Bleed for Me (40 page)

‘No, I found her.’

‘Don’t touch the container.’

I go to the hal way and unlock the front door. Annie’s car keys and purse are sitting in a bowl. A light blinks on her answering machine. He counter says ‘2’.

I press ‘play’.

The first message is from a woman.

Hi, dear, it’s your mum. I guess you’re out! Penny is pregnant again. Isn’t she clever? Poor dear is sicker than a parrot. It must be a boy. They always make you suffer. Give her a
call and cheer her up.

Clunk!

Message two.

Annie, it’s Joe, I’ve been at the school. I thought I’d see you tonight . . .

I press stop. Silence.

Back in the bedroom, I put my arms around Annie and listen to her shal ow breathing. Her eyes are closed. What do I know about poisons? I did three years of medicine, but it wasn’t high on the agenda. Never induce vomiting if they’re convulsing - I remember that much. Fat lot of good . . .

Annie’s eyes are open. The skin around her lips is burned and raw. Her stomach is bloated and hard.

‘I knew you’d come back.’

44

Just gone ten. Dozens of people are standing on the footpath - residents, neighbours and passers-by - wearing dressing gowns, anoraks and wool en hats. A blue flashing light seems to strobe across their faces.

Four police cars are parked outside the row of terraces, alongside two ambulances and a scene-of-crime van. I’m standing in wet clothes beside one of the squad cars, unwil ing to sit inside because it makes me look like a suspect. The detectives told me to wait. A police constable has been assigned to watch me. He is standing less than twenty feet away with his back to the onlookers and his eyes trained on me.

‘Why you al wet, petal?’ asks a voice. It belongs to a short black woman wearing the dark green uniform of a paramedic. She has a nametag pinned to her chest, ‘Yvonne’.

‘I found her in the bath,’ I say in a daze.

Yvonne raises an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone finding
me
in the bath.’

She laughs and her whole body shakes. ‘She’s white, right? You don’t live in a place like this unless you’re white or you’re trying to act white. Know what I’m saying?’

‘Not real y.’

Yvonne tilts her wide shiny face up at me. ‘Are you OK, petal? You want to sit down? I can get you a blanket. How about some oxygen?’ She motions to the ambulance.

‘I’m OK.’

‘Suit yourself.’ She blows her nose on a tissue and glances at the onlookers. ‘You know what they’re thinking?’ she asks.

‘No.’

‘They’re wondering what’s happening to the world. That’s what they always say when the TV camera is shoved in their faces. “You just don’t expect it, do you? Not where you live. This is a nice neighbourhood. It makes you wonder what the world is coming to, blah, blah, blah. . . .” Isn’t that what they say?’

‘Yes.’

The front door opens and two paramedics appear wheeling a col apsible metal trol ey. Annie is strapped to the frame with an IV in her arm, the bag held above her head.

‘That’s my ride,’ says Yvonne. ‘You take care now.’

The trol ey slides into the ambulance and the doors close on Annie Robinson. I can smel her on my hands - the sweet-as-sugar school counsel or, with her bright red lipstick and her liquid brown eyes. Annie told me that nobody ever thought she was beautiful back in her schooldays but she’d blossomed into marriage and then become a pretty divorcée.

I wish Ruiz were here . . . or Ronnie Cray. I left my mobile in my car. It’s just down the street. I can cal them. Someone has to pick up Charlie.

The sandy-haired constable intercepts me before I reach the Volvo.

‘What are you doing, sir?’

‘I’m just getting my phone.’

‘You were told not to move, sir.’

‘I just need to make a cal .’

‘Step back to the police car, sir.’

One hand on his belt, he looks at me with cold indifference.

I adopt a voice that says I’m glad to co-operate in any way I can. I’l write a letter of commendation tel ing his superiors about his conscientiousness, if he’l just let me get my phone.

Unfortunately, my left arm swings of its own initiative. It looks like a Nazi salute and I have to grab it with my right hand.

‘Did you threaten me, sir?’

‘No.’

‘Are you mocking me?’

‘No, of course not, I have Parkinson’s disease.’

The tremors are seguing into jerkiness. My medication is wearing off. Using every bit of my concentration, I make a vain attempt to establish a single constant physical pose.

