The Suspect jo-1

by Michael Robotham

  Back in my study, I set aside the supplements and magazines and begin looking for stories on Catherine. I’m just about to sit down when I notice one of Charlie’s bug-eyed goldfish is floating upside down in the aquarium. For a moment I think it might be some sort of neat goldfish trick, but on closer inspection it doesn’t look too hale and hearty. It has gray speckles on its scales— evidence of an exotic fish fungus.

  Charlie doesn’t take death very well. Middle Eastern kingdoms have shorter periods of mourning. Scooping up the fish in my hand, I stare at the poor creature. I wonder if she’ll believe it just disappeared. She is only eight. Then again, she doesn’t believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny anymore. How could I have bred such a cynic?

  “Charlie, I have some bad news. One of your goldfish has disappeared.”

  “How could it just disappear?”

  “Well, actually it died. I’m sorry.”

  “Where is it?”

  “You don’t really want to see it, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  The fish is still in my hand, which is in my pocket. When I open my palm it seems more like a magic trick than a solemn deed.

  “At least you didn’t try to buy me a new one,” she says.

  Being very organized, Julianne has a whole collection of shoe boxes and drawstring bags that she keeps for this sort of death in the family. With Charlie looking on, I bury the bug-eyed goldfish under the plum tree, between the late Harold Hamster, a mouse known only as Mouse and a baby sparrow that flew into the French doors and broke its neck.

  By one o’clock most of the family has assembled, except for my older sister, Lucy, and her husband, Eric, who have three children whose names I can never remember, but I know they end with an “ee” sound like Debbie, Jimmy or Bobby.

  God’s-personal-physician-in-waiting had wanted Lucy to name her oldest boy after him. He liked the idea of a third generation Joseph. Lucy held firm and called him something else— Andy maybe, or Gary, or Freddy.

  They’re always late. Eric is an air-traffic controller and the most absentminded person I have ever met. It’s frightening. He keeps forgetting where we live and has to phone up and ask for directions every time he visits. How on earth does he keep dozens of planes apart in the air? Whenever I book a flight out of Heathrow I feel like ringing up Lucy in advance and asking whether Eric is working.

  My middle sister, Patricia, is in the kitchen with her new man, Simon, a criminal lawyer who works for one of those TV series that exposes miscarriages of justice. Patricia’s divorce has come through and she’s celebrating with champagne.

  “I hardly think it warrants Bollinger,” says my father.

  “Why ever not?” she says, taking a quick slurp before it bubbles over.

  I decide to rescue Simon. Nobody deserves this sort of introduction to our family. We take our drinks into the sitting room and make small talk. Simon has a jolly round face and keeps slapping his stomach like a department store Santa. “Sorry to hear about the old Parkinson’s,” he says. “Terrible business.”

  My heart sinks. “Who told you?”

  “Patricia.”

  “How did she know?”

  Suddenly realizing his mistake, Simon starts apologizing. There have been some depressing moments in the past month, but none quite so depressing as standing in front of a complete stranger, who is drinking my scotch and feeling sorry for me.

  Who else knows?

  The doorbell rings. Eric, Lucy and the “ee” children come bustling in, with lots of vigorous handshakes and cheek kisses. Lucy takes one look at me and her bottom lip starts to tremble. She throws her arms around me and I feel her body shaking against my chest. “I’m really sorry, Joe. So, so sorry.”

  My chin is resting on the top of her head. Eric puts his outstretched hand on my shoulder as if giving me a papal blessing. I don’t think I have ever been so embarrassed.

  The rest of the afternoon stretches out before me like a four-hour sociology lecture. When I get tired of answering questions about my health, I retreat to the garden where Charlie is playing with the “ee” children. She is showing them where we buried the goldfish. I finally remember their names, Harry, Perry and Jenny.

  Harry is only a toddler and looks like a miniature Michelin man in his padded jacket and woolen hat. I toss him in the air, making him giggle. The other children are grabbing my legs, pretending I’m a monster. I spy Julianne looking wistfully out the French doors. I know what she’s thinking.

  After lunch we retire to the sitting room and Julianne organizes coffee and tea. Everyone says nice things about the tree and my mother’s fruitcake.

  “Let’s play Who Am I?” says Charlie, whose mouth is speckled with crumbs. She doesn’t hear the collective groan. Instead, she hands out pens and paper, while breathlessly explaining the rules.

  “You all have to think of someone famous. They don’t have to be real. It can be a cartoon character, or a movie star. It could even be Lassie…”

  “That’s my choice gone.”

  She scowls at me. “Don’t let anyone see the name you write. Then you stick the paper on someone else’s forehead. They have to guess who they are.”

  The game turns out to be a scream. God’s-personal-physician-in-waiting can’t understand why everybody laughs so uproariously at the name on his forehead: Grumpy from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

  I’m actually beginning to enjoy myself when the doorbell rings and Charlie dashes out to answer it. Lucy and Patricia start clearing the cups and plates.

