Michael Robotham - Say You're sorry

“On July 24, 2000, the Concorde was the safest aircraft in the world. A day later-according to the statistics-it was the least safe airline in the world. Beware the data.”

The lecture is over. Seats slowly empty. Nobody approaches me. Dr. Naparstek hasn’t renewed our acquaintance, which creates a pang of regret. She’s a good-looking woman, attractive without trying. Late-thirties. Slim. Stylish. Out of my league.

Am I even playing in a league?

Julianne put me on a free transfer list three years ago and nobody has made me a serious offer-not even a guest appearance in a friendly.

Outside in the foyer everyone is talking about the weather. A voice makes me stop.

“Augie Shaw didn’t kill those people.”

Victoria Naparstek is standing beside the doors. She’s wearing a gray woolen sweater dress, black nylons and knee-length leather boots.

“I thought you’d be honest. Fearless. You let Stephen railroad you.”

“Stephen?”

“DCI Drury.”

They’re on first name terms.

“You told him what he wanted to hear.”

“I gave him my opinion.”

She steps forward, studying me. Her eyes seem to change color as she moves. “They’re applying to keep Augie Shaw in custody for another forty-eight hours.”

“Which has nothing to do with me.”

“He didn’t kill those people.”

“He was there.”

“He has no history of violence. He doesn’t cope well with confined spaces. The last time they locked him up-”

“The last time?”

“It was a mistake. He was exonerated.”

Her hair is cut shorter than I remember. Instead of long rope-thick tresses, she has a chin-skimming bob that sweeps over her cheekbones and ends at the nape of her neck.

“I’m frightened that he’ll harm himself.”

“Tell Drury.”

“He won’t listen to me.”

She glances at my left hand. My thumb and forefinger are brushing together in a pill-rolling motion.

“Do I make you nervous?” she asks.

“I have Parkinson’s.”

Her mouth forms a lipstick circle. She tries to apologize.

“You weren’t to know,” I say.

“I’m doing everything wrong today. Can we start again? I could buy you lunch.”

“Or we could go halves.”

A smile this time… dimples.

“I know just the place,” she says, marching ahead of me. I check out her figure, forever hopeful. She takes me to the Head of the River, a pub alongside Folly Bridge. Pushing open the heavy door, she takes my coat and hangs it on a hook. Then she chooses a table away from the fire. Orders mineral water. Asks about wine.

“I don’t drink.”

“Your medication.”

“Yes.”

“What are you on?”

“Levodopa for the symptoms, carbidopa for the nausea, Prozac to stop me being depressed about having a major degenerative illness.”

“How bad does it get?”

“This is a good day…”

We sit a bit, staring at the table as though fascinated by each other’s cutlery.

Victoria Naparstek is a little different from what I remember. Her clothes are less feminine, more practical. A string of pearls makes her look older. Maybe she grew tired of being objectified, which would make her unusual among women.

“Are you here alone?” she asks.

“With my eldest daughter Charlie… she’s out somewhere spending my money.”

“You’re married?”

“Separated. Three years. Two girls. Fifteen and seven. They live with their mother, but I see them quite a bit; less now that I’m in London.”

“Mmm.”

“What?”

“It’s interesting.”

“What is?”

“I asked a simple question and you gave me your entire life story-everything except your favorite color.”

“Blue.”

“Sorry?”

“My favorite color is blue.”

I look at the menu. Victoria orders the soup. I do the same. Terrible choice. My left arm trembles.

I change the subject and ask about her practice. She lives in west London, but travels to Oxford two days a week, working mainly for the NHS.

“How did you come to treat Augie Shaw?”

“He turned up at a police station two years ago and confessed to raping a woman, but it was a false complaint.”

“She wouldn’t press charges?”

“She’d never seen him before. Augie fantasized about raping her. I think he genuinely believed that he’d done it. He was mortified. Shocked. Angry at himself.”

“You stopped him in time.”

“He stopped himself.” She runs her finger around the edge of her glass. “Augie started having problems in his late teens. Auditory hallucinations. Blackouts. Disorganized thinking. Chronic headaches. Insomnia. He claimed to get contrary messages whenever he had to make an important decision.”

“Messages?”

“From his twin brother.”

“Drury said he doesn’t have a brother.”

“His twin died at birth but Augie believes he’s still corded with his brother’s soul. He says it’s like his twin is trapped inside him and won’t leave.”

“Paranoid schizophrenia.”

“Delusional ideas-some grandiose, others paranoid.”

“Medication?”

“Anti-psychotics: olanzapine fifteen milligrams and sleeping tablets. During our sessions, I tried to get Augie to mentally cut the cord, but he’s resistant. He thinks half his personality will disappear if he loses contact with his brother.”

“You mentioned claustrophobia?”

“Augie’s father used to lock him in a cupboard when he was a boy. He still suffers nightmares. He hates confined spaces. He also believes that inside air is poisonous and that’s why his brother died in the womb.”

“You said he had no history of aggression.”

“He doesn’t.”

“He fantasized about raping a woman.”

“He was delusional.”

“He was sacked by the Heymans for going through their daughter’s underwear.”

“Augie said that was a misunderstanding.”

“His fingerprints are all over the murder scene. His hands were burned. He didn’t report the fire. Instead, he went home to bed.”

Her eyes have narrowed. “He panicked.”

“And that’s your explanation?”

“He’s a schizophrenic. He’s convinced he’s done bad things, but he hasn’t.”

She hears me sigh.

“You should talk to his lawyer,” I say. “Surrender your clinical notes.”

“He’ll have to share them with the prosecution.”

“You’re hiding behind protocol.”

“I’m trying to save Augie.”

“The police can get a court order.”

“Fine. When that happens I’ll abide by the law. Until then I’ll be siding with the angels.”

Our meals have arrived. I choose the bread roll, not willing to tackle the soup.

“You’re not hungry.”

“Not really.”

She signals the waitress, whispers something. Moments later another serving of soup arrives, this time in a mug. I should feel embarrassed, but I have gone beyond feeling self-conscious.

“Will you interview him again?”

“Who?”

“Augie. Talk to him.”

“I don’t see the point.”

“You’ll see I’m right. I’ve worked with him. He’s harmless.”

There’s something she’s not telling me; some other reason that Augie Shaw went to the Heymans’ house that night. He lost his job for inappropriate conduct. He was found in the daughter’s bedroom going through her things.

“Is this about the daughter?” I ask.

Victoria Naparstek shakes her head.

“Not the daughter… the wife.”

I often wonder what I look like now.

I can see bits of me: my hands, my feet, my stomach and my knees, but not my face. We used to have a mirror but Tash broke it and tried to cut her wrists so George took it away.