The Suspect jo-1

by Michael Robotham

Elisa is far too careful to open the door to a stranger. Either she knew her killer or he was already inside. Where? How? The patio doors are made of reinforced glass and lead to a small brick courtyard. A sensor triggers the security lights.

  The downstairs office is cluttered but tidy. Nothing obvious appears to have been taken, such as the DVD player or Elisa’s laptop.

  Upstairs in the second bedroom I check the windows again. Elisa’s clothes are hanging undisturbed on racks. Her jewelry box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, is in the bottom drawer of the vanity. Anyone looking would have found it soon enough.

  In the bathroom the toilet seat is down. The bathmat is hanging on a drying rail, over a large blue towel. A new tube of toothpaste sits in a souvenir mug from the House of Commons. I stand on the lever of the pedal wastebasket and the lid swings open. Empty.

  I’m about to move on when I notice a dusting of dark powder on the white tiles beneath the sink. I run my finger over the surface, collecting a fine gray residue, which smells of roses and lavender.

  Elisa had a painted ceramic bowl of potpourri on the windowsill. Perhaps she accidentally broke it. She would have swept up the debris in a dustpan and emptied it into the wastebasket. Then she might have emptied the wastebasket downstairs, but there’s nothing in the kitchen trash can.

  Looking closely at the window, I see splinters of bare wood at the edges where paint chips have been lost. The window had been painted shut and forced open. Levering my fingers under the base, I manage to do the same, gritting my teeth as the swollen wood screeches inside the frame.

  Peering outside, I see the sewage pipes running down the outside wall and the flat roof of the laundry ten feet below. Wisteria has grown over the brick wall on the right side of the courtyard, making it easy to climb. The pipes would give someone a foothold to reach the window.

  Projecting the scene against my closed lids, I see someone standing on the pipes, jimmying the window. He hasn’t come to steal or vandalize. He knocks over the potpourri as he squeezes through the opening and then has to clean up. He doesn’t want it to look like a break-in. Then he waits.

  The cupboard beneath the stairs has a sliding bolt. It’s a storeroom for mops and brooms— big enough for someone to hide in, crouched down, staring through the gap where the hinges join the door.

  Elisa arrives home. She picks up her mail from the floor and carries on to the kitchen. She drapes her coat over the door and tosses her things on the table. Then she fills the kettle and spoons coffee into a mug. One mug. He attacks her from behind— wrapping the scarf around her neck, making sure the knot compresses her windpipe. When she loses consciousness he drags her into the living room, leaving faint tracks against the grain of the rug.

  He tapes her hands and feet, carefully cutting the tape and collecting any scraps that fall on the floor. Then he puts the plastic trash liner over her head. At some point she regains consciousness and sees only darkness. By then she is dying.

  A jolt of rage forces my eyes open. I see my reflection in the bathroom mirror— a despairing face full of confusion and fear. Dropping to my knees, I vomit into the toilet, bashing my chin against the seat. Then I stumble out the door and into the main bedroom. The curtains are closed and the bedclothes are crumpled and unkempt. My eyes are drawn to a wastebasket. Half a dozen crumpled white tissues lie inside it. Memories swim to the surface— Elisa’s weight on my thighs; our bodies together; brushing her cervix each time I moved.

  Suddenly, I scrabble in the wastebasket collecting tissues. My eyes are drawn around the room. Did I touch that lamp? What about the toothbrush or the door, the windowsill, the banister… ?

  This is madness. I can’t sterilize a crime scene. There will be traces of me all over this house. She brushed my hair. I slept in her bed. I used her bathroom. I drank wine from a wineglass, coffee from a coffee mug. I touched light switches, CD cases, dining chairs. We screwed on her sofa for God’s sake!

  The phone rings. My heart almost leaps out of my chest. I can’t risk answering it. Nobody can know I’m here. I wait, listening to the ring and half expecting Elisa to suddenly stir and say, “Can someone please get that? It could be important.”

