by Suspect
Jock hands me a glass of orange juice and we sit in silence star�ing at the percolator.
"I could call her for you," he suggests.
I shake my head.
"I could tell her how you're moping around the place ... no good to anyone ... lost ... desolate..."
"It wouldn't make any difference."
He asks about the argument. He wants to know what upset her. Was it the arrest, the headlines or the fact that I lied to her?
"The lying."
"I figured as much."
He keeps pressing me for details. I don't really want to go there, but the story comes out as my coffee grows cold. Perhaps Jock can help me make sense of it all.
When I reach the part about seeing Catherine's body in the morgue, I suddenly realize that he might have known her. He knew a lot more of the nurses at the Marsden than I did.
"Yeah, I was thinking that," he says, "but the photograph they put in the paper didn't ring any bells. The police wanted to know if you stayed with me on the night she died," he adds.
"Sorry about that."
"Where were you?"
I shrug.
"It's /true/ then. You've been having a bit on the side."
"It's not like that."
"It never is, old son."
Jock goes into his schoolboy routine, wanting to know all the "sordid details." I won't play along, which makes him grumpy.
"So why couldn't you tell the police where you were?"
"I'd rather not say."
Frustration passes quickly across his face. He doesn't push any further. Instead he changes tack and admonishes me for not talking to him sooner. If I wanted him to provide me with an alibi, I should have at least told him.
"What if Julianne had asked me? I might have given the game away. And I could have told the police you were with me, instead of dropping you in the shit."
"You told the truth."
"I would have lied for you."
"What if I /had/ killed her?"
"I still would have lied for you. You'd do the same for me."
I shake my head. "I wouldn't lie for you if I thought you'd killed someone."
His eyes meet mine and stay there. Then he laughs and shrugs. "We'll never know."
**5**
At the office I cross the lobby aware that the security guards and re�ceptionist are staring at me. I take the lift upstairs to find Meena at her desk and an empty waiting room.
"Where is everyone?"
"They canceled."
"Everyone?"
I lean over her desk and look down the appointments list for the day. All the names are crossed out with a red line. Except for Bobby Moran.
Meena is still talking. "Mr. Lilley's mother died. Hannah Barrymore has the flu. Zoe has to mind her sister's children..." I know she's trying to make me feel better.
I point to Bobby's name and tell her to cross it out.
"He hasn't called."
"Trust me."
Despite Meena's best efforts to clean up, my office is still a mess. Evidence of the police search is everywhere, including the fine graphite powder they used to dust for fingerprints.
"They didn't take any of your files, but some of them were mixed up."
I tell her not to worry. The notes cease to be important if I no longer have any patients. She stands at the door, trying to think of something positive to say. "Did I get you into trouble?"
"What do you mean?"
"The girl who applied for the job ... the one who was mur�dered ... should I have handled it differently?"
"Absolutely not."
"Did you know her?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
This is the first time that anyone has acknowledged the fact that Catherine's death might have saddened me. Everybody else has acted as though I have no feelings one way or the other. Maybe they think I have some special understanding of grief or control over it. If that's the case, they're wrong. Getting to know patients is what I do. I learn about their deepest fears and secrets. A professional relation�ship becomes a personal one. It can be no other way.
I ask Meena about Catherine. How did she sound on the phone? Did she ask questions about me? The police took away her letters and job application, but Meena has kept a copy of her CV.
She fetches it for me and I glance at the covering letter and the first page. The problem with a curriculum vitae is that it tells you vir�tually nothing of consequence about a person. Schools, exam results, tertiary education, work experience?none of it reveals an individ�ual's personality or temperament. It is like trying to judge a person's height from their hair color.
Before I can finish reading, the phone rings in the outer office. Hoping it might be Julianne I pick up the call before Meena can patch it through. The voice on the line is like a force-ten gale. Eddie Barrett lets loose with a string of colorful invective. He is particularly imaginative when it comes to describing uses for my Ph.D. in the event of a toilet paper shortage.
"Listen, you overqualified headshrinker, I'm reporting you to the British Psychological Society, the Qualifications Board and the U.K. Registrar of Expert Witnesses. Bobby Moran is also going to sue you for slander, breach of duty and anything else he can find. You're a dis�grace! You should be struck off! More to the point, you're an ass�hole!"
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 an�other 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 draw�ers. I look up as Fenwick's head peers around the door. He is stand�ing 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 partn
ership?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. Bol�locks 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 ex�pression that could be mistaken for pity. I'm not used to people feel�ing 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 secre�tarial 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 aver�ages." 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 beau�tiful girl with curly hair who walked among people in the street. Per�haps 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 fore�head. 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 stock�ings 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 some�thing 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 sat�isfy 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 oppo�site 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 salva�tion must start today. She is still watching me. Her eyes are like mir�rors 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 mar�riage. As a cultural institution she has nothing against it because it al�ways 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 con�victions 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 fork into my half-finished bowl of pasta.
Elisa's lighter flares. The flame catches in her eyes, which are al�ready 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 state�ment. 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 psy�chologist? 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 some�one 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 Bob
by 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 some�one'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."