‘I’m Professor Joseph O’Loughlin. I have to cal my daughter. I’m supposed to pick her up . . . My phone is in my jacket . . . on the front seat. You can get it for me. Here are the keys.’

‘Don’t approach me, sir. Put your hands down.’

‘They’re just car keys.’

The crowd are now focused on us. My apparent innocence has been transformed into suspicion and guilt.

‘Just take my keys, get my phone and let me talk to my daughter.’

‘Take a step back, sir.’

He’s not going to listen. I try to take a step back, but my neurotransmitters are losing their juice. Instead of retreating, I lurch forwards. In a heartbeat an extendable baton lengthens in the officer’s fist. He swings it once. I can hear it whistle through the air. It strikes me across my outstretched arm and my car keys fal .

The pain takes a moment to register. Then it feels as though bones are broken. In almost the same breath, my legs lose contact with the earth and I’m forced to my knees and then on to my chest. His ful weight is pressed into my back, forcing my face into the cement.

‘Just relax, sir, and you won’t get hurt.’

With one cheek pressed to the cement, I can see the police cars and forensic vans and the watching crowd. Sideways. The spectators are wondering if I’m the one - the prime suspect. They want to be able to tel their friends tomorrow that they saw me get arrested, how they looked into my eyes and they
knew
I was guilty.

Louis Preston is talking to one of his techs. I shout his name. He turns and blinks.

‘Louis, it’s me, Joe O‘Loughlin.’

The constable tel s me to be quiet.

‘I know Dr Preston,’ I mutter. ‘He’s the pathologist.’

This time he comes towards us, dressed in his blue overal s. Tilting his head, he looks down at me.

‘What are you doing, Professor?’

‘I’m being sat on.’

‘I can see that.’

Preston looks at the officer. ‘Why are you sitting on Professor O‘Loughlin?’

‘He tried to escape.’

‘Escape to where exactly?’

The constable takes a moment to recognise the sarcasm.

‘Let him up, Officer. He’s not going to run away.’

I get to my feet, but my legs suddenly lock and I pitch forwards. Mr Parkinson is assuming control. The pil s are in my coat . . . with my phone.

Preston grabs hold of my forearm. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Annie Robinson is a friend of mine. I cal ed this in.’

‘When did you see her last?’

‘Yesterday. Lunchtime.’

Preston looks back towards the terrace. ‘I have work to do.’

‘Just get my pil s for me and my phone. They’re in my coat.’ I motion towards the car.

Preston takes my keys. When he reaches the Volvo, he snaps on a rubber glove and makes a point of opening the rear door, reaching over the seat to get my coat. The inference is clear.

He brings the bottle to me, but not my mobile.

Taking two pil s, I swal ow them dry and watch as the two detectives head our way. One has a haircut where the sides of his head are buzzed almost bald.

Preston peels off the glove. ‘Be extra careful, Professor, these guys aren’t your friends.’

45

Two detectives, little and large, a Detective Sergeant Stoner and his boss Wickerson who looks like a US marine. It’s gone eleven. I’m supposed to pick up Charlie but they won’t let me make a cal .

‘She’s fourteen. She’s waiting for me. If something happens to her I’l personal y make sure you spend the rest of your careers briefing lawyers.’

‘Is that a threat, sir?’

‘No, I’m way past making threats. I’ve asked you nicely. I’ve begged. I’ve appealed to your common sense. Just let me make a cal . She needs to get home.’

Stoner and Wickerson discuss the matter privately. Final y, I’m handed a phone. I cal Ruiz.

‘Want to hear something interesting?’ he says.

‘Not now.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’m with the police. I need you to pick up Charlie.’

I tel him about Annie Robinson and my arrest. ‘Just get Charlie. Make sure she gets home.’ I give him the address.

‘I’m on it.’

Stoner takes the phone and escorts me to an interview room. I’m left there, sitting in my wet clothes, drinking machine coffee that could be reclassified as a form of torture alongside water boarding and sleep deprivation.

My mind keeps drifting back to Annie’s flat and the open bottle of wine, the gift bag; the thank you card on the counter. Someone tried to poison her. Why?

Annie knew about Gordon El is and Sienna. She was asked to investigate by the school but failed to raise the alarm. Friendship can’t explain a decision like that. I think back to Annie’s flat - the expensive perfumes and designer handbags in her wardrobe. She complained about getting stitched up in her divorce settlement.

