Suspect (21 page)

“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 person. 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 al ow 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 wil 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 suddenly 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.”

1

I have been staring at the same square of light for so long that when I close my eyes it’s stil there, shining inside my eyelids. The window is high up on the wal , above the door.

Occasional y, 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 cistern in the adjacent cel .

It has been quiet since the last of the drunks arrived. That must have been after closing time— just long enough for someone to fal 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 stil hear him kicking at the cel door and shouting, “I didn’t fucking touch him.” My cel 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 wal , although valiant attempts have been made to paint over it.

Above the heavy metal door, chipped into brickwork, is the message: Hey, I just saw someone from the Vil age 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 cal s at that time of night. I cal ed 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 cal Julianne and tel her I’m OK. Tel her I’m helping the police with an investigation. She’l know the one.”

“Why don’t you tel her the truth?”

“Please, Jock, don’t ask. I need time to work this through.”

Since then I’ve been pacing the cel . 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 al 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 something that can be picked up and passed around, weighed and measured, before being agreed upon.

But the truth isn’t like that. If I were to tel you this story tomorrow 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 mannequin 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 al hate acknowledging the large gap between what we should do and what we actual y 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 cal ed “cognitive dissonance.” It hasn’t worked for me. My inner voice— cal it my conscience or soul or guardian angel— keeps whispering “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.

Usual y 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 smal talk about Patricia or appreciation for Sunday’s lunch. Instead he motions for me to sit down and pul s up a chair. This is business.

The holding cel s are on the floor below us. The charge room must be nearby. I can smel 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 his 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 interviews as soon as possible. Is there anything you want to tel me?” I feel myself blinking rapidly. What does he mean? Does he expect 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 suspect 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 bul et points and underlining some words.

“This is one of those no-brainers,” he says. “Al 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 received 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 al ?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I kil ed 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 stil ful of what he has left behind— disappointment, candor and the scent of aftershave. Five minutes later a woman police constable takes me along the corridor 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 corner is a large tape recorder, which is time coded. There is nothing on the wal s or the windowsil . The WPC stands immediately inside the door, trying not to look at me.

Ruiz arrives, along with a second detective, who is younger and tal er, 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 wel as cover a bald spot.

Simon fol ows 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 recal .”

“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 himself.” 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 tel ing 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.

Final y he asks about Catherine. Silence. I glance at Simon who says nothing. He hasn’t said a word since the interview began. Neither has the younger detective, sitting to the side of and slightly behind Ruiz.

“Did you know Catherine McBride?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you first meet her?”

I tel the whole story— about the self-mutilation and the counseling sessions, how she seemed to get better and how she eventual y left the Marsden. It feels strange talking about a clinical case. My voice sounds vaguely strident, as though I’m trying too hard to convince 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 tel 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 cal your office on the evening she died?”

“I don’t know.”

“We have other telephone records which indicate that she cal ed 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 information was withheld from the media.”

“I told you. One of my patients mentioned a girl in a red dress with scars on her arms.”