  “You don’t look like a policeman,” says Charlie.

  “I’m a detective.”

  “Does that mean you have a badge?”

  “Do you want to see it?”

  “Maybe I should.”

  Ruiz is reaching into his inside jacket pocket when I reach the door.

  “We’ve taught her to be careful,” I say apologetically.

  “That’s very wise.” He smiles at Charlie and looks fifteen years younger. For a brief moment I think he might ruffle her hair, but people don’t do that so much nowadays.

  Ruiz looks past me into the hall and apologizes for disturbing me.

  “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes,” he mumbles and then pats at his pockets as though he’s written a note to remind himself.

  “Would you like to come in?”

  “If that’s OK.”

  I lead him to my study and offer to take his coat. Catherine’s notes are still open on my desk where I left them.

  “Doing a little homework?”

  “I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.”

  “And had you?”

  “No.”

  “You could let me be the judge of that.”

  “Not this time.” I close the notebooks and put them away.

  Walking around my desk, he glances at my bookcases, studying the various photographs and my souvenir water pipe from Syria.

  “Where has he been?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said that my murderer didn’t start with Catherine, so where has he been?”

  “Practicing.”

  “On whom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ruiz is now at the window, looking across the garden. He rolls his shoulders and the starched collar of his shirt presses under his ears. I want to ask him what he’s learned about Bobby, but he interrupts me.

  “Is he going to kill again?”

  I don’t want to answer. Hypothetical situations are perilous. He senses me pulling back and won’t let me escape. I have to say something.

  “At the moment he is still thinking about Catherine and how she died. When those memories begin to fade, he may go looking for new experiences to feed his fantasies.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “His actions were relaxed and deliberate. He wasn’t out of control or consumed by anger or desire. He was calm, considered, almost euphoric in his
planning.”

  “Where are these other victims? Why haven’t we found them?”

  “Maybe you haven’t established a link.”

  Ruiz flinches and squares his shoulders. He resents the inference that he’s missed something important. At the same time he’s not going to jeopardize the investigation because of overweening pride. He wants to understand.

  “You’re looking for clues in the method and symbolism, but these can only come from comparing crimes. Find another victim and you may find a pattern.”

  Ruiz grinds his teeth as though wearing them down. What else can I give him?

  “He knows the area. It took time to bury Catherine. He knew there were no houses overlooking that part of the canal. And he knew what time of night the towpath was deserted.”

  “So he lives locally.”

  “Or used to.”

  Ruiz is seeing how the facts support the theory, trying them on for size. People are moving downstairs. A toilet flushes. A child cries in anger.

  “But why would he choose such a public place? He could have hidden her in the middle of nowhere.”

  “He wasn’t hiding her. He let you have Catherine.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe he’s proud of his handiwork or he’s giving you a sneak preview.”

  Ruiz grimaces. “I don’t know how you do your job. How can you walk around knowing sick fucks like that are on the loose? How can you live inside their heads?” He crosses his arms and jams his hands under his armpits. “Then again, maybe you enjoy that sort of shit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You tell me. Is it a game for you, playing detective? Showing me one patient’s file and not another’s. Phoning up and asking me questions. Are you enjoying this?”

  “I… I didn’t ask to be brought into this.”

  He enjoys my anger. In the silence I hear laughter downstairs.

  “I think you had better leave.”

  He regards me with satisfaction and physical superiority, before taking his coat and descending the stairs. Exhausted, I can visualize my energy draining away.

  At the front door, Ruiz turns down the collar of his jacket and looks back at me.

  “In the hunt, Professor, there are foxes and there are hounds and there are hunt saboteurs. Which one are you?”

  “I don’t believe in foxhunting.”

  “Is that right? Neither does the fox.”

  When our guests have gone, Julianne sends me upstairs to have a bath. Some time later I’m aware of her sliding into bed beside me. She turns and nestles backward until her body molds into mine. Her hair smells of apple and cinnamon.

  “I’m tired,” I whisper.

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “That’s not what I’m getting at. I’ve been thinking about making a few changes.”

  “Like what?”

  “Just changes.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “We could go on a holiday. We could go to California. We’ve always talked of doing that.”

  “What about your job… and Charlie’s schooling.”

  “She’s young. She’ll learn a lot more if we go traveling for six months than she will at school…”

  Julianne turns around and props herself up on her elbow, so she can look at me. “What’s brought this on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “When this all started you said you didn’t want things to change. You said the future could be anything we wanted it to be.”

  “I know.”

  “And then you stopped talking to me. You give me no idea of what you’re going through and then you spring this!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”

  “No, it’s more than that. Tell me.”

  “I have this rackety idea in my head that I should be doing more. You read about people whose lives are packed with incident and adventure and you think, Wow! I should do more. That’s when I thought about going away.”

  “While there’s still time?”

  “Yes.”

  “So this is about the Parkinson’s?”

  “No… I can’t explain… Just forget it.”

