Suspect

by Michael Robotham

  What happens to someone like me in jail?

  Simon is right. I can’t run. And just like I learned in third form, I can’t hide forever. Bobby wants to destroy me. He doesn’t want me dead. He could have killed me a dozen times over, but he wants me alive so I can see what he’s doing and know that it’s him.

  Will the police keep watching my home or will they call off the surveillance to focus on Wales? I don’t want that. I need to know that Julianne and Charlie are safe.

  The phone rings. Jock has an address for a Bridget Aherne at a hospice in Lancashire.

  “I talked to the senior oncologist. They give her only weeks.”

  I can hear him unwrapping the plastic from a cigar. It’s early. Maybe he’s celebrating. Both of us have settled for an uneasy truce. Like an old married couple, we recognize the half-truths and ignore the irritations.

  “There’s a photograph of you in today’s papers,” he says. “You look like a banker rather than a ‘Most Wanted.’ ”

  “I don’t photograph well.”

  “Julianne gets a mention. They describe her as being ‘overwrought and emotional when visited by reporters.’ She told them to fuck off.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured, too.”

  I can hear him blowing smoke. “I got to hand it to you, Joe. I always took you for a boring fart. Likable enough, but virtuous. Look at you now! Two mistresses and a wanted man.”

  “I didn’t sleep with Catherine McBride.”

  “Shame. She was good in the sack.” He laughs wryly.

  “You should listen to yourself sometimes, Jock.”

  To think I once envied him. Look at what he’s become: a crude parody of a right-wing, middle-class chauvinist and bigot. I no longer trust him, but I need another favor.

  “I want you to stay with Julianne and Charlie—just until I sort this out.”

  “You told me not to go near her.”

  “I know.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help you. Julianne isn’t returning my calls. I figure you must have told her about Catherine and the letters. She’s pissed off at both of us now.”

  “At least call her; tell her to be careful. Tell her to let no one into the house.”

  3

  The Land Rover has a top speed of forty and a tendency to oversteer into the center of the road. It looks more like a museum piece than a motorcar and people honk when they pass as if I’m driving for charity. This could be the most perfect getaway vehicle ever conceived because nobody expects a wanted man to escape so slowly.

  I use the back roads to reach Lancashire. A moldy road map from the glove compartment, circa 1965, keeps me on track. I pass through villages with names like Puddinglake and Woodplumpton. On the outskirts of Blackpool, at a near-deserted petrol station, I use the bathroom to clean up. I sponge the mud from my trousers and hold them under the hand dryer before changing my shirt and washing the cuts on my hands.

  The Squires Gate Hospice is fixed to a rocky headland as though rusted there by the salt air. The turrets, arched windows and slate roof look Edwardian, but the outbuildings are newer and less intimidating.

  Flanked by poplar trees, the driveway curves around the front of the hospital and emerges into a parking area. I follow the signs to the palliative care ward on the ocean side. The corridors are empty and the stairways almost tidy. A black nurse with a shaved head sits behind a glass partition staring at a screen. He is playing a computer game.

  “You have a patient called Bridget Aherne.”

  He looks down at my knees, which are no longer the same color as the rest of my trousers.

  “Are you family?”

  “No. I’m a psychologist. I need to speak to her about her son.”

  His eyebrows arch. “Didn’t know she had a son. She doesn’t get many visitors.”

  I follow his smooth, rolling walk along the corridor, where he turns beneath the staircase and takes me through double doors leading outside. A loose gravel pathway dissects the lawn where two bored-looking nurses share a sandwich on a garden seat.

  We enter a single-story annex nearer to the cliffs and emerge into a long shared ward with maybe a dozen beds, half of them empty. A skinny woman with a smooth skull is propped up on pillows. She is watching two young children who are scribbling on drawing paper at the end of her bed. Elsewhere, a one-legged woman in a yellow dress sits in a wheelchair in front of a television with a crocheted blanket on her lap.

  At the far end of the ward, through two doors, are the private rooms. He doesn’t bother to knock. The room is dark. At first I don’t notice anything except the machines. The monitors and dials create the illusion of medical mastery: as though everything is possible if you calibrate the machinery and press the right buttons.

  A middle-aged woman, with sunken cheeks, is lying at the center of the web of tubes and leads. She has a blond wig, pendulous breasts and tar-colored lesions on her neck. A pink chemise covers her body, with a tattered red cardigan hanging over her shoulders. A bag of solution drips along tubing that snakes in and out of her body. There are black lines around her wrists and ankles—not dark enough to be tattoos and too uniform to be bruises.

  “Don’t give her any cigarettes. She can’t clear her lungs. Every time she coughs it shakes the tubes loose.”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Good for you.” He takes a cigarette from behind his ear and transfers it to his mouth. “You can find your own way back.”

  The curtains are drawn. Music is coming from somewhere. It takes me a while to realize there is a radio playing softly on the bedside table, next to an empty vase and a Bible.

  She’s asleep. Sedated. Morphine perhaps. A tube sticks out of her nose and another comes from somewhere near her stomach. Her face is turned toward the oxygen tank.

  I lean my shoulder against the wall and rest my head.

