I suspect that he experienced everything Bobby did, although no two children react the same way to sexual abuse or to sadism. Lenny was the most important figure in both their lives and his death lay at the heart of everything.
D.J. finished his apprenticeship in Liverpool, becoming a master plumber. He joined a local firm where people remember him more with apprehension than fondness. He smiled a lot, but there was nothing endearing or infectious about him. At a bar one night he drove a broken bottle into a woman’s face because she didn’t laugh at the punch line of his joke.
He disappeared in the late eighties and reappeared in Thailand running a bar and a brothel. Two teenage junkies who tried to smuggle a kilo of heroin out of Bangkok, told police they had met their supplier in D.J.’s bar, but he skipped the country before anyone could link him to the bust.
He turned up in Australia, working his way down the east coast on building sites. In Melbourne he befriended an Anglican minister and became the manager of a homeless shelter. For a while he seemed to have mended his ways. No more sucker punches, broken noses or snapping ribs with his boots.
Appearances can be deceptive. The Victorian police are now investigating the disappearance of six people from the hostel over a four-year period. Many of their welfare checks were still being cashed up until eighteen months ago when D.J. appeared in the U.K. again.
I don’t know how he found Bobby, but it can’t have been too hard. Given the difference in their ages when D.J. left home, they must have been virtually strangers. Yet they discovered a shared desire.
Bobby’s fantasies of revenge were just that—fantasies—but D.J. had the experience and the lack of empathy to make them come true. One was the architect, the other the builder. Bobby had the creative vision. D.J. had the tools. The end result was a psychopath with a plan.
Many of the pieces have fallen into place as the weeks have passed. Bobby learned about our plumbing problems from my mother. She is notorious for boring people with stories of her children and grandchildren. She even showed him the photo albums and the building plans we submitted to council for the renovations.
D.J. dropped leaflets through every mailbox on the street. Each small job provided another reference and helped convince Julianne to hire him. Once inside, it was easy, although he almost came unstuck when Julianne caught him in my study one afternoon. That’s when he made up the story of disturbing an intruder and chasing him out. He’d gone into the study to check to see if anything had been taken.
Bobby goes on trial at the end of next month. He hasn’t entered a plea, but they expect it to be “not guilty.” The case, though strong, is circumstantial. None of the physical evidence puts a murder weapon in his hand—not for Catherine or Elisa or Boyd or Erskine or Sonia Dutton or Esther Gorski.
Ruiz says it will be over after that, but he’s wrong. This case will never be closed. People tried to shut this away years ago and look what happened. Ignore our mistakes and we are doomed to repeat them. Don’t stop thinking of the white bear.
The events leading up to Christmas have almost become a surreal blur. Rarely do we talk about it, but I know from experience that it will come out one day. Sometimes late at night I hear a car door slam or heavy steps on the footpath and my mind won’t be still. I have feelings of sadness, depression, frustration and anxiety. I am easily startled. I imagine people are watching me from doorways and parked cars. I can’t see a white van without trying to make out the driver’s face.
These are all common reactions to shock and trauma. Maybe it’s good that I know these things, but I would prefer to stop analyzing myself.
I still have my disease, of course. I am part of a study being conducted at one of the research hospitals. Fenwick put me onto it. Once a month I drive to the hospital, clip a card to my shirt pocket and flip through the pages of Country Life while waiting my turn.
The head technician always offers me a cheery, “How are you today?”
“Well, since you ask, I have Parkinson’s disease.”
He smiles wearily, gives me an injection and runs a few tests on my coordination, using video cameras to measure the degree and frequency of my tremors.
I know it will get worse. But what the hell! I’m lucky. A lot of people have Parkinson’s. Not all of them have a beautiful wife, a loving daughter and a new baby to look forward to.
PUBLISHED BY DOUBLEDAY
a division of Random House, Inc.
DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
First published in the United Kingdom by Little, Brown, a division of Time Warner Book Group, UK.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Robotham, Michael, 1960–
Suspect / Michael Robotham.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Psychiatrists—Fiction. 2. Psychotherapist and patient—Fiction. 3. Nurses—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. Fugitives from justice—Fiction. 5. London (England)—Fiction. 6. Married people—Fiction. 7. Revenge—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6118.O26S87 2004
823'.92—dc22 2004050156
Copyright © 2005 by Michael Robotham
All Rights Reserved
eISBN: 978-0-385-51528-3
v3.0
Suspect Page 35