  The noise stops. I breathe again. What am I going to do? Call the police? No! I have to get out. At the same time, I can’t leave her here. I have to tell someone.

  My mobile starts to ring. I fumble through my jacket pockets and need both hands to hold it steady. I don’t recognize the number.

  “Is that Professor Joseph O’Loughlin?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “This is the Metropolitan Police. Someone has called us about an intruder at an address in Ladbroke Grove. The informant gave this mobile as a contact number. Is that correct?”

  My throat closes and I can hardly get the vowels out. I mumble something about being nowhere near that address. No, no, that’s not good enough!

  “I’m sorry. I can’t hear you,” I mumble. “You’ll have to call back.” I turn off the phone and stare at the blank screen in horror. I can’t hear myself thinking over the roar in my head. The volume has been steadily building, until now it rattles inside my skull like a freight train entering a tunnel.

  I have to get out. Run! Taking the stairs two at a time, I trip toward the bottom and fall. Run! Scooping up Elisa’s car keys I think only of fresh air, a place far away and the mercy of sleep.

  14

  An hour before daybreak the roads are varnished with rain and patches of fog appear and disappear between the drizzle. Stealing Elisa’s car is the least of my worries. Working the clutch with a useless left leg is the more immediate problem.

  Somewhere near Wrexham I pull into a muddy farm road and fall asleep. Images of Elisa sweep into my head like the headlights that periodically brush across hedgerows. I see her blue lips and her bloody wrists; eyes that follow me still.

  Questions and doubts go around in my head like there’s a needle stuck in the groove. Poor Elisa.

  “Worry about your own alibi,” was what Jock said. What did he mean? Even if I could prove I didn’t kill Catherine— which I now can’t— they’re going to blame me for this. They’re coming for me now. In my mind I can picture policemen crossing the fields in a long straight line, holding Alsatians on leashes, riding horses, hunting me down. I stumble into ditches and claw my way up embankments. Brambles tear at my clothes. The dogs are getting closer.

  There is a tap, tap, tapping sound on the window. I can see nothing but a bright light. My eyes are full of grit and my body stiff with cold. I fumble for the handle and roll down the window.

  “Sorry to wake you, mister, but yer blockin’ the road.”

  A grizzled head under a woolen hat peers at me through the window. A dog is barking at his heels and I hear the throb of a tractor engine, parked behind me.

  “You don’t want to go falling asleep for too long out here. It’s bloody cold.”

  “Thanks.”

  Light gray clouds, stunted trees and empty fields lie ahead of me. The sun is up, but struggling to warm the day. I reverse out of the road and watch the tractor pass through a gate and bounce over puddles toward a half-ruined barn.

  As the engine idles, I turn the heater up to full blast and call Julianne on the mobile. She’s awake and slightly out of breath from her exercises.

  “Did you give Jock Elisa’s address?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever mention her name to him?”

  “What’s this all about, Joe? You sound scared.”

  “Did you say anything?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t get paranoid on me…”

  I’m shouting at her, trying to make her listen, but she gets angry.

  “Don’t hang up! Don’t hang up!”

  It’s too late. Just before the line goes dead, I yell down the phone. “Elisa is dead!”

  I hit redial. My fingers are stiff and I almost drop the phone. Julianne picks up instantly. “What do you mea
n?”

  “Someone killed her. The police are going to think I did it.”

  “Why?”

  “I found her body. My fingerprints and God knows what else are all over her flat…”

  “You went to her flat!” There is disbelief in her voice. “Why did you go there?”

  “Listen to me, Julianne. Two people are dead. Someone is trying to frame me.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to work out.”

  Julianne takes a deep breath. “You’re frightening me, Joe. You’re sounding crazy.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  “Go to the police. Tell them what happened.”

  “I have no alibi. I’m their only suspect.”

  “Well, talk to Simon. Please, Joe.”

  Tearfully, she hangs up and this time leaves the phone off the hook. I can’t get through.

