Michael Robotham

by Suspect

  "What did you make of him?"

  "He had his faults, but he was an honest judge. I respected him."

  Ruiz is trying hard to be cordial, but polite restraint doesn't come naturally to him.

  "Do you know what I find really hard to explain?" he says. "Why it took you so long to tell me about knowing Catherine McBride and her grandfather, yet you give me a crock of shit about somebody called Bobby Moran. No, sorry that isn't right?you /don't/ talk about your patients, do you? You just play little schoolboy games of show and tell. Well, two can play that game..."

  He grins at me?all white teeth and dark eyes.

  "Shall I tell you what I've been doing these last two weeks? I've been searching this canal. We brought in dredging equipment and emptied the locks. It was a lousy job. There was three feet of putrid sludge and slime. We found stolen bicycles, shopping carts, car chas�sis, hubcaps, two washing machines, car tires, condoms and more than four thousand used syringes ... Do you know what else we found?"

  I shake my head.

  "Catherine McBride's handbag and her mobile phone. It took us a while to dry everything out. Then we had to check the phone records. That's when we discovered that the very last call she made was to your office. At 6:37 p.m. on Wednesday, November thir�teenth. She was calling from a pub not far from here. Whoever had arranged to meet her hadn't turned up. My guess is that she called to find out why."

  "How can you be sure?"

  Ruiz smiles. "We also found her diary. It had been in the water for so long the pages were stuck together and the ink had washed away. The scene-of-crime boys had to dry it very carefully and pull the pages apart. Then they used an electron microscope to find the faint traces of ink. It's amazing what they can do nowadays."

  Ruiz has squared up to me, his eyes just inches from mine. This is his Agatha Christie moment: his drawing-room soliloquy.

  "Catherine had a note in her diary under November thirteenth. She wrote down the name of the Grand Union Hotel. Do you know it?"

  I nod.

  "It's only about a mile along the canal, near that tennis club of yours." Ruiz motions with a sway of his head. "At the bottom of the same page she wrote a name. I think she planned to meet that per�son. Do you know whose name it was?"

  I shake my head.

  "Care to hazard a guess?"

  I feel a tightness in my chest. "Mine?"

  Ruiz doesn't allow himself a final flourish or triumphant gesture. This is just the beginning. I see the glint of handcuffs as they emerge from his pocket. My first impulse is to laugh, but then the coldness reaches inside me and I want to vomit.

  "I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You have the right to remain silent, but it is my duty to warn you that anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you..."

  The steel bracelets close around my wrists. Ruiz forces my legs apart and searches me, starting at my ankles and working his way up.

  "Have you anything to say?"

  It's strange the things that occur to you at times like this. I sud�denly remember a line my father used to quote to me whenever I was in trouble: "Don't say anything unless you can improve on the silence."

  *Book Two*

  We are often criminals in the eyes of the earth, not only for having committed crimes, but because we know what crimes have been committed. ?/The Man in the Iron Mask/

  **1**

  I have been staring at the same square of light for so long that when I close my eyes it's still there, shining inside my eyelids. The window is high up on the wall, above the door. Occasionally, I hear footsteps in the corridor. The hinged observation flap opens and eyes peer at me. After several seconds, the hatch shuts and I go back to staring at the window.

  I don't know what time it is. I was forced to trade my wristwatch, belt and shoelaces for a gray blanket that feels more like sandpaper than wool. The only sound I can hear is the leaking cis�tern in the adjacent cell.

  It has been quiet since the last of the drunks arrived. That must have been after closing time?just long enough for someone to fall asleep on the night bus, get into a fight with a taxi driver and finish up in the back of a police van. I can still hear him kicking at the cell door and shouting, "I didn't fucking touch him."

  My cell is six paces long and four paces wide. It has a toilet, a sink and a bunk bed. Graffiti has been drawn, scratched, gouged and smeared on every wall, although valiant attempts have been made to paint over it.

  Above the heavy metal door, chipped into brickwork, is the mes�sage: Hey, I just saw someone from the Village People!

