Suspect

by Michael Robotham

  This sort of optimism strikes me as quite odd when I think about how naturally cynical I am concerning law and order. Innocent people get shafted every day. I’ve seen the evidence. It’s incontrovertible. Yet I have no fears about this happening to me.

  I blame my mother and her unwavering belief in authority figures such as policemen, judges and politicians. She grew up in a village in the Cotswolds, where the town constable rode a bicycle, knew every local by name and solved most crimes within half an hour. He epitomized fairness and honesty.

  Since then, despite the regular stories of police planting evidence, taking bribes and falsifying statements, my mother has never altered her beliefs. “God made more good people than bad,” she says, as though a head count will sort everything out. And when this seems highly unlikely, she adds, “They will get their comeuppance in Heaven.”

  A hatch opens in the lower half of the door and a wooden tray is propelled across the floor. I have a plastic bottle of orange juice, some gray-looking sludge that I assume to be scrambled eggs and two slices of bread that have been waved over a toaster. I put it to one side and wait for Simon to arrive.

  He looks very jolly in his silk tie printed with holly and silver bells. It’s the sort of tie Charlie will give me for Christmas. I wonder if Simon has ever been married or had children.

  He can’t stay long; he’s due in court. I see strands of his horsehair wig sticking out of his briefcase. The police have requested a blood and hair sample, he says. I have no problem with that. They are also seeking permission to interview my patients, but a judge has refused them access to my files. Good for him.

  The biggest piece of news concerns two of the phone calls Catherine made to my office. Meena, bless her cotton socks, has told detectives that she talked to Catherine twice in early November.

  I had totally forgotten about the search for a new secretary. Meena had placed an advertisement in the Medical Appointments section of The Guardian. It asked for experienced medical secretaries, or applicants with nursing training. We had more than eighty replies.

  I start explaining this to Simon, getting more and more excited. “Meena was coming up with a short list of twelve.”

  “Catherine made the short list.”

  “Yes. Maybe. She must have done. That would explain the call. Meena will know.” Did Catherine know she was applying to be my secretary? Meena must have mentioned my name. Maybe Catherine wanted to surprise me. Or perhaps she thought I wouldn’t give her an interview.

  Simon scissors his fingers across his tie, as if pretending to cut it off. “Why would a woman who accused you of sexual assault apply to become your secretary?” He sounds like a prosecutor.

  “I didn’t assault her.”

  “And why would she write a love letter to you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He doesn’t comment. Instead he looks at his watch and closes his briefcase. “I don’t think you should answer any more police questions.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re digging yourself into a deeper hole.”

  Simon shrugs on his overcoat and leans down to brush a smudge of dirt from the mirrorlike surface of his black shoes. “They have eight more hours. Unless they come up with something new, you’ll be home by this evening.”

  Lying on the bunk with my hands behind my head, I stare at the ceiling. Someone has scrawled in the corner: A day without sunlight is like . . . night. The ceiling must be twelve feet high. How on earth did anyone get up there?

  It is strange being locked away from the world. I have no idea what’s been happening in the past forty-eight hours. I wonder what I’ve missed. Hopefully my parents have gone back to Wales. Charlie will have started her Christmas break; the boiler will be fixed; Julianne will have wrapped the presents and put them under the tree. Jock will have dusted off his Santa suit and done his annual tour of the children’s wards. And then there’s Bobby—what has he been doing?

  Midway through the afternoon, I am summoned to the interview room again. Ruiz and the same detective sergeant are waiting. Simon arrives out of breath from climbing the stairs. He’s clutching a sandwich in a plastic prism and a bottle of orange juice.

  “A late lunch,” he confesses apologetically.

  The tape recorder is switched on.

  “Professor O’Loughlin help me out here.” Ruiz conspires to raise a polite smile. “Is it true that killers often return to the scene of the crime?”

  Where is he going with this? I glance at Simon who indicates I should answer.

  “A ‘signature killer’ will sometimes return, but more often than not it’s an urban myth.”

  “What’s a ‘signature killer’?”

  “Every killer has a behavioral imprint—it’s like a criminal shadow that is left behind at a crime scene, a signature. It might be the way they tie a ligature or dispose of a body. Some feel compelled to return to the scene.”

  “Why?”

  “There are lots of possible reasons. Perhaps they want to fantasize and relive what they’ve done or collect a souvenir. Some may feel guilty or just want to stay close.”

  “Which is why kidnappers often help with the search?”

  “Yes.”

  “And arsonists help fight fires?”

  Ruiz leans across the desk toward me, until I can see the capillaries beneath the skin of his nose. I swear he can breathe through those pores.

  “Are you willing to talk to me without your lawyer present?”

  “If you turn off the tape.”

  Simon objects and wants to talk to me alone. Outside in the corridor we have a frank exchange of views. He tells me I’m being stupid. I agree. But if I can get Ruiz to listen, maybe I can convince him to look at Bobby again.

  “I want it noted that I advised you against this.”

  “Don’t worry, Simon. Nobody’s going to blame you.”