  God’s-personal-physician-in-waiting opens the door in his dressing gown. He has a newspaper in one hand and an angry scowl designed to frighten off uninvited guests.

  “I thought you were the blasted carol singers,” he grumbles. “Can’t stand them. None of them can hold a tune in a bucket.”

  “I thought the Welsh were supposed to be great choristers.”

  “Another blasted myth.” He looks over my shoulder. “Where’s your car?”

  “I parked around the corner,” I lie. I had left Elisa’s Beetle at the local railway station and walked the last half mile.

  He turns and I follow him along the hallway toward the kitchen. His battered carpet slippers make slapping noises against his chalk-white heels.

  “Where’s Mum?”

  “She was up and out early. Some protest rally. She’s turning into a bloody leftie— always protesting about something.”

  “Good for her.”

  He scoffs, clearly not in agreement.

  “The garden looks good.”

  “You should see out back. Cost a bloody fortune. Your mother will no doubt give you the grand tour. Those bloody lifestyle programs on TV should be banned. Garden ‘makeovers’ and backyard ‘blitzes’— I’d drop a bomb on all of them.”

  He isn’t the slightest bit surprised to see me, even though I’ve turned up unannounced. He probably thinks that Mum mentioned it to him when he wasn’t listening. He fills the kettle and empties the old tea leaves from the pot.

  The tablecloth is dotted with flotsam gathered on various holidays, like a St. Mark’s Cross tea caddy and a jam pot from Cornwall. The Silver Jubilee spoon had been a present from Buckingham Palace when they were invited to one of the Queen’s garden parties.

  “Would you like an egg? There isn’t any bacon.”

  “Eggs will be fine.”

  “There might be some ham in the fridge if you want an omelette.”

  He follows me around the kitchen, trying to second-guess what I need. His dressing gown is tied at the waist with a tasseled cord and his glasses are clipped to the pocket with a gold chain so that he doesn’t lose them.

  He knows about my arrest. Why hasn’t he said anything? This is his chance to say, “I told you so.” He can blame it on my choice of career and tell me that none of this would have happened if I’d become a doctor.

  He sits at the table, watching me eat, occasionally sipping his tea and folding and unfolding The Times. I ask him if he’s playing any golf. Not for three years.

  “Is that a new Mercedes out front?”

  “No.”

  The silence seems to stretch out, but I’m the only one who finds it uncomfortable. He sits and reads the headlines, occasionally glancing at me over the top of the paper.

  The farmhouse has been in the family since before I was born. For most of that time, until my father semiretired, it was our holiday house. He had other places in London and Cardiff. Elsewhere, teaching hospitals and universities would provide him with accommodation if he accepted visiting fellowships.

  When he bought the farmhouse it had ninety acres, but he leased most of the land to the dairy farmer next door. The main house, built out of local stone, has low ceilings and strange angles where the foundations have settled over more than a century.

  I want to clean up before Mum gets home. I ask Dad if I can borrow a shirt and maybe a pair of trousers. He shows me his wardrobe. On the end of the bed is a man’s tracksuit, neatly folded.

  He notices me looking. “Your mother and I go walking.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “It’s only been the last few years. We get up early if the weather is OK. There are some nice walks in Snowdonia.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Keeps me fit.”

  “Good for you.”

  He clears his throat and goes looking for a fresh towel. “I suppose you want a shower instead of a bath.” He makes it sound newfangled and disloyal. A true Welshman would use a tin tub in front of the coal fire.

  I push my face into the jets of water, hearing it rush past my ears. I’m trying to wash away the grime of the past few days and drown out the voices in my head. This all began with a disease, a chemical imbalance, a baffling neurological disorder. It feels more like a cancer— a blush of wild cells that have infected every corner of my life, multiplying by the second and fastening on to new hosts.

  I lie down in the guest bedroom and close my eyes. I just want a few minutes’ rest. Wind beats against the windows. I can smell sodden earth and coal fires. I vaguely remember my father putting a blanket over me. Maybe it’s a dream. My dirty clothes are hanging over his arm. He reaches down and strokes my forehead.