  I don't know where Ruiz has gone. He's probably tucked up in bed, dreaming of making the world a safer place. Our first interview session lasted a few minutes. When I told him that I wanted a lawyer he advised me to "Get a bloody good one."

  Most of the lawyers I know don't make house calls at that time of night. I called Jock and woke him instead. I could hear a female voice complaining in the background.

  "Where are you?"

  "Harrow Road Police Station."

  "What are you doing there?"

  "I've been arrested."

  "Wow!" Only Jock could sound impressed at this piece of news.

  "I need you to do me a favor. I want you to call Julianne and tell her I'm OK. Tell her I'm helping the police with an investigation. She'll know the one."

  "Why don't you tell her the truth?"

  "Please, Jock, don't ask. I need time to work this through."

  Since then I've been pacing the cell. I stand. I sit. I walk.

  I sit on the toilet. My nerves have made me constipated or maybe it's the medication. Ruiz thinks I've been holding things back or being economical with the truth. Hindsight is an exact science. Right now my mistakes keep dividing inside my head, fighting for space with all the questions.

  People talk about the sins of omission. What does that mean? Who decides if something is a sin? I know that I'm being semantic, but judging by the way people moralize and jump to conclusions, anyone would think that the truth is real and solid, that it's some�thing that can be picked up and passed around, weighed and mea�sured, before being agreed upon.

  But the truth isn't like that. If I were to tell you this story to�morrow it would be different than today. I would have filtered the details through my defenses and rationalized my actions. Truth /is/ a matter of semantics, whether we like it or not.

  I hadn't recognized Catherine from the drawing. And the body I saw in the morgue seemed more like a vandalized shop-front man�nequin than a real human being. It had been five years. I told Ruiz as soon as I was sure. Yes, it could have been sooner, but he already knew her name.

  Nobody likes admitting mistakes. And we all hate acknowledg�ing the large gap between what we should do and what we actually do. So we alter either our actions or our beliefs. We make excuses, or redefine our conduct in a more flattering light. In my business it's called "cognitive dissonance." It hasn't worked for me. My inner voice?call it my conscience or soul or guardian angel?keeps whis�pering "Liar, liar, pants on fire..."

  Ruiz is right. I am in a shitload of trouble.

  I lie on the narrow cot, feeling the springs press into my back.

  Summoning my sister's new boyfriend to a police station at six thirty in the morning is an odd way to make somebody feel like part of the family. I don't know many criminal barristers. Usually I deal with Crown solicitors who treat me like their new best friend or something nasty they stepped in, depending on what opinion I offer in court.

  Simon arrives an hour later. There's no small talk about Patricia or appreciation for Sunday's lunch. Instead he motions for me to sit down and pulls up a chair. This is business.

  The holding cells are on the floor below us. The charge room must be nearby. I can smell coffee and hear the tapping of computer keyboards. There are Venetian blinds at the windows of the interview room. The strips of sky are beginning to grow light.

  Simon opens hi
s briefcase and takes out a blue folder and a large legal notebook. I'm amazed at how he combines a Santa Claus physique with the demeanor of a lawyer.

  "We need to make some decisions. They want to start the inter�views as soon as possible. Is there anything you want to tell me?"

  I feel myself blinking rapidly. What does he mean? Does he ex�pect me to confess?

  "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 sus�pect 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 re�ceived 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 cor�ridor 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 cor�ner 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 him�self."

  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. Nei�ther has the younger detective, sitting to the side of and slightly be�hind Ruiz.

  "Did you know Catherine McBride?"

  "Yes."

  "Where did you first meet her?"

  I tell the whole story?about the self-mutilation and the coun�seling 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 con�vince 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 in�formation 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 sar�casm. 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 con�spired 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 hypno�tized her, fondled her breasts and interfered with her underwear?"

  "She withdrew that complaint. I told you that."

  My chair fa
lls backward with a bang and I realize that I'm on my feet. The young detective is quicker than I am. He matches me for size and is bristling with intent.

  Ruiz looks exultant.

  Simon has hold of my arm. "Professor O'Loughlin?Joe?I ad�vise 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, an�nounces 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.