  Ruiz is waiting for me. A cigarette is alight in the ashtray. He stares at it intently, watching it burn down. The gray ash forms a misshapen tower that will tumble with the slightest breath.

  “I thought you were quitting.”

  “I am. I like to watch.”

  The ash topples and Ruiz pushes the ashtray to one side. He nods.

  The room seems so much larger with just the two of us. Ruiz pushes back his chair and puts his feet on the table. His black brogues have worn heels. Above one sock, on the white of his ankle, there is a streak of black shoe polish.

  “We took your photograph to every pub and wine bar in Leicester Square and Covent Garden,” he says. “Not one barman or barmaid remembers you.”

  “I’m easy to forget.”

  “We’re going out again tonight. Maybe we’ll trigger someone’s memory. Somehow I don’t think so. I don’t think you were anywhere near the West End.”

  I don’t respond.

  “We also showed your photograph to the regulars at the Grand Union Hotel. Nobody remembers seeing you there. They remembered Catherine. She was dressed real nice, according to some of the lads. One of them offered to buy her a drink, but she said she was waiting for someone. Was it you?”

  “No.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I still think it was Bobby Moran.”

  Ruiz lets out a low rumble that ends with a hacking cough. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Catherine didn’t die on the night she disappeared. Her body wasn’t found for eleven days. Whoever tortured her took a long time to break her spirit—days perhaps. Bobby could have done it.”

  “Nothing points to him.”

  “I think he knew her.”

  Ruiz laughs ironically. “That’s the difference between what you do and what I do. You base your conclusions on bell curves and empirical models. A sob story about a lousy childhood and you’re ready to put someone in therapy for ten years. I deal with facts and right now they’re all pointing to you.”

  “What about intuition? Gut instincts? I thought detectives used them all the
time.”

  “Not when I’m trying to get approval for a surveillance budget.”

  We sit in silence, measuring the gulf between us. Eventually Ruiz speaks. “I talked to your wife yesterday. She described you as being a little ‘distant’ lately. You suggested the family go away on a trip . . . to America. It came up suddenly. She couldn’t explain why.”

  “It had nothing to do with Catherine. I wanted to see more of the world.”

  “Before it’s too late.” His voice softens. “Tell me about your Parkinson’s. Must be pretty gutting to get news like that—particularly when you’ve got a good-looking wife, a young daughter, a successful career. How many years are you going to lose? Ten? Twenty?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I reckon news like that would make a guy feel pretty pissed off with the world. You’ve worked with cancer patients. You tell me—do they get bitter and feel cheated?”

  “Some of them do.”

  “I bet some of them want to tear down the world. I mean, why should they get all the shitty luck, right? What are you going to do in a situation like that? Go quietly, or rail against the dying of the light? You could settle old scores and make amends. Nothing wrong with exacting a bit of rough justice if it’s the only kind on offer.”

  I want to laugh at his clumsy attempt at psychoanalysis. “Is that what you’d do, Inspector?” It takes Ruiz a few moments to realize that I’m now scrutinizing him. “You think the vigilante spirit might take you?”

  Doubt fills his eyes, but he won’t let it stay there. He wants to move on, to change the subject, but first I want to set him straight about people with terminal illnesses or incurable diseases. Yes, some want to lash out in frustration at the sense of hopelessness and helplessness. But the bitterness and anger soon fade. Instead of feeling sorry for themselves they face the fury of the ill wind and look ahead. And they resolve to enjoy every moment they have left, to suck the marrow out of life until it dribbles down their chin.

  Sliding his feet to the floor, Ruiz puts both hands flat on the table and levers himself upward. He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. “I want you charged with murder but the Director of Public Prosecutions says I don’t have enough evidence. He’s right, but then so am I. I’m going to keep looking until we find some more. It’s just a matter of time.” His eyes are gazing at something a great distance away.

  “You don’t like me, do you?” I ask.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you think I’m a dumb, foul-mouthed plod, who doesn’t read books and thinks the theory of relativity has something to do with inbreeding.”

  “That’s not true.”

  He shrugs and reaches for the door handle.

  “How much of this is personal?” I ask.

  His answer rumbles through the closing door. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  3

  The same WPC who has shadowed me for the last forty-eight hours hands me my tennis racket and a parcel containing my watch, wallet, wedding ring and shoelaces. I have to count my money, including the loose change, and sign for them.

  The clock on the wall of the charge room says it’s 9:45 p.m. What day is it? Wednesday. Seven days before Christmas. A small silver tree is perched on the front counter, decorated with a handful of baubles and a wonky star. Hanging on the wall behind it is a banner saying, PEACE AND GOODWILL TO ALL MEN.

  The WPC offers to call me a cab. I wait in the reception area until the driver gives me a blast on the horn. I’m tired, dirty and smell of stale sweat. I should go home, yet when I slide into the backseat of the cab I feel my courage leak away. I want to tell the driver to head in the opposite direction. I don’t want to face Julianne. Semantics aren’t going to wash with her. Only the unqualified truth.

