Michael Robotham - Suspect

Clearing his throat, he asks, "Is it the best one they had?"

"No! They had dozens of better ones! Hundreds! This was one of the worst; the absolute pits; the bottom of the barrel. I felt sorry for it. That's why I brought it home. I adopted a lousy Christmas tree."

He looks surprised. "It isn't that bad."

"You're fucking unbelievable," I mutter under my breath, unable to stay in the same room. Why do our parents have the ability to make us feel like children even when our hair is graying and we have a mortgage that feels like a Third World debt?

I retreat to the kitchen and pour myself a drink. My father has only been here for ten hours and already I'm hitting the bottle. At least reinforcements arrive tomorrow.

I was always running in my childhood nightmares-trying to escape a monster or a rabid dog or perhaps a Neanderthal second-rower forward with no front teeth and cauliflower ears. I would wake just before getting caught. It didn't make me feel any safer. That is the problem with nightmares. Nothing is resolved. We rouse ourselves in midair or just before the bomb goes off or stark naked in a public place.

I have been lying in the dark for five hours. Every time I think nice thoughts and begin drifting off to sleep, I jump awake in a panic. It's like watching a trashy horror movie that is laughably bad, but just occasionally there is a scene that frightens the bejesus out of you.

Mostly I'm trying not to think about Bobby Moran because when I think about him it leads me to Catherine McBride and that's a place I don't want to go. I wonder if Bobby is in custody, or if they're watching him. I have this picture in my head of a van with blacked-out windows parked outside his place.

People can't really sense when they're being watched-not without some clue or recognizing something untoward. However, Bobby doesn't operate on the same wavelength as most people. He picks up different signals. A psychotic can believe the TV is talking to him and will question why workmen are repairing phone lines over the road, or why there's a van with blacked-out windows parked outside.

Maybe none of this is happening. With all the new technology, perhaps Ruiz can find everything he needs by simply typing Bobby's name into a computer and accessing the private files that every conspiracy theorist is convinced the government keeps on the nation's citizens.

"Don't think about it. Just go to sleep," Julianne whispers. She can sense when I'm worried about something. I haven't had a proper night's sleep since Charlie was born. You get out of the habit after a while. Now I have these pills, which are making things worse.

Julianne is lying on her side, with the sheet tucked between her thighs and one hand resting on the pillow next to her face. Charlie does the same thing when she's sleeping. They barely make a sound or stir at all. It's as though they don't want to leave a footprint in their dreams.

By midmorning the house is full of cooking smells and feminine chatter. I'm expected to set the fire and sweep the front steps. Instead, I sneak around to the newsstands and collect the morning papers.

Back in my study, I set aside the supplements and magazines and begin looking for stories on Catherine. I'm just about to sit down when I notice one of Charlie's bug-eyed goldfish is floating upside down in the aquarium. For a moment I think it might be some sort of neat goldfish trick, but on closer inspection it doesn't look too hale and hearty. It has gray speckles on its scales-evidence of an exotic fish fungus.

Charlie doesn't take death very well. Middle Eastern kingdoms have shorter periods of mourning. Scooping up the fish in my hand, I stare at the poor creature. I wonder if she'll believe it just disappeared. She is only eight. Then again, she doesn't believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny anymore. How could I have bred such a cynic?

"Charlie, I have some bad news. One of your goldfish has disappeared."

"How could it just disappear?"

"Well, actually it died. I'm sorry."

"Where is it?"

"You don't really want to see it, do you?"

"Yes."

The fish is still in my hand, which is in my pocket. When I open my palm it seems more like a magic trick than a solemn deed.

"At least you didn't try to buy me a new one," she says.

Being very organized, Julianne has a whole collection of shoe boxes and drawstring bags that she keeps for this sort of death in the family. With Charlie looking on, I bury the bug-eyed goldfish under the plum tree, between the late Harold Hamster, a mouse known only as Mouse and a baby sparrow that flew into the French doors and broke its neck.

By one o'clock most of the family has assembled, except for my older sister, Lucy, and her husband, Eric, who have three children whose names I can never remember, but I know they end with an "ee" sound like Debbie, Jimmy or Bobby.

God's-personal-physician-in-waiting had wanted Lucy to name her oldest boy after him. He liked the idea of a third generation Joseph. Lucy held firm and called him something else-Andy maybe, or Gary, or Freddy.

They're always late. Eric is an air-traffic controller and the most absentminded person I have ever met. It's frightening. He keeps forgetting where we live and has to phone up and ask for directions every time he visits. How on earth does he keep dozens of planes apart in the air? Whenever I book a flight out of Heathrow I feel like ringing up Lucy in advance and asking whether Eric is working.

My middle sister, Patricia, is in the kitchen with her new man, Simon, a criminal lawyer who works for one of those TV series that exposes miscarriages of justice. Patricia's divorce has come through and she's celebrating with champagne.

"I hardly think it warrants Bellinger," says my father.

"Whyever not?" she says, taking a quick slurp before it bubbles over.

I decide to rescue Simon. Nobody deserves this sort of introduction to our family. We take our drinks into the sitting room and make small talk. Simon has a jolly round face and keeps slapping his stomach like a department store Santa. "Sorry to hear about the old Parkinson's," he says. "Terrible business."

My heart sinks. "Who told you?"

"Patricia."

"How did she know?"

Suddenly realizing his mistake, Simon starts apologizing. There have been some depressing moments in the past month, but none quite so depressing as standing in front of a complete stranger, who is drinking my scotch and feeling sorry for me.

Who else knows?

The doorbell rings. Eric, Lucy and the "ee" children come bustling in, with lots of vigorous handshakes and cheek kisses. Lucy takes one look at me and her bottom lip starts to tremble. She throws her arms around me and I feel her body shaking against my chest. "I'm really sorry, Joe. So, so sorry."

My chin is resting on the top of her head. Eric puts his outstretched hand on my shoulder as if giving me a papal blessing. I don't think I have ever been so embarrassed.

The rest of the afternoon stretches out before me like a four-hour sociology lecture. When I get tired of answering questions about my health, I retreat to the garden where Charlie is playing with the "ee" children. She is showing them where we buried the goldfish. I finally remember their names, Harry, Perry and Jenny.

Harry is only a toddler and looks like a miniature Michelin man in his padded jacket and woolen hat. I toss him in the air, making him giggle. The other children are grabbing my legs, pretending I'm a monster. I spy Julianne looking wistfully out the French doors. I know what she's thinking.

After lunch we retire to the sitting room and Julianne organizes coffee and tea. Everyone says nice things about the tree and my mother's fruitcake.

"Let's play Who Am I?" says Charlie, whose mouth is speckled with crumbs. She doesn't hear the collective groan. Instead, she hands out pens and paper, while breathlessly explaining the rules.