Suspect (25 page)

Jock emerges from the bathroom with a towel around his waist. He pads barefoot across the living room to the kitchen. I hear the fridge door open and then close. He slices oranges and fires up an industrial-size juicer. The kitchen is ful of gadgets. He has a machine to grind coffee, another to sift it and a third, which looks like a cannon shel rather than a percolator, to brew it. He can make waffles, muffins, pancakes or cook eggs in a dozen different ways.

I take my turn in the bathroom. The mirror is steamed up. I rub it with the corner of a towel, making a rough circle large enough to see my face. I look exhausted. Wednesday night’s TV

highlights are printed backward on my right cheek. I scrub my face with a wet washcloth.

There are more gadgets on the windowsil , including a battery-powered nasal-hair trimmer that sounds like a demented bee stuck in a bottle. There are a dozen different brands of shampoo. It reminds me of home. I always tease Julianne about her “lotions and potions” fil ing every available inch of our en suite. Somewhere in the midst of these cosmetics I have a disposable razor, a can of shaving foam and a deodorant stick. Unfortunately, retrieving them means risking a domino effect that wil topple every bottle in the bathroom.

Jock hands me a glass of orange juice and we sit in silence staring at the percolator.

“I could cal her for you,” he suggests.

I shake my head.

“I could tel 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 real y want to go there, but the story comes out as my coffee grows cold. Perhaps Jock can help me make sense of it al .

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 bel s. 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 al the “sordid details.” I won’t play along, which makes him grumpy.

“So why couldn’t you tel 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
kil ed her?”

“I stil 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 kil ed someone.”

His eyes meet mine and stay there. Then he laughs and shrugs. “We’l never know.”

5

At the office I cross the lobby aware that the security guards and receptionist 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. Al the names are crossed out with a red line. Except for Bobby Moran.

Meena is stil talking. “Mr. Lil ey’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 tel her to cross it out.

“He hasn’t cal ed.”

“Trust me.”

Despite Meena’s best efforts to clean up, my office is stil 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 tel 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 murdered… 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 relationship 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 tel s you virtual y nothing of consequence about a person. Schools, exam results, tertiary education, work experience— none of it reveals an individual’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 cal 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 disgrace! You should be struck off! More to the point, you’re an asshole!” I have no time to respond. Each time I sense a break in Eddie’s diatribe, he simply rol s 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 cal back and leave another 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 drawers. I look up as Fenwick’s head peers around the door.

He is standing in the corridor, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

“A quick word, old boy.”

“Yes.”

“Terrible business al this. Just want to say ‘Chin up,’ and al 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? Awful y sorry. Hate kicking a man when he’s down.”

“That’s fine. Good luck.”

“Jol y good. Wel … um… I’l leave you to it. I’l 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.”

“Wel , it’s not real y 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 al 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 ful retreat.

There are no benign possibilities. My esteemed col eagues are to discuss my partnership— banishment being the issue. My resignation wil be sought. A choice of words wil be agreed and a chat with the chief accountant wil wrap the whole thing up without any fuss. Bol ocks to that!

Fenwick is already halfway down the corridor. I cal after him. “Tel them I’l 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 expression that could be mistaken for pity. I’m not used to people feeling sorry for me.

“I think you should go home. There’s no point in staying,” I tel her.

“What about answering the phone?”

“I’m not expecting any cal s.”

It takes twenty minutes for Meena to leave, fussing over her desk and glancing fretful y at me as though she is breaking some secretarial 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 averages.” 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 beautiful girl with curly hair who walked among people in the street. Perhaps 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 forehead. Elisa arrives fifteen minutes later, wrapped warmly in a black overcoat with a fur col ar. Underneath she’s dressed in a dark blue camisole with spaghetti straps and a matching miniskirt. Her stockings 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 umbrel a 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 wel 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 something very pure, impulsive and innately sexual about her. It is as though she has refined, filtered and distil ed her sexuality to a point where a man can believe that a single drop might be enough to satisfy 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.

Normal y I enjoy the confidence that comes with sitting opposite 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 salvation must start today. She is stil watching me. Her eyes are like mirrors within mirrors. I can see myself. My hair is plastered to my forehead. I feel like I haven’t real y 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— tel ing 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 tel 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 marriage. As a cultural institution she has nothing against it because it always provided some of her best customers.

Married men were preferable to single men because they showered more often and smel ed better.

“So what’s stopping you from tel ing the police?”