  “This place gives you the creeps,” she says, without opening her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  I sit down on a chair so she doesn’t have to turn her head to see me. Her eyes open slowly. Her face is whiter than the walls. We stare at each other in the semidarkness.

  “Have you ever been to Maui?”

  “It’s in Hawaii.”

  “I know where it fucking is.” She coughs and the bed rattles. “That’s where I should be now. I should be in America. I should have been born American.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because the Yanks know how to live. Everything is bigger and better. People laugh about it. They call them arrogant and ignorant, but the Yanks are just being honest. They eat little countries like this for breakfast and shit them out before lunch.”

  “Have you ever been to America?”

  She changes the subject. Her eyes are puffy and dribble has leaked from the corner of her mouth.

  “Are you a doctor or a priest?”

  “A psychologist.”

  She laughs sarcastically. “No point getting to know me. Not unless you like funerals.”

  The cancer must have struck quickly. Her body hasn’t had time to waste away. She is pale, with a neat chin, graceful neck and flaring nostrils. If it weren’t for her surroundings and the harshness of her voice, she would still be an attractive woman.

  “The problem with cancer is that it doesn’t feel like cancer, you know. A head cold feels like a cold. And a broken leg feels like a broken leg. But with cancer you don’t know unless you have X-rays and scans. Except for the lump, of course. Who can forget the lump? Feel it!”

  “That’s OK.”

  “Don’t make a fuss. You’re a big boy. Have a feel. You’re probably wondering if they’re real. Most men do.”

  Her hand shoots out and closes around my wrist. Her grip is surprisingly strong. I fight the urge to pull away. She puts my hand under her chemise. My fingers fold into the softness of her breast. “Just there. Can you feel it? It used to be the size of a pea—small and round. Now it’s the size of an orange. Six months ago it sprea
d to my bones. Now it’s in my lungs.”

  My hand is still on her breast. She brushes it over the nipple, which hardens under my palm. “You can fuck me if you like.” She’s serious. “I’d like to feel something other than this . . . this decay.”

  The look of pity on my face infuriates her. She thrusts my hand away and wraps her cardigan tightly around her chest. She won’t look at me.

  “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Forget it! I don’t need any of your buck-up-now speeches. I’m not in denial and I’ve stopped making bargains with God . . .”

  “I’m here about Bobby.”

  “What about him?”

  I haven’t planned what I’m going to ask her. I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Six, maybe seven years ago. He was always in trouble. Wouldn’t listen to anyone. Not me, anyway. Give a kid the best years of your life and he’ll always be ungrateful.” Her sentences are ragged and short. “So what has he done now?”

  “He’s been convicted of a serious assault. He kicked a woman unconscious.”

  “A girlfriend?”

  “No, a stranger.”

  Her features soften. “You’ve talked to him. How is he?”

  “He’s angry.”

  She sighs. “I used to think they gave me the wrong baby at the hospital. It didn’t feel like mine. He looked like his father, which was a shame. I couldn’t see any of me in him, except his eyes. He had two left feet and a round loaf of a face. He could never keep anything clean. He had to put his hands into things, open them up, find out how they worked. He once ruined a perfectly good radio and leaked battery acid all over my best rug. Just like his father . . .”

  She doesn’t finish the statement, but starts again. “I never felt what a mother is supposed to feel. I guess I’m not maternal, but that doesn’t make me cold, does it? I didn’t want to get pregnant and I didn’t want to inherit a stepson. I was only twenty-one for Christ’s sake!”

  She arches a pencil-thin eyebrow. “You’re itching to get inside my head, aren’t you? Not many people are interested in what someone else is thinking or what they have to say. Sometimes people act like they’re listening, when really they’re waiting for their turn, or getting ready to jump in. What are you waiting to say, Mr. Freud?”

  “I’m trying to understand.”

  “Lenny was like that: Always asking questions, wanting to know where I was going and when I was coming home.” She mimics his pleading voice. “‘Who are you with, petal? Please, come home. I’ll wait up for you.’ It was so pathetic! No wonder I got to thinking is this the best I can do. I wasn’t going to lie next to his sweaty back for the rest of my life.”

  “He committed suicide.”

  “I didn’t think he had it in him.”

  “Do you know why?”

  She doesn’t seem to hear me. Instead she stares at the curtains. The window must look directly over the ocean.

  “You don’t like the view?”

  She shrugs. “There’s a rumor going around that they don’t bother burying us. They throw us off the cliff instead.”

  “What about your husband?”

  She doesn’t look at me. “He called himself an inventor. What a joke! Do you know that if he made any money—fat chance of that—he was going to give it away? ‘To enrich the world,’ he said. That’s what he was like, always rambling on about empowering the workers and the proletariat revolution, making speeches and moralizing. Communists don’t believe in heaven or hell. Where do you think he is?”

  “I’m not a religious person.”

  “But do you think he might have gone somewhere?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Her armor of indifference shows a weakness. “Maybe we’re all in hell and we just don’t realize it.” She pauses and half closes her eyes. “I wanted a divorce. He said no. I told him to get himself a girlfriend. He wouldn’t let me go. People say I’m cold, but I feel more than they do. I knew how to find pleasure. I knew how to use what I was given. Does that make me a slut? Some people spend their entire lives in denial or making other people happy or collecting points they think can be redeemed in the next life. Not me.”