When I asked her how she could afford such a nice flat she told me that she refused to wait for things any more. Perhaps she’d found a way to supplement her income. Blackmail can turn a profit.

Half twelve and the detectives reappear, offering me their apologies. For a moment I think I’m going to be released but they each take a seat. A tape recorder is switched on. Stoner is wearing suspenders over his white shirt like some yuppie trader from the eighties.

‘Run through the story for us again, Joe,’ he says, sounding like we’re old friends.

I tel them about the school musical and Annie not showing up and how I tried to cal her.

‘So you went round to her place?’

‘Yes. I saw her car. I thought she must be home but she didn’t answer the bel .’

‘So you climbed the back fence?’

‘I was worried.’

‘When my friends aren’t home, I don’t climb over their fences and smash their patio doors.’

‘I saw water leaking under her bedroom door.’

‘You said there were no lights on.’

‘There was one in the bedroom.’

‘And you could see water?’

‘Yes.’

This is how it continues. Every detail is examined and picked over: what rooms I entered, what I touched, when I saw Annie last. Then we go back to the beginning again. Stoner is playing the hard arse while Wickerson wants to be my best friend, smiling, offering me encouragement, winking occasional y. At other times he looks bemused, almost doleful, like he’s listening to an impaired person.

Stoner stands and moves behind me so that I have to turn my head to keep eye contact with him. He’s not a complex man. Keeps it simple. Talks slowly.

‘Tel us again how you know Annie Robinson?’

‘She’s a friend. She teaches at my daughter’s school. We’ve met a few times social y.’

‘So she’s not your girlfriend?’

‘No.’

‘So you’re not sleeping with her?’

‘Once.’

‘
Really?’

Stoner makes it sound like a tel ing confession. They’re not listening to me.

‘Tel us what you put in the wine.’

‘I didn’t touch it.’

‘Did she say no to you, Joe? Was it some sort of date-rape drug?’

‘No.’

‘Are we going to find your semen on those bed sheets?’

Wasted words. Wasted time. They should be talking to Gordon El is.

After an hour of questioning, the detectives take a break. I’m left in the interview suite trying to put the pieces together. How does Novak Brennan come into this? The trial, the jury, the Crying Man - I have fragments of a story, photographs without a narrative.

There are raised voices in the passageway. Ronnie Cray comes through the door like she wants to widen it with her hips.

‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Professor. When you step in shit, you just put on your wel ies and jump right in over your head.’

Stoner and Wickerson are behind her, protesting.

Cray looks at me: ‘Have you made a statement, Professor?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is there anything else you want to add?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Get your coat.’

Wickerson is having none of it. ‘You can’t just barge in here. This man is stil being questioned.’

‘Take it up with the Chief Constable,’ says the DCI. ‘Give him a cal . He loves getting woken at two a.m.’

She’s walking as she talks, ushering me in the direction of the charge room. Stoner says something under his breath that ends with, ‘too ugly to get laid’.

Cray stops and turns slowly, fixing him with a stare. ‘Do I know you?’

‘No, ma’am.’ He gives her a mocking smile.

‘Sure I do. Derek Stoner. Deadly Derek. You’re a ladies’ man. You dated one of the WPCs at Trinity Road. Sweet thing. She told me you had a pencil dick and couldn’t find a clitoris with a compass and a street directory.’ Cray pauses and winks at him. ‘Guess only one of us made her scream.’

Moments later we’re outside. Monk is behind the wheel.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

‘Trinity Road,’ she answers. ‘Sienna Hegarty gave us a statement. We’re arresting Gordon El is at dawn.’

‘You’re going to charge him?’

‘We’re going to talk to him, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.’

‘Why?’

‘El is has been through this before - the police interviews, the searches, the covert surveil ance - when it comes to being a suspect, he’s a fucking expert.’

46

Sienna is curled up on a camp bed in Cray’s office, lying with her head in shadow covered by a thin blanket. A woman PC watches over her, sitting beneath a reading light, a magazine open on her lap.

‘Tel me if she wakes.’

A nod. She goes back to reading.

Most of the incident room is in darkness except for a pool of brightness like a spotlight on a stage. Cray hands me a transcript and tapes of Sienna’s interview.