  A while later I hear the ring of spoons in mugs and the sound of my mother’s voice in the kitchen. The other sound— almost as familiar— is my father breaking ice for the ice bucket.

  Opening the curtains, I see snow on the distant hills and the last of the frost retreating across the lawn. Maybe we’ll have a white Christmas— just like the year Charlie was born.

  I can’t stay here any longer. Once the police find Elisa’s body they will put the pieces together and come looking instead of waiting for me to turn up somewhere. This is one of the first places they’ll search.

  Urine splatters into the bowl. My father’s trousers are too big for me, but I cinch in the belt making the material gather above the pockets. They don’t hear me padding along the hallway. I stand in the doorway watching them.

  My mother, as always, is dressed to perfection, wearing a peach-colored cashmere sweater and a gray skirt. She thickened around her middle after she turned fifty and has never managed to lose the weight.

  She puts a cup of tea in front of my father and kisses him on the top of his head with a wet smacking sound. “Look at this,” she says. “My stockings have a run. That’s the second pair this week.” He slips his hand around her waist and gives her a squeeze. I feel embarrassed. I don’t remember ever seeing them share such an intimate moment.

  My mother jumps in surprise and admonishes me for having “crept up on her.” She begins fussing about what I’m wearing. She could easily take the trousers in, she says. She doesn’t ask about my own clothes.

  “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” she asks. “We’ve been worried sick, especially after all those ghastly stories in the newspapers.” She makes the tabloids sound as attractive as a soggy fur ball deposited on a carpet.

  “Well at least that’s all over with now,” she says sternly, as if determined to draw a line under the whole episode. “Of course, I’ll have to avoid the bridge club for a while but I daresay it will all be forgotten soon enough. Gwyneth Evans will be insufferably smug. She will think she’s off the hook now. Her eldest boy, Owen, ran off with the nanny and left his poor wife with two boys to look after. Now the ladies will have something else to talk about.”

  My father seems oblivious to the conversation. He is reading a book with his nose so close to the pages that it looks as though he’s trying to inhale them.

  “Come on, I want
to show you the garden. It looks wonderful. But you must promise to come back in the spring when the blooms are out. We have our own greenhouse and there are new shingles on the stable roof. All that damp is gone. Remember the smell? There were rats nesting behind the walls. Awful!”

  She fetches two pairs of Wellingtons. “I can’t remember your size.”

  “These are fine.”

  She makes me borrow Dad’s Barbour and then leads the way, down the back steps onto the path. The pond is frozen the color of watery soup and the landscape is pearl gray. She points out the dry stone wall which had crumbled during my childhood, but now stands squat and solid, pieced together like a three-dimensional jigsaw. A new greenhouse with glass panels and a framework of freshly milled pine backs onto the wall. Trays of seedlings cover trestle tables and spring baskets, lined with moss, hang from the ceiling. She flicks a switch and a fine spray fogs the air.

  “Come and see the old stables. We’ve had all the junk cleared out. We could make it into a granny flat. I’ll show you inside.”

  We follow the path between the vegetable patch and the orchard. Mum is still talking, but I’m only half listening. I can see her scalp beneath the parting of her gray hair.

  “How was your protest meeting?” I ask.

  “Good. We had more than fifty people.”

  “What was it all about?”

  “We’re trying to stop that blasted wind farm. They want to build it right on the ridge.” She points in the general direction. “Have you ever heard a wind turbine? The noise is monstrous. Blades flashing around. The air screaming in pain.”

  Standing on tiptoes, she reaches above the stable door to get the key from its hiding place.

  The tightness in my chest returns. “What did you say?”

  “When?”

  “Just then… ‘the air was screaming in pain.’ ”

  “Oh, the windmills; they make such a horrible sound.”

  She has the key in her hand. It is tied to a small piece of carved wood. Unconsciously, my hand flashes out and grips her wrist. I turn it over and the pressure makes her fingers open.