The Suspect jo-1

by Michael Robotham

  I have no time to respond. Each time I sense a break in Eddie’s diatribe, he simply rolls on through. Maybe this is how he wins so many cases— he doesn’t shut up for long enough to let anyone else get a word in.

  The truth is I have no defense. I have broken more professional guidelines and personal codes than I can list, but I would do the same again. Bobby Moran is a sadist and a serial liar. Yet at the same time I feel a terrible sense of loss. By betraying a patient’s trust I have opened a door and crossed a threshold into a place that is supposed to be out of bounds. Now I’m waiting for the door to hit me in the ass.

  Eddie hangs up and I stare at the phone. I press the speed dial. Julianne’s voice is on the answering machine. My guts contract. Life without her seems unthinkable. I have no idea what I want to say. I try to be cheerful because I figure Charlie might hear the message. I finish up sounding like Father Christmas. I call back and leave another message. The second one is even worse.

  I give up and begin sorting out my files. The police emptied my filing cabinets, looking for anything hidden at the back of the drawers. I look up as Fenwick’s head peers around the door. He is standing in the corridor, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

  “A quick word, old boy.”

  “Yes.”

  “Terrible business all this. Just want to say ‘Chin up,’ and all that. Don’t let the rotters get you down.”

  “That’s very nice of you, Fenwick.”

  He sways from foot to foot. “Awful business. A real bugger. I’m sure you understand. What with the negative publicity and the like…” He looks wretched.

  “What’s the matter, Fenwick?”

  “Given the circumstances, old boy, Geraldine suggested it might be better if you weren’t my best man. What would the other guests say? Awfully sorry. Hate kicking a man when he’s down.”

  “That’s fine. Good luck.”

  “Jolly good. Well… um… I’ll leave you to it. I’ll see you this afternoon at the meeting.”

  “What meeting?”

  “Oh dear, hasn’t anyone told you? What a bugger!” His face turns bright pink.

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s not really my place…” He mumbles and shakes his head. “The partners are having a meeting at four. Some of us— not me, of course— are a little concerned about the impact of all this on the practice. The negative publicity and the like. Never good news having the police raid the place and reporters asking questions. You understand.”

  “Of course.” I smile through gritted teeth. Fenwick is already backing out of the door. Meena flashes him a look that sends him into full retreat.

  There are no benign possibilities. My esteemed colleagues are to discuss my partnership— banishment being the issue. My resignation will be sought. A choice of words will be agreed and a chat with the chief accountant will wrap the whole thing up without any fuss. Bollocks to that!

  Fenwick is already halfway down the corridor. I call after him. “Tell them I’ll sue the practice if they try to force me out. I’m not resigning.”

  Meena gives me a look of solidarity. It is mixed with another expression that could be mistaken for pity. I’m not used to people feeling sorry for me.

  “I think you should go home. There’s no point in staying,” I tell her.

  “What about answering the phone?”

  “I’m not expecting any calls.”

  It takes twenty minutes for Meena to leave, fussing over her desk and glancing fretfully at me as though she is breaking some secretarial code of loyalty. Once alone, I close the blinds, push the unsorted folders to one side and lean back in my chair.

  What mirror did I break? What ladder did I walk under? I am not a believer in God or fate or destiny. Maybe this is the “law of averages.” Maybe Elisa was right. My life has been too easy. Having won nearly every important toss of the coin, my luck has now run out.

  The ancient Greeks used to say that Lady Luck was a very beautiful girl with curly hair who walked among people in the street. Perhaps her name was Karma. She is a fickle mistress, a prudent woman, a tramp and a Manchester United supporter. She used to be mine.

  It rains on the walk to Covent Garden. In the restaurant I shake out my coat and hand it to a waitress. Drops of water leak down my forehead. Elisa arrives fifteen minutes later, wrapped warmly in a black overcoat with a fur collar. Underneath she’s dressed in a dark blue camisole with spaghetti straps and a matching miniskirt. Her stockings are seamed and dark. She uses a linen napkin to dry herself and runs her fingers through her hair.

  “I never remember to carry an umbrella anymore.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I used to have one with a carved handle. It had a stiletto blade inside the shaft… in case of trouble. See how well you taught me.” She laughs and reapplies her lipstick. I want to touch the tip of her tongue with my fingers.

  I cannot explain what it is like to sit in a restaurant with such a beautiful woman. Men covet Julianne, but with Elisa there is real hunger as their insides flutter and their hearts knock. There is something very pure, impulsive and innately sexual about her. It is as though she has refined, filtered and distilled her sexuality to a point where a man can believe that a single drop might be enough to satisfy him for a lifetime.

  Elisa glances over her shoulder and instantly attracts a waiter’s attention. She orders a salad nicoise and I choose the penne carbonara.

  Normally I enjoy the confidence that comes with sitting opposite Elisa, but today I feel old and decrepit, like a gnarled olive tree with brittle bark. She talks quickly and eats slowly, picking at the seared tuna and slices of red onion.

