Suspect (34 page)

“There is nothing like having your room properly cleaned, is there?” I say.

The cleaning lady looks at me in disbelief.

Spearmint toothpaste spel s out a message on the mirror that’s ful of local flavor: GO HOME OR GET BOXED. Simple. Succinct. Precise. The hotel manager wants to cal the police. I have to open my wal et to change his mind. Picking through the debris, there isn’t much worth salvaging. Gingerly, I lift a bundle of soggy papers smeared with ink. The only sheet legible is the last page of Catherine’s CV. I had read the cover letter in the office but got no farther. Glancing down the page I see a list of three character references. Only one of them matters: Dr.

Emlyn R. Owen. She gives Jock’s Harley Street address and phone number.

12

Maintenance work, leaves on the line, signal failures, point faults… pick any one of them, they al add up to the same thing— the intercity express train wil be late arriving in London. The conductor apologizes frequently over the loudspeaker, keeping everyone awake.

I buy a cup of tea from the dining car, along with a “gourmet” sandwich, which is evidence of how culinary words can be devalued. It tastes of nothing except mayonnaise. Random thoughts keep nudging away at my tiredness. Missing pieces. New pieces. No pieces at al .

There are little lies, so tiny that it doesn’t much matter whether you do or you don’t believe them. Other lies seem smal , but have huge ramifications. And sometimes it isn’t a case of what you say but what you don’t say. Jock’s lies are always close to the truth.

Catherine was having an affair with someone at the Marsden— a married man. She was in love with him. She reacted badly when he broke things off. On the night she died she arranged to meet someone. Was it Jock? Maybe that’s why she cal ed my office— because he didn’t show up. Or maybe he
did
show. He’s not married anymore. An old flame rekindled.

It was Jock who introduced me to Bobby. He said it was a favor for Eddie Barrett.

Jesus! I can’t get my head around this. I wish I could go to sleep and wake up in a different body— or a different life. Any scenario would be better than this one. My best friend— I want to be wrong about him. We’ve been together from the very beginning. I used to think that sharing a delivery suite made us like brothers; nongenetic twins, who breathed the same air and saw the same bright light as we entered the world.

I don’t know what to think anymore. He has lied to me. He’s in my house and he’s taking advantage of everything that has happened. I have seen the way he looks at Julianne, with an emotion far baser than envy.

Everything with Jock is a contest. A duel. And he hates it most if he thinks you’re not trying because it cheapens his victories.

Catherine would have been an easy conquest. Jock could always pick the vulnerable ones, although they didn’t excite him as much as girls who were self-assured and cool. His affairs caused two divorces. He couldn’t help himself.

Why would Catherine have stayed in touch with someone who broke her heart? And why would she list Jock as a reference on her CV?

Someone must have told her that I needed a secretary. It’s too big a coincidence to think she happened to answer an advertisement and discover that she was applying to work for me.

Perhaps Jock had started seeing her again. He wouldn’t have to keep it a secret this time. Not unless he was embarrassed about the trouble Catherine had caused me.

What am I missing?

She left the Grand Union Hotel alone. Jock hadn’t turned up or perhaps he’d arranged to meet her later. No! This is stupid! Jock isn’t capable of torturing someone— forcing her to drive a knife through her own flesh. He can be a bul y but he’s not a sadist.

I’m going around in circles. What do I know to be true? He knew Catherine. He knew about her self-harm. He lied about knowing her.

A touch of fear passes across my consciousness like a slight fever. Julianne would have said that someone had walked across my grave.

Euston Station on a cold clear evening. The taxi queue stretches along the footpath and up the steps. On the ride to Hampstead, watching the red digits climb on the meter, I formulate a plan.

The doorman at Jock’s mansion block has gone home for the evening, but the caretaker recognizes my face and buzzes me through to the foyer.

“What happened to your ear?”

“Insect bite. Infected.”

The internal staircase is stained deep mahogany and the stair rods gleam brightly as they reflect light from the chandeliers. Jock’s flat is in darkness. I open the door and notice the blinking red light of the alarm. It isn’t armed. Jock has trouble remembering the code.

I leave the lights off and walk through the flat until I reach the kitchen. The black-and-white marble tiles are like a giant chessboard. The light above the stove il uminates the floor and lower cabinets. I don’t know why I’m frightened of turning on the overhead lights. I guess this feels more like a break-in than a house cal .

First I try the drawer beneath the phone looking for some evidence that he knew Catherine— an address book or a letter or an old telephone bil . I move to the wardrobe in the main bedroom where Jock has his shirts and suits and ties arranged by color. A dozen shirts, stil wrapped in plastic, are set out on separate shelves.

At the back of the wardrobe I find a box ful of hanging files, including one for bil s and invoices. The most recent phone bil in a clear plastic sleeve. The service summary provides a breakdown of STD and international cal s as wel as cal s to mobiles.

Scanning the first list I look for any numbers with O151 as the prefix— the code for Liverpool. I don’t have any of Catherine’s numbers.

Yes I do! Her CV!

I pul the stil -damp pages from my jacket and spread them careful y on the rug. The ink has run into the corners, but I can stil read the address. I compare the numbers with the phone bil , running down the cal s made on the thirteenth of November. The numbers jump out at me— two cal s to Catherine’s mobile. The second was at 5:24 p.m. and lasted for just over three minutes— too long for it to be a wrong number and long enough to make a date.

