. I glance from face to face, wondering what happens next. Is it over?
The young WPC comes back into the room.
“Are the cars ready?” asks Ruiz.
She nods and holds open the door. Ruiz strides out and the younger detective snaps handcuffs onto my wrists. Simon starts to protest and is handed a copy of a search warrant. The address is typed in capital letters on both sides of the page. I’m going home.
My most vivid childhood memory of Christmas is of the St. Augustine’s Anglican School Nativity play in which I was featured as one of the three Wise Men. The reason it is so memorable is that Russell Cochrane, who played the baby Jesus, was so nervous that he wet his pants and it leaked down the front of the Virgin Mary’s blue robe. Jenny Bond, a very pretty Mary, was so angry that she dropped Russell on his head and swung a kick into his groin.
A collective groan went up from the audience, but it was drowned out by Russell’s howls of pain. The entire production disintegrated and the curtain came down early.
The backstage farce proved even more compelling. Russell’s father, a big man with a bullet-shaped head, was a police sergeant, who sometimes came to the school to lecture us on road safety. He cornered Jenny Bond backstage and threatened to have her arrested for assault. Jenny’s father laughed. It was a big mistake. Sergeant Cochrane handcuffed him on the spot and marched him along Stafford Street to the police station where he spent the night.
Our Nativity play made the national papers. VIRGIN MARY’S FATHER ARRESTED, said the headline in The Sun. The Star wrote: BABY JESUS KICKED IN THE BAUBLES!
I think of it again because of Charlie. Is she going to see me in handcuffs, being flanked by policemen? What will she think of her father then?
The unmarked police car pulls up the ramp from the underground car park and emerges into daylight. Sitting next to me, Simon puts a coat over my head. Through the damp wool, I can make out the pyrotechnics of flashguns and TV lights. I don’t know how many photographers and cameramen there are. I hear their voices and feel the police car accelerate away.
Traffic slows to a crawl in Marylebone Road. Pedestrians seem to hesitate and stare. I’m convinced they’re looking at me—wondering who I am and what I’m doing in the backseat of a police car.
“Can I phone my wife?” I ask.
“No.”
“She doesn’t know we’re coming.”
“Exactly.”
“But she doesn’t know I’ve been arrested.”
“You should have told her.”
I suddenly remember the office. I have patients coming today. Appointments have to be rescheduled.
“Can I call my secretary?”
Ruiz turns and glances over his shoulder. “We are also executing a search warrant on your office.”
I want to argue, but Simon touches my elbow. “This is part of the process,” he whispers, trying to sound reassuring.
The convoy of three police cars pulls up in the middle of our road, blocking the street in either direction. Doors are flung open and detectives assemble quickly, some using the side path to reach the back garden.
Julianne answers the front door. She is wearing pink rubber gloves. A fleck of foam clings to her hair where she has brushed her fringe to one side. A detective gives her a copy of the warrant. She doesn’t look at it. She is too busy focusing on me. She sees the handcuffs and the look on my face. Her eyes are wide with shock and incomprehension.
“Keep Charlie inside,” I shout.
I look at Ruiz. I plead with him. “Not in front of my daughter. Please.”
I see nothing in his eyes, but he reaches into his jacket pocket and finds the keys to the handcuffs. Two detectives take my arms.
Julianne is asking questions—ignoring the officers who push past her into the house. “What’s happening, Joe? What are you . . . ?”
“They think I had something to do with Catherine’s death.”
“How? Why? That’s ridiculous. You were helping them with their investigation.”
Something falls and smashes upstairs. Julianne glances upward and then back to me. “What are they doing in our house?” She is on the verge of tears. “What have you done, Joe?”
I see Charlie’s face peering out of the sitting room. It quickly disappears as Julianne turns. “You stay in that room, young lady,” she barks, sounding more frightened than angry.
The front door is wide open. Anybody walking by can look inside and see what is happening. I can hear cupboards and drawers being opened on the floor above; mattresses are being lifted and beds dragged aside. Julianne doesn’t know what to do. Part of her wants to protect her house from being vandalized, but mostly she wants answers from me. I don’t have any.
The detectives take me through to the kitchen where I find Ruiz peering out of the French doors at the garden. Men with shovels and hoes are ripping up the lawn. D.J. is leaning against Charlie’s swing, with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He looks at me through the smoke, inquisitive, insolent. A faint hint of a smile creases the corners of his mouth—as though he’s watching a Porsche get a parking ticket.
Turning away reluctantly, he lets the cigarette fall into the gravel where it continues to glow. Then he bends and slices open the plastic packing surrounding a radiator.
“We interviewed your neighbors,” explains Ruiz. “You were seen burying something in the garden.”
“A bug-eyed goldfish.”
Ruiz is totally baffled. “I beg your pardon?”
Julianne laughs at the absurdity of it all. We are living in a Monty Python sketch.
“He buried Charlie’s goldfish,” she says. “It’s under the plum tree next to Harold Hamster.”
A couple of the detectives behind us can’t stifle their giggles. Ruiz has a face like thunder. I know I shouldn’t goad him, but it feels good to laugh.
2
The mattress has compressed to the
hardness of concrete beneath my hip and shoulder. From the moment I lie down the blood throbs in my ears and my mind begins to race. I want to slip into peaceful emptiness. Instead I chase the dangerous thoughts, magnified in my imagination.
By now Ruiz will have interviewed Julianne. He’ll have asked where I was on the thirteenth of November. She’ll have told him that I spent the night with Jock. She won’t know that’s a lie. She’ll repeat what I told her.
Ruiz will also have talked to Jock, who will tell them that I left his office at five o’clock that day. He asked me out for a drink, but I said no. I said I was going home. None of our stories are going to match.
Julianne has spent all evening in the charge room, hoping to see me. Ruiz told her she could have five minutes, but I can’t face her. I know that’s appalling. I know she must be scared, confused, angry and worried sick. She just wants an explanation. She wants to hear me tell her it’s going to be all right. I’m more frightened of confronting her than I am of Ruiz. How can I explain Elisa? How can I make things right?
Julianne asked me if I thought it unusual that a woman I hadn’t seen in five years is murdered and then the police ask me to help identify her. Glibly, I told her that coincidences were just a couple of things happening simultaneously. Now the coincidences are starting to pile up. What are the chances of Bobby being referred to me as a patient? Or that Catherine would phone my office on the evening she died? When do coincidences stop being coincidences and become a pattern?
I’m not being paranoid. I’m not seeing shadows darting in the corner of my eye or imagining sinister conspiracies. But something is happening here that is bigger than the sum of its parts.
I fall asleep with this thought and sometime during the night I wake suddenly, breathing hard with my heart pounding. I cannot see who or what is chasing me, but I know it’s there, watching, waiting, laughing at me.
Every sound seems exaggerated by the starkness of the cell. I lie awake and listen to the seesaw creaks of bedsprings, water dripping in cisterns, drunks talking in their sleep and guards’ shoes echoing down corridors.
Today is the day. The police will either charge me or let me go. I should be more anxious and concerned. Mostly I feel remote and separate from what’s happening. I pace out the cell, thinking how bizarre life can be. Look at all the twists and turns, the coincidences and bad luck, the mistakes and misunderstandings. I don’t feel angry or bitter. I have faith in the system. Pretty soon they’re going to realize the evidence isn’t strong enough against me. They’ll have to let me go.
Suspect Page 16