  I have never loved anyone as much as I love her—not until Charlie came along. There is no justification for cheating on her. I know what people will say. They’ll call it classic midlife paranoia. I hit my forties and, fearing my own mortality, have a one-night stand. Or they’ll put it all down to self-pity. On the same day I learn of my progressive neurological disease I sleep with another woman—getting my fill of sex and excitement before my body falls apart.

  I have no excuses for what happened. It wasn’t an accident or a moment of madness. It was a mistake. It was sex. It was tears, semen and someone other than Julianne.

  Jock had just told me the bad news. I was sitting in his office, unable to move. A huge bloody butterfly had flapped its wings in the Amazonian jungle and the vibrations had been circling the world waiting to knock me down.

  Jock offered to take me for a drink. I said no. I needed some air. For the next few hours I wandered around the West End, visiting bars and trying to feel like just another person having a few drinks to unwind.

  First I thought I wanted to be alone. Then I realized that I really needed to talk to somebody. Somebody who wasn’t part of my perfect life: somebody who didn’t know Julianne, or Charlie, or any of my friends or family. So that’s how I finished up on Elisa’s doorstep. It wasn’t an accident. I sought her out.

  In the beginning we just talked. We talked for hours. (Julianne will probably say this makes my infidelity worse because it was more than just some insatiable male craving.) What did we talk about? Childhood memories. Favorite holidays. Special songs. Maybe none of these things. The words weren’t important. Elisa knew I was hurting, but didn’t ask why. She knew I would either tell her or I wouldn’t. It made no difference to her.

  I have very little memory of what happened next. We kissed. Elisa rolled me on top of her. Her heels bumped against my back. She moved so slowly as she took me inside her. I moaned as I came and the pain leaked away.

  I spent the night. The second time I took her. I pushed Elisa down and drove into her violently, making her hips jerk and her breasts quiver. When it was over, white tissues, wet with sperm, lay on the floor like fallen leaves.

  The strange thing is that I expected to be consumed by guilt or doubt. Feeling normal didn’t even enter my calculations. I was convinced Julianne would see straight through me. She wouldn’t need to smell it on my clothes, or see lipstick on my collar. Instead she would know intuitively, just as she seems to know everything else about me.

  I have never regarded myself as a risk-taker or someone who gets a thrill from living close to the edge. Once or twice at university, before I met Julianne, I had one-night stands. It seemed natural then. Jock was right—the left-wing girls were easier to bed. This was different.

  The cabbie is pleased to be rid of me. I stand on the footpath and stare at my house. The only light is a glow from the kitchen window, down the side path.

  My key slips into the lock. As I step inside I see Julianne silhouetted against a rectangle of light at the far end of the hall. She is standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Why didn’t you call me? I would have picked you up . . .”

  “I didn’t want Charlie to come to the police station.”

  I can’t see the look on her face. Her voice sounds OK. I put down my tennis things and walk toward her. Her cropped dark hair is tousled and her eyes are pouchy from lack of sleep. As I try to put my arms around her, she slips away. She can hardly bear to look at me.

  This is not just about a lie. I have brought police officers into her house, opening cupboards, looking under beds, searching through her personal things. Our neighbors have seen me in handcuffs. Our garden has been dug up. She has been interviewed by detectives and asked about our sex life. She has waited for hours in a police station hoping to see me, only to be turned away—not be the authorities but by me. All of this and not one phone call or message to help her understand.

  I glance at the kitchen table and see a scattered pile of newspapers. The pages are open at the same story. PSYCHOLOGIST ARRESTED IN MCBRIDE MURDER PROBE reads one headline. CELEBRITY SHRINK DETAINED says another. There are photographs of me sitting in the backseat of a police car with Simo
n’s coat over my head. I look guilty. Put a coat over Mother Teresa’s head and she would look guilty. Why do suspects do it? Surely it would be better to smile and wave.

  I slump into a chair and look through the stories. One newspaper has used a telephoto shot of me perched on the roof of the Marsden, with Malcolm strapped in the harness in front of me. A second photo shows me covered in the coat. My hands are cuffed on my lap. The message is clear—I have gone from hero to zero.

  Julianne fills the electric kettle and takes out two mugs. She is wearing dark leggings and an oversized sweater that I bought for her at Camden Market. I told her it was for me, but I knew what would happen. She always borrows my sweaters. She says she likes the way they smell.

  “Where’s Charlie?”

  “Asleep. It’s nearly eleven.”

  When the water boils, she fills each mug and jiggles the tea bags. I can smell the peppermint. Julianne has a shelf full of different herbal teas. She sits opposite me. Her eyes rest on me without any emotion. She slightly rotates her wrists, turning her palms up. With that one small movement she signifies that she is waiting for me to explain.

  I want to say it was all a misunderstanding but I’m afraid it will sound trite. Instead I stick to the story—or what I know of it. How Ruiz thinks I had something to do with Catherine’s murder because my name was in her diary when they fished it out of the canal; and how Catherine came to London for a job interview to be my secretary. I had no idea. Meena arranged the short list. Catherine must have seen the advertisement.

  Julianne is a step ahead of me. “That can’t be the only reason they arrested you.”

  “No. The telephone records show that she called my office on the evening she was killed.”