  Although I let her talk, I feel desperate and impatient. My salvation must start today. She is still watching me. Her eyes are like mirrors within mirrors. I can see myself. My hair is plastered to my forehead. I feel like I haven’t really slept in weeks.

  Elisa apologizes for “rabbiting on.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  I hesitate and then begin slowly— telling her about my arrest and the murder investigation. As I describe each new low point her eyes cloud with concern. “Why didn’t you just tell the police you were with me?” she asks. “I don’t mind.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Is it because of your wife?”

  “No. She knows.”

  Elisa shrugs her shoulders, neatly summing up her views on marriage. As a cultural institution she has nothing against it because it always provided some of her best customers. Married men were preferable to single men because they showered more often and smelled better.

  “So what’s stopping you from telling the police?”

  “I wanted to ask you first.”

  She laughs at how old-fashioned that sounds. I feel myself blush.

  “Before you say anything, I want you to think very carefully,” I tell her. “I am in a very difficult position when I admit to spending the night with you. There are codes of conduct… ethics. You are a former patient.”

  “But that was years ago.”

  “It makes no difference. There are people who will try to use it against me. They already see me as a maverick because of my work with prostitutes and the TV documentary. And they’re lining up to attack me over this… over you.”

  Her eyes flash. “They don’t need to know. I’ll go to the police and give a statement. I’ll tell them you were with me. Nobody else has to find out.”

  I try to muster all the kindness I have left, but my words still sting. “Think for a moment what will happen if I get charged. You will have to give evidence. The prosecution will try everything they can to destroy my alibi. You are a former prostitute. You have convictions for malicious wounding. You have spent time in jail. You are also a former patient of mine. I met you when you were only fifteen. No matter how many times we tell them this was just one night, they’ll think it was more…” I run out of steam, stabbing my f
ork into my half-finished bowl of pasta.

  Elisa’s lighter flares. The flame catches in her eyes, which are already blazing. I have never seen her come so close to losing her poise. “I’ll leave it up to you,” she says softly. “But I’m willing to give a statement. I’m not afraid.”

  “Thank you.”

  We sit in silence. After a while she reaches across the table and squeezes my hand again. “You never told me why you were so upset that night.”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Is your wife very upset?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is lucky to have you. I hope she realizes that.”

  6

  As I open the office door I’m aware of a presence in the room. The chrome-faced clock above the filing cabinet shows half past three. Bobby Moran is standing in front of my bookcase. He seems to have appeared out of thin air.

  He turns suddenly. I don’t know who is more startled.

  “I knocked. There was no answer.” He drops his head. “I have an appointment,” he says, reading my thoughts.

  “Shouldn’t that be with your lawyer? I heard you were suing me for slander, breach of confidentiality and whatever else he can dredge up.”

  He looks embarrassed. “Mr. Barrett says I should do those things. He says I could get a lot of money.”

  He squeezes past me and stands at my desk. He’s very close. I can smell fried dough and sugar. Damp hair is plastered to his forehead in a ragged fringe.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I wanted to see you.” There is something threatening in his voice.

  “I can’t help you, Bobby. You haven’t been honest with me.”

  “Are you always honest?”

  “I try to be.”

  “How? By telling the police I killed that girl?”

  He picks up a smooth glass paperweight from my desk and weighs it in his right hand, then his left. He holds it up to the light.

  “Is this your crystal ball?”

  “Please, put it down.”

  “Why? Scared I might bury it in your forehead?”

  “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “After you.” He points to my chair. “Why did you become a psychologist? Don’t tell me. Let me guess… A repressive father and an overprotective mother. Or is there a dark family secret? A relative who started howling at the moon so they locked her away?”

  I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how close he is to the truth. “I’m not here to talk about me.”

  Bobby glances at the wall behind me. “How can you hang that diploma? It’s a joke! Until three days ago you thought I was someone completely different. Yet you were going to stand up in court and tell a judge whether I should be locked up or set free. What gives you the right to destroy someone’s life? You don’t know me.”

  Listening to him I sense that for once I am talking to the real Bobby Moran. He lobs the paperweight onto the desk where it rolls in slow motion and drops into my lap.

  “Did you kill Catherine McBride?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know her?”

  His eyes lock onto mine. “You’re not very good at this, are you? I expected more.”

  “This is not a game.”

  “No. It’s more important than that.”

  We regard each other in silence.

  “Do you know what a serial liar is, Bobby?” I ask eventually. “It is someone who finds it easier to tell a lie rather than the truth, in any situation, regardless of whether it is important or not.”

  “People like you are supposed to know when someone is lying.”

  “That doesn’t alter what you are.”

  “All I did was change a few names and places— you got the rest of it wrong all by yourself.”

  “What about Arky?”

  “She left me six months ago.”

  “You said you had a job.”

  “I told you I was a writer.”

  “You’re very good at telling stories.”

  “Now you’re making fun of me. Do you know what’s wrong with people like you? You can’t resist putting your hands inside someone’s psyche and changing the way they view the world. You play God with other people’s lives…”

  “Who are these ‘people like me’? Who have you seen before?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Bobby says dismissively. “You’re all the same. Psychologists, psychiatrists, psychotherapists, tarot card readers, witch doctors…”

  “You were in hospital. Is that where you met Catherine McBride?”

