Michael Robotham - Suspect

"Your wife said I could wait."

"What can I do for you?"

"You can stop pissing me about." He leans forward into the light. His face looks ashen and his voice is tired. "You lied to me. You said the letter arrived last Friday."

"It did."

"We analyzed the postmark. It was canceled at a Liverpool post office on the ninth of November. I know people complain about British Post but a first-class stamp guarantees delivery the next working day, not the next working month."

"There must be some mistake."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. I thought it might have slipped down the side of the sofa or been lost under a pile of old newspapers for a few weeks."

He's being sarcastic. "Julianne collected the mail. She put the letter on my desk. It arrived on Friday. It must have been held up or… or…"

"Or maybe you're lying to me."

"No."

"First you forget to tell me things and now you want to believe one of your former patients mailed a letter to you when she'd been dead for three weeks. Were you having an affair with Catherine McBride?"

"No."

"How did she get your address?"

"I don't know. She could have looked it up. I'm in the phone book."

He runs his fingers through his hair and I see a strip of whiter skin on his ring finger where his wedding band had once been.

"I asked the pathologist about chloroform. They didn't look the first time. When someone has been stabbed that many times you don't bother looking for much else." He turns to stare at the fireplace. "How did you know?"

"I can't tell you."

"That's not the answer I want to hear."

"It was a long shot… a supposition."

"Suppose you tell me why?"

"I can't do that."

He's angry now. His features are chiseled instead of worn down.

"I'm an old-fashioned detective, Professor O'Loughlin. I went to a local comprehensive and straight into the force. I didn't go to university and I don't read many books. You take computers. I know bugger all about them but I appreciate how useful they can be. The same is true of psychologists."

His voice grows quiet. "Whenever I'm involved in an investigation people are always telling me that I can't do things. They tell me I can't spend too much money, that I can't tap particular phones or search particular houses. There are thousands of things I cannot do-all of which pisses me off.

"I've warned you twice already. You deny me information that is relevant to my murder inquiry and I'll bring all of this," he motions to the room, the house, my life, "crashing down around your ears."

I can't think of a sympathetic response to disarm him. What can I tell him? I have a patient called Bobby Moran who may, or may not, be a borderline schizophrenic. He kicked a woman unconscious because she looked like his mother-a woman he wants dead. He makes lists. He listens to windmills. His clothes smell of chloroform. He carries around a piece of paper with the number 21 written on it hundreds of times-the same number of stab wounds that Catherine McBride inflicted on herself.

What if I say all this-he'll probably laugh at me. There is nothing concrete linking Bobby to Catherine, yet I'll be responsible for a dozen detectives hammering on Bobby's door, searching through his past, terrifying his fiancee and her son.

Bobby will know I've sent them. He won't trust me again. He won't trust anyone like me. His suspicions will be vindicated. He reached out for help and I betrayed him.

I know he's dangerous. I know his fantasies are taking him somewhere terrible. But unless he keeps coming back to me I might never be able to stop him.

"Where were you on November thirteenth?" Ruiz asks.

At first I don't hear the question. I'm still distracted by the letter and my concern for Bobby. The hesitation robs me of assuredness. The thirteenth? It was the day Jock confirmed that I had Parkinson's disease. And it was the night I slept with a woman other than my wife.

"Detective Inspector you'll have to excuse me but I'm not very good at remembering dates."

"It was a Wednesday night."

"My wife teaches a Spanish class. Normally, I'm home looking after Charlie."

"So you were at home?"

"I assume so."

Ruiz flips open his marbled notebook and writes something down. "Don't look so worried, Professor. Actions speak louder than words."

Bitterness and rancor hang in the air like the smell of smokeless coal. Ruiz is putting on his coat and walking toward the front door. My left arm is trembling. It's now or never. Make a decision.

"When you searched Catherine's flat-did she have a red dress?"

Ruiz reacts as though struck. He spins and takes a step toward me. "How did you know that?"

"Is the dress missing?"

"Yes."

"Do you think she might have been wearing it when she disappeared?"

He doesn't answer. He is framed in the open doorway. His eyes are bloodshot, but his stare fixed. Fingers open and close into fists. He wants to rip me apart.

"Come to my office tomorrow afternoon," I tell him. "There's a file. You can't take it away. I don't even know if it will help but I have to show it to someone."

"I could have you arrested right now," he snarls.

"I know. But you won't."

The blue manila folder is on the desk in front of me. It has a ribbon that twists around a flat circular wheel to seal it shut. I keep undoing it and doing it up again.

Meena glances nervously behind her as she enters the office. She walks all the way across to my desk before whispering, "There is a very scary-looking man in the waiting room. He's asking for you."

"That's OK, Meena. He's a detective."

Her eyes widen in surprise. "Oh! He didn't say. He just sort of…"

"Growled."

"Yes."

"You can show him in." I motion her closer. "In about five minutes I want you to buzz me and remind me of an important meeting outside the office."

"What meeting?"

"Just an important meeting."

She frowns at me and nods.

With a face like an anvil, Ruiz ignores my outstretched hand and leaves it hanging in the air as though I'm directing traffic. He sits down and leans back in the chair, spreading his legs and letting his coat flare out.

"So this is where you work, Prof? Very nice." He glances around the room in what appears to be a cursory way, but I know he's taking in the details. "How much does it cost to rent an office like this?"

"I don't know. I'm just one of the partners."

Ruiz scratches his chin and then fumbles in his coat pocket for a stick of chewing gum. He unwraps it slowly.

"What exactly does a psychologist do?"

"We help people who are damaged by events in their lives. People with personality disorders, or sexual problems, or phobias."

"Do you know what I think? A man gets attacked and he's lying bleeding on the road. Two psychologists pass by and one says to the other, 'Let's go and find the person who did this-he needs help.' "

His smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"I help more victims than I do perpetrators."

Ruiz shrugs and tosses the gum wrapper into the wastebasket.

"Start talking. How did you know about the red dress?"

I glance down at the file and undo the ribbon. "In a few minutes from now, I'm going to get a phone call. I will have to leave the office, but you are quite welcome to stay. I think you'll find my chair is more comfortable than yours." I open Bobby's file.

"When you're finished, if you wish to talk about anything, I'll be across the road having a drink. I can't talk about any specific patient or case." I tap Bobby's folder to stress the point. "I can only talk in general terms about personality disorders and how psychotics and psychopaths function. It will be much easier if you remember this."

Ruiz presses the palms of his hands together as if in prayer and taps his forefingers against his lips. "I don't like playing games."