  “I don’t want to forget it. I want you to be happy. But we don’t have any money— not with the mortgage and the plumbing. You said so yourself. Maybe in the summer we can go to Cornwall…”

  “Yeah. You’re right. Cornwall would be nice.” As hard as I try to sound enthusiastic, I know I don’t succeed. Julianne slips an arm around my waist and pulls herself closer. I feel her warm breath on my throat.

  “With any luck I might be pregnant by then,” she whispers. “We don’t want to be too far away.”

  18

  My head aches and my throat is scratchy. It could be a hangover. It might be the flu. According to the papers half the country has succumbed to some exotic bug from Beijing or Bogotá— one of those places that nobody ever leaves without carrying a virulent germ.

  The good news is that I have had no detectable side effects from taking selegiline except for the insomnia, a pre-existing condition. The bad news is that the drug has had absolutely no effect on my symptoms.

  I telephone Jock at seven.

  “How do you know it isn’t working?” he says, annoyed at being woken.

  “I don’t feel any different.”

  “That’s the whole point. It doesn’t make the symptoms go away— it stops them getting worse.”

  “OK.”

  “Just be patient and relax.”

  That’s easy for him to say.

  “Are you doing your exercises?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I lie.

  “I know it’s only Monday but do you fancy a game of tennis? I’ll go easy on you.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll meet you at the club at six.”

  Julianne will see right through this, but at least I’ll be out of the house. I’m owed some leeway after yesterday.

  My first patient of the day is a young ballet dancer with the grace of a gazelle and the yellowing teeth and receding gums of a devoted bulimic. Then Margaret arrives still clutching her orange life buoy. She shows me a newspaper clipping about a bridge collapse in Israel. The look on her face says: I told you so!

  I spend the next fifty minutes getting her to think about how many bridges there are in the world and how often they fall down.

  By three o’clock I’m standing at the window, looking for Bobby among the pedestrians. I wonder if he’s going to turn up. I jump when I hear his voice. He’s standing in the doorway, rubbing his hands up and down his sides as if wiping something from them.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Whatever it is you think I’ve done.”

  “You kicked a woman unconscious.”

  “Yes. That’s all. Nothing else.” Light flares off the gold frames of his glasses.

  “Hostility like that has to come from somewhere.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re an intelligent young man. You get the idea.”

  It’s time to confront Bobby to see how he reacts under pressure.

  “How long have you been my patient? Six months. You disappeared for half that time. You’ve been late for appointments, you’ve turned up unannounced and you’ve dragged me out of bed at four in the morning…”

  He blinks rapidly. My tone of voice is so polite that he isn’t sure whether I’m criticizing him or not.

  “Even when you are here, you change the subject and prevaricate. What are you trying to hide? What are you so frightened of?”

  I pull my chair closer. Our knees are almost touching. It’s like looking into the eyes of a beaten dog that doesn’t know enough to turn away. Some aspects of his functioning I see so clearly— particularly his past— but I still can’t see his present. What has he become?

  “Let me tell you what I think, Bobby. I think you are desperate for affection, yet unable to engage people. This started
a long while ago. I see a boy who is bright and sensitive, who waits each evening to hear the sound of his father’s bicycle being wheeled through the front gate. And when his father comes through the door in his conductor’s uniform, the boy can’t wait to hear his stories and help him in the workshop.

  “His father is funny, kind, quick-witted and inventive. He has grand plans for weird and wonderful inventions that will change the world. He draws pictures of them on scraps of paper and builds prototypes in the garage. The boy watches him working and sometimes at night he curls up to sleep among the wood shavings, listening to the sound of the lathe.

  “But his father disappears. The most important figure in his life— the only one he truly cares about— abandons him. His mother, sadly, doesn’t recognize or excuse his grief. She regards him as being weak and full of dreams, just like his father. He is never good enough.”

  I keep a close eye on Bobby, looking for signs of protest or dissent. His eyes flit back and forth as though dreaming, but somehow he stays focused on me.

  “This boy is particularly perceptive and intelligent. His senses are heightened and his emotions are intense. He begins to escape from his mother. He’s not old enough or brave enough to run away from home. Instead he escapes into his mind. He creates a world that others never see or know exists. A world where he is popular and powerful: where he can punish and reward. A world where nobody laughs at him or belittles him, not even his mother. She falls at his feet— just like all the others. He is Clint Eastwood, Charles Bronson and Sylvester Stallone all rolled into one. Redeemer. Revenger. Judge. Jury. Executioner. He can dispense his own brand of justice. He can machine gun the entire school rugby team or have the school bully nailed to a tree in the playground…”

  Bobby’s eyes glitter with connected memories and associated sounds— the light and dark that shade his past. The corners of his mouth are twitching.

  “So what does he grow into, this boy? An insomniac. He suffers bouts of sleeplessness that jangle his nerves and have him seeing things out of the corner of his eye. He imagines conspiracies and people watching him. He lies awake and makes lists and secret codes for his lists.