Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

‘He broke into my house.’

‘There was no sign of forced entry.’

‘He found the key.’

‘He said you invited him inside.’

‘This is ridiculous! Ellis seduced Sienna Hegarty. He was grooming other girls.’ I can’t bring myself to mention Charlie. ‘His first wife disappeared four years ago. Her name was Caro Regan—’

‘I know all about Caro Regan,’ says Cray.

The statement silences me.

‘Don’t look so surprised, Professor, and don’t treat me like some wet-behind-the-ears probationary constable who doesn’t know shit from Shinola. I checked on Gordon Ellis the moment his name came up in the Hegarty investigation. I pulled his file and I interviewed him.’

‘And what?’

‘He had an alibi. Natasha Ellis says her husband was home all evening.’

‘She’s covering for him.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I talked to Sienna. She was seeing Ellis.’

‘Did she name him?’

‘I’m naming him.’

‘You and I both know that’s not the same thing. Unless she makes a statement, there’s nothing I can do.’

‘She’s fourteen.’

‘Teenage girls develop unhealthy infatuations with teachers all the time. Sometimes they convince themselves it’s love. Sometimes they convince themselves it’s reciprocated.’

‘She was pregnant. Ellis was the father.’

‘Can you prove that?’

‘No.’

‘So it’s a theory. That’s the difference between you and me, Professor. I deal in facts and you deal in theories. We checked Ellis’s DNA against the semen stains found on Sienna Hegarty’s sheets. No match. And you asked DS Abbott to look at her email accounts and phone server. There wasn’t a single email or text message either to or from Gordon Ellis. No love letters or notes or photographs. Nobody saw them together or overheard them talking . . .’

‘Danny Gardiner saw them.’

‘And Ellis will say he was taking Sienna to see her therapist.’

‘Ray Hegarty complained to the school.’

‘It was investigated and discounted.’

‘This is bullshit!’

Cray rises from her chair and paces the room. ‘You’re going about this all wrong, Professor. I know that Gordon Ellis is a human toilet - maybe he deserved a beating - but you’re too close.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Sienna is your daughter’s best friend. You’re emotionally involved.’

‘You think I’m being irrational.’

‘You just beat a man half to death.’

‘Someone ran me off the road. Someone killed my dog. Someone has been following me.’

Even as the words come out, I realise that I’m sounding paranoid rather than making my case.

Cray shrugs, blinks. ‘So you pissed someone off. I can see how that might happen. You’re being charged with malicious wounding.’

‘He broke into my house!’

‘He was unarmed and you used unreasonable force.’

She turns towards the door and bangs twice.

‘You want me to tell your wife or can you handle that yourself ?’

‘Don’t do me any favours.’

My sarcasm grates on her. ‘Suit yourself. You’ll appear in court in the morning. Get yourself a lawyer.’

The drunk is talking in his sleep, arguing with his addiction. Lying on my wooden bench, I can taste my self-loathing. I’ve been fingerprinted, photographed and had my buttocks pried apart in a strip search. I have joined the faceless, uneducated and inept, locked up in a police cell, humiliated and belittled. If ever there was a benchmark to indicate how far my life has unravelled, this is it.

Gordon Ellis was sleeping with Sienna and Ray Hegarty found out. Did that warrant killing him? Motives come in all shapes and sizes. Maybe Sienna and Ellis organised the killing together. Both had reasons to want Ray Hegarty out of the way.

The weight of the day is like a fever and my mind keeps drifting. Every part of me seems to ache with exhaustion, even the roots of my hair. Sleep is a blessing.

At some point in the hours that follow, my head and arms begin jerking uncontrollably. My medication has worn off and Mr Parkinson, a cruel puppeteer, is tugging at my strings and twisting my body into inhuman shapes.

Hammering on the cell door with the flat of my hand, I wait. Nobody responds. The drunk rolls over and tells me to be quiet. I hit the door again.

I can feel my limbs jerking and my body contorting in a strange dance, without music or any discernible rhythm. My head dips and sways, my arms writhe, my legs twitch, moving constantly. The drunk opens one eye and then the other. Wider. He scrambles away and stands in the corner. Crossing himself, suddenly religious.

‘What’s wrong with you, man? You having a heart attack?’

‘No.’

‘You possessed.’

‘I have Parkinson’s.’

The hatch opens. A young constable peers into the cell.

‘He’s fucking possessed,’ yells the drunk.

‘I need my pills,’ I explain.

‘Get him out of here! He’s scaring me.’

‘I have Parkinson’s.’

The young constable tells me to sit down. ‘We’re not allowed to issue medications.’

‘They’re prescribed . . . in my coat.’

‘Step back from the door, sir.’

‘You’ll find a white plastic bottle. Levodopa.’

‘I’ll warn you one more time, sir, step away from the door.’

With every ounce of willpower, I stop myself moving. I can hold the pose for a few seconds, but then I start again.

‘A phone call. Let me make a phone call.’

The young constable tells me to wait. Ten minutes later he returns. I’m allowed a call.

The first name in my head is Julianne’s, but nobody answers. Charlie’s voice is on the recorded message. It beeps and I start to speak but realise I don’t know what to say. I put down the receiver and call Ruiz.

‘What’s up, wise man? You sound like shit.’

‘I’m in jail.’

‘What did you do - forget to take back a library book?’

‘I beat up Gordon Ellis.’

I have to wait until he stops laughing.

‘I’m glad you think it’s funny.’

‘I have visions of handbags at ten paces.’

‘I need your help. My pills. The police won’t let me have them. I can’t function.’

‘Leave it with me.’

I go back to waiting and writhing and being watched by the drunk. If I lock my left and right ankles together I can sometimes get my legs to remain still. But making one part of me stop means the energy finds somewhere else to spasm.

An hour passes and the young constable unlocks the door. He has a glass of water and my bottle of pills. I can get the tablets on my tongue, but keep spilling the water. I swallow them dry and sit on the bench, waiting for the jerking to subside.

‘Your lawyer is on his way,’ says the PC.

‘I don’t have a lawyer.’

‘You do now.’

Two hours pass. I’m taken upstairs to an interview suite. Even before I arrive I recognise the profanity-laden south London accent of Eddie Barrett, a man who can make a smile seem like an insult. Ruiz must have called him.

Eddie is a defence lawyer with a reputation for bullying and cajoling witnesses and juries. Years ago he earned the nickname ‘Bulldog’, which could be due to his short body and swaggering walk, or his passionate embrace of all things British. (He has ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ as his ringtone and is rumoured to wear Union Jack underwear.)

‘Well, well, look who got himself arrested - the Hugh Grant of the head-shrinking profession. Should I call it a profession? I guess if it’s good enough for prostitutes . . .’

Like I’m in the mood for this.

Eddie reads my expression and tells me to sit down. Taking a seat opposite, he splays his thighs like his bollocks are the size of grapefruit. ‘Let’s make this quick, Britney, I’m missing out on my beauty sleep. I hope you didn’t make any admissions . . . sign any statements.’