Something doesn’t make sense. Ruiz has Catherine’s phone records. He must know about these cal s.

Ruiz’s card is in my wal et, but it has almost turned to pulp after my swim in the canal. At first I get his answering machine, but before I can hang up a gruff voice curses the technology and tel s me to wait. I can hear him trying to turn the machine off.

“Chief Inspector Ruiz.”

“Ah, the professor returns.” He’s reading Jock’s number on a display window. “How was Liverpool?”

“How did you know?”

“A little birdie told me you needed medical treatment. Suspected assaults have to be reported. How’s the ear?”

“Just a touch of frostbite.”

I can hear him eating. Shoveling down a microwave curry or takeout.

“It’s about time you and I had another little chat. I’l even send a car to pick you up.”

“I’l have to take a rain check on that.”

“Maybe we don’t understand each other. At ten o’clock this morning a warrant was issued for your arrest.”

I glance down the hal way toward the door and wonder how long it would take for Ruiz to have someone kick it off its hinges.

“Why?”

“Remember I said to you I’d find something else? Catherine McBride wrote letters to you. She kept copies. We found them on her computer disk.”

“That’s impossible. I didn’t get any letters.”

“But you did. She was your Florence— Florence Nightingale— your little nurse.”

“There must be some mistake. This is crazy.” For a moment I’m tempted to tel him everything— about Elisa and Jock and Catherine’s CV. Instead of holding things back, bartering for information. “You told me the last cal that Catherine made was to my office. But she must have made other cal s that day. People must have cal ed her. You must have checked those, right? You didn’t just drop everything when you saw my number on the list.”

Ruiz doesn’t respond.

“There was someone else she knew from the Marsden. I think she was having an affair with him. And I think he contacted her that day— the thirteenth. Are you listening to any of this?” I sound desperate. Ruiz isn’t going to barter. He’s sitting there with his crooked smile, thinking there’s nothing new under the sun. Or maybe he’s being sly. He’s squeezing every drop out of me.

“You told me once you col ect bits of information until two or three pieces fit. Wel , I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to find out the truth.” After another age, Ruiz breaks his silence. “You’re wondering if I interviewed your friend Dr. Owen about his relationship with Catherine McBride. The answer is yes. I talked to him. I asked where he was that night and, unlike you, he could give me an alibi. Shal I tel you who it was? Or perhaps if I let you stumble around for long enough, you’l trip over the truth. Ask your wife, Professor.”

“What’s she got to do with this?”

“She’s his alibi.”

13

The black cab drops me on Primrose Hil Avenue and I walk the last quarter mile. My mind is spinning, but a cold overwhelming current of energy has swept away my tiredness.

My vain attempts to protect people from something I don’t understand have been ridiculed. Someone, somewhere is laughing at me. What a fool! Al this time I’ve been operating under the misapprehension that tomorrow everything wil be different. “Wake up and smel the roses,” that’s what Jock is always tel ing me. OK, now I get it— every day is going to get worse.

At the end of my street I pause, straighten my clothes and move quickly along the footpath, wary of uneven paving stones. The upper floors of my house are in darkness, except for the main bedroom and a bathroom light on the first landing.

Something makes me stop. On the far side of the road, in the deeper shadows of the plane trees, I see the faint glow of a wristwatch held up to a face. The light goes out. Nobody moves. Whoever it belongs to must be waiting.

Crouching behind a parked car, I move from vehicle to vehicle, peering over the hoods. I can just make out a figure in the shadows. Someone else is sitting in a car. The glow of a cigarette end lights up his lips.

Ruiz has sent them. They’re waiting for me.

I retrace my steps, keeping to the shadows, until I turn the corner of my street and double back around the block. In the next road over I recognize the Franklins’ house directly behind ours.

I jump a side gate and cross their yard, staying away from the rectangles of light shining from the windows. Daisy Franklin is in the kitchen stirring something on the stove. Two cats appear and disappear from under her skirt. Perhaps there’s a whole family under there.

I head for a gnarled cherry tree in the back corner of the garden and lever myself upward, swinging one leg over the fence. The other leg locks up and doesn’t fol ow. Al my weight is moving forward and I deny gravity for only a split second, flapping my arms in slow motion, before crashing headfirst into the compost heap.

Cursing, I crawl on my hands and knees, crushing snails under my palms, until I emerge from the fuchsias. Light spil s out from the French doors. Julianne is sitting at the kitchen table, her newly washed hair wrapped in a towel.

Her lips are moving. She’s talking to someone. I crane my neck to see who it is— leaning on a large Italian olive jar, which begins to topple until I rescue it with a bear hug.

A hand reaches across the table and the fingers mesh with hers. It’s Jock. I feel sick. She pul s her hand away and slaps him on the wrist like she would a naughty child. Then she crosses the kitchen and bends to put coffee cups in the dishwasher. Jock watches her every movement. I want to stick needles in his eyes.

I’ve never been the jealous type, but I suddenly get a bizarre flashback to a former patient who was obsessed with losing his wife. She had a great figure and he kept imagining that men were staring at her breasts. Gradual y, in his eyes, her breasts grew bigger and her tops became smal er and tighter. Her every movement seemed provocative. Al of this was nonsense, but not to him.