  “You accused your husband of sexually abusing Bobby.”

  She shrugs. “I just loaded the gun. I didn’t fire it. People like you did that. Doctors, social workers, schoolteachers, lawyers, do-gooders . . .”

  “Did we get it wrong?”

  “The judge didn’t think so.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think that sometimes you can forget what the truth is if you hear a lie often enough.” She reaches up and pushes the buzzer above her head.

  I can’t leave yet. “Why does your son hate you?”

  “We all end up hating our parents.”

  “You feel guilty.”

  She clenches her fists and laughs hoarsely. A chrome stand holding a morphine drip swings back and forth. “I’m forty-three years old and I’m dying. I’m paying the price for anything I’ve done. Can you say the same?”

  The nurse arrives looking pissed off at being summoned. One of the monitor leads has come loose. Bridget holds up her arm to have it reconnected. In the same motion she dismissively waves her hand. The conversation is over.

  It has grown dark outside. I follow the path lights between the trees until I reach the car park. Taking the thermos from the bag, I swig from it greedily. The whiskey tastes fiery and warm. I want to keep drinking until I can’t feel the cold or notice my arm trembling.

  4

  Melinda Cossimo answers the door reluctantly. Visitors this late on a Sunday night are rarely good news for a social worker. I don’t give her time to speak. “The police are looking for me. I need your help.”

  She blinks at me wide-eyed, but looks almost calm. Her hair is swept up and pinned high on her head with a large tortoise-shell clip. Wispy strands have escaped to stroke her cheeks and neck. As the door closes, she motions me onward, telling me to march straight up the stairs to the bathroom. She waits outside the door while I pass her my clothes.

  I protest about not having the time, but she doesn’t react to the urgency in my voice. It won’t take long to wash a few things, she says.

  I stare at the naked stranger in the mirror. He has lost weight. That can happen when you don’t eat. I know what Julianne would say: “Why can’t I lose weight that easily?” The stranger in the mirror smiles at me.

  I come downstairs wearing a robe and hear Mel hang up the phone. By the time I reach the kitchen she has opened a bottle of wine and is filling two glasses.

  “Who did you call?”

  “Nobody important.”

  She curls up in a large armchair, with the stem of her wineglass slotted between the first and second fingers of her outspread hand. Her other hand rests on the back of an open book, lying facedown across the armrest. The reading lamp above her casts a shadow beneath her eyes and gives her mouth a harsh downward curve.

  This has always been a house I associate with laughter and good times, but now it seems too quiet. One of Boyd’s paintings hangs above the mantelpiece and another on the opposite wall. There is a photograph of him and his motorbike at the Isle of Man TT track.

  “So what have you done?”

  “The police think I killed Catherine McBride, among others.”

  “Among others?” One eyebrow arches like an oxbow.

  “Well, just one ‘other.’ A former patient.”

  “You’re going to tell me that you’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Not unless being foolish is a crime.”

  “Why are you running?”

  “Because someone wants to frame me . . .”

  “Bobby Morgan.”

  “Yes.”

  She raises her hand. “I don’t want to know any more. I’m in enough trouble for showing you the files.”

  “We got it wrong.”


  “What do you mean?”

  “I just talked to Bridget Morgan. I don’t think Bobby’s father abused him.”

  “She told you that!”

  “She wanted out of the marriage. He wouldn’t give her a divorce.”

  “He left a suicide note.”

  “One word.”

  “An apology.”

  “Yes, but for what?”

  Mel’s voice is cold. “This is ancient history, Joe. Leave it alone. You know the unwritten rule—never go back, never reopen a case. I have enough lawyers looking over my shoulder without another bloody lawsuit . . .”

  “What happened to Erskine’s notes? They weren’t in the files.”

  She hesitates. “He might have asked to have them excluded.”

  “Why?”

  “Perhaps Bobby asked to see his file. He’s allowed to do that. A ward can see the write-ups by the duty social worker and some of the minutes of the meetings. Third party submissions like doctor’s notes and psych reports are different. We need to get permission from the specialist to release them . . .”

  “Are you saying that Bobby saw his file?”

  “Maybe.” In the same breath she dismisses the idea. “It’s an old file. Things get misplaced.”

  “Could Bobby have removed the notes?”

  She whispers angrily, “You can’t be serious, Joe! Worry about yourself.”

  “Could he have seen the video?”

  She shakes her head, refusing to say anything more. I can’t let it go. Without her help my frail improbable theory goes south. Talking quickly, as though afraid she might stop me, I tell her about the chloroform, the whales and the windmills: how Bobby has stalked me for months, infiltrating the lives of everyone around me.

  At some point she puts my washed clothes in the dryer and refills my wineglass. I follow her to the kitchen and shout over the whine of the blender as it pulverizes warm chickpeas. She puts a dollop of humus on slices of toast, seasoned with crushed black pepper.

  “So that’s why I need to find Rupert Erskine. I need his notes or his memories.”