  “You must think I’m an idiot.”

  Bobby almost loses his composure, but recovers himself quickly. He has almost no physiological response to lying. His pupil dilation, pore size, skin flush and breathing remain exactly the same. He’s like a poker player who has no “tells.”

  “Everything I’ve done in my life and everyone I have come into contact with is significant; the good, the bad and the ugly,” he says, with a note of triumph in his voice. “We are the sum of our parts or the part of our sums. You say this isn’t a game, but you’re wrong. It’s good versus evil. White versus black. Some people are pawns and some are kings.”

  “Which are you?” I ask.

  He thinks about this. “I was once a pawn but I reached the end of the board. I can be anything now.”

  Bobby sighs and gets to his feet. The conversation has started to bore him. The session is only half an hour old but he’s had enough. It should never have started. Eddie Barrett is going to have a field day.

  I follow Bobby into the outer office. A part of me wants him to stay. I want to shake the tree and see what falls off the branches. I want the truth.

  Bobby is waiting at the lift. The doors open.

  “Good luck.”

  He turns and looks at me curiously. “I don’t need luck.” The slight upturn of his mouth gives the illusion of a smile.

  Back at my desk, I stare at the empty chair. An object on the floor catches my eye. It looks like a small carved figurine— a chess piece. Picking it up, I discover it’s a small wooden whale carved by hand. A key ring is attached with a small eyelet screw on the whale’s back. It’s the sort of thing you see hanging from a child’s satchel or schoolbag.

  Bobby must have dropped it. I can still catch him. I can call downstairs to the foyer and get the receptionist to have him wait. I look at the clock. Ten minutes past four. The meeting has started upstairs. I don’t want to be here.

  Bobby’s sheer size makes him stand out. He’s a head taller than anybody else and pedestrians seem to divide and part to let him through. Rain is falling. I bury my hands in my overcoat. My fingers close around the smooth wooden whale.

  Bobby is heading toward the underground station at Oxford Circus. If I stay close enough, hopefully I won’t lose him in the labyrinthine walkways. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I guess I want answers instead of riddles. I want to know where he lives and who he lives with.

  Suddenly, he disappears from view. I suppress the urge to run forward. I keep moving at the same pace and pass a liquor store. I catch a glimpse of Bobby at the counter. Two doors farther on I step inside a travel agency. A girl in a red skirt, white blouse and wishbone tie smiles at me.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m just looking.”

  “To escape the winter?”

  I’m holding a brochure for the Caribbean. “Yes, that’s right.”

  Bobby passes the window. I hand her the brochure. “You can take it with you,” she suggests.

  “Maybe next year.”

  On the pavement, Bobby is thirty yards ahead of me. He has a distinctive shape. He has no hips and it looks as though his backside has been stolen. He keeps his trousers pulled up high, with his belt tightly cinched.

  Descending the stairs into the underground station, the crowd seems to swell. Bobby has a ticket ready. There is a queue at every ticket machine. Three underground lines cross at Oxford Circus. If I lo
se him now he can travel in any one of six different directions.

  I push between people, ignoring their complaints. At the turnstile I place my hands on either side of it and lift my legs over the barrier. Now I’m guilty of fare evasion. The escalator descends slowly. A stale wind sweeps up from the tunnels, forced ahead of the moving engines.

  On the northbound platform of the Bakerloo line, Bobby weaves through the waiting crowd until he reaches the far end. I follow him, needing to be close. At any moment I expect him to turn and catch sight of me. Four or five schoolboys, human petri dishes of acne and dandruff, push along the platform, wrestling each other and laughing. Everyone else stares straight ahead in silence.

  A blast of wind and noise. The train appears. Doors open. I let the crowd carry me forward into the carriage. Bobby is in my peripheral vision. The doors close automatically and the train jerks forward and gathers speed. Everything smells of damp wool and stale sweat.

  Bobby gets off the train at Warwick Avenue. It has grown dark. Black cabs swish past, the sound of their tires louder than their engines. The station is only a hundred yards from the Grand Union Canal and perhaps two miles from where Catherine’s body was found.

  With fewer people around I have to drop farther back. Now he’s only a silhouette in front of me. I walk with my head down and collar turned up. As I pass a cement mixer on the footpath, I stumble sideways and put my shoe into a puddle. My balance is deserting me.

  We follow Blomfield Road alongside the canal until Bobby crosses a footbridge at the end of Formosa Street. Spotlights pick out an Anglican church. The fine mist looks like falling glitter around the beams of light. Bobby sits on a park bench and looks at the church for a long time. I lean against the trunk of a tree, my feet growing numb with the cold.

  What is he doing here? Maybe he lives nearby. Whoever killed Catherine knew the canal well: not just from a street map or a casual visit. He was comfortable here. It was his territory. He knew where to leave her body so that she wouldn’t be found too quickly. He fitted in. Nobody recognized him as a stranger.