Michael Robotham - Suspect

"You all have to think of someone famous. They don't have to be real. It can be a cartoon character, or a movie star. It could even be Lassie…"

"That's my choice gone."

She scowls at me. "Don't let anyone see the name you write. Then you stick the paper on someone else's forehead. They have to guess who they are."

The game turns out to be a scream. God's-personal-physician-in-waiting can't understand why everybody laughs so uproariously at the name on his forehead: Grumpy from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

I'm actually beginning to enjoy myself when the doorbell rings and Charlie dashes out to answer it. Lucy and Patricia start clearing the cups and plates.

"You don't look like a policeman," says Charlie.

"I'm a detective."

"Does that mean you have a badge?"

"Do you want to see it?"

"Maybe I should."

Ruiz is reaching into his inside jacket pocket when I reach the door.

"We've taught her to be careful," I say apologetically.

"That's very wise." He smiles at Charlie and looks fifteen years younger. For a brief moment I think he might ruffle her hair, but people don't do that so much nowadays.

Ruiz looks past me into the hall and apologizes for disturbing me.

"Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yes," he mumbles and then pats at his pockets as though he's written a note to remind himself.

"Would you like to come in?"

"If that's OK."

I lead him to my study and offer to take his coat. Catherine's notes are still open on my desk where I left them.

"Doing a little homework?"

"I just wanted to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything."

"And had you?"

"No."

"You could let me be the judge of that."

"Not this time." I close the notebooks and put them away.

Walking around my desk, he glances at my bookcases, studying the various photographs and my souvenir water pipe from Syria.

"Where has he been?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You said that my murderer didn't start with Catherine, so where has he been?"

"Practicing."

"On whom?"

"I don't know."

Ruiz is now at the window, looking across the garden. He rolls his shoulders and the starched collar of his shirt presses under his ears. I want to ask him what he's learned about Bobby, but he interrupts me.

"Is he going to kill again?"

I don't want to answer. Hypothetical situations are perilous. He senses me pulling back and won't let me escape. I have to say something.

"At the moment he is still thinking about Catherine and how she died. When those memories begin to fade, he may go looking for new experiences to feed his fantasies."

"How can you be so sure?"

"His actions were relaxed and deliberate. He wasn't out of control or consumed by anger or desire. He was calm, considered, almost euphoric in his planning."

"Where are these other victims? Why haven't we found them?"

"Maybe you haven't established a link."

Ruiz flinches and squares his shoulders. He resents the inference that he's missed something important. At the same time he's not going to jeopardize the investigation because of overweening pride. He wants to understand.

"You're looking for clues in the method and symbolism, but these can only come from comparing crimes. Find another victim and you may find a pattern."

Ruiz grinds his teeth as though wearing them down. What else can I give him?

"He knows the area. It took time to bury Catherine. He knew there were no houses overlooking that part of the canal. And he knew what time of night the towpath was deserted."

"So he lives locally."

"Or used to."

Ruiz is seeing how the facts support the theory, trying them on for size. People are moving downstairs. A toilet flushes. A child cries in anger.

"But why would he choose such a public place? He could have hidden her in the middle of nowhere."

"He wasn't hiding her. He let you have Catherine."

"Why?"

"Maybe he's proud of his handiwork or he's giving you a sneak preview."

Ruiz grimaces. "I don't know how you do your job. How can you walk around knowing sick fucks like that are on the loose? How can you live inside their heads?" He crosses his arms and jams his hands under his armpits. "Then again, maybe you enjoy that sort of shit."

"What do you mean?"

"You tell me. Is it a game for you, playing detective? Showing me one patient's file and not another's. Phoning up and asking me questions. Are you enjoying this?"

"I… I didn't ask to be brought into this."

He enjoys my anger. In the silence I hear laughter downstairs.

"I think you had better leave."

He regards me with satisfaction and physical superiority, before taking his coat and descending the stairs. Exhausted, I can visualize my energy draining away.

At the front door, Ruiz turns down the collar of his jacket and looks back at me.

"In the hunt, Professor, there are foxes and there are hounds and there are hunt saboteurs. Which one are you?"

"I don't believe in foxhunting."

"Is that right? Neither does the fox."

When our guests have gone, Julianne sends me upstairs to have a bath. Some time later I'm aware of her sliding into bed beside me. She turns and nestles backward until her body molds into mine. Her hair smells of apple and cinnamon.

"I'm tired," I whisper.

"It's been a long day."

"That's not what I'm getting at. I've been thinking about making a few changes."

"Like what?"

"Just changes."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"We could go on a holiday. We could go to California. We've always talked of doing that."

"What about your job… and Charlie's schooling."

"She's young. She'll learn a lot more if we go traveling for six months than she will at school…"

Julianne turns around and props herself up on her elbow, so she can look at me. "What's brought this on?"

"Nothing."

"When this all started you said you didn't want things to change. You said the future could be anything we wanted it to be."

"I know."

"And then you stopped talking to me. You give me no idea of what you're going through and then you spring this!"

"I'm sorry. I'm just tired."

"No, it's more than that. Tell me."

"I have this rackety idea in my head that I should be doing more. You read about people whose lives are packed with incident and adventure and you think, Wow! I should do more. That's when I thought about going away."

"While there's still time?"

"Yes."

"So this is about the Parkinson's?"

"No… I can't explain… Just forget it."

"I don't want to forget it. I want you to be happy. But we don't have any money-not with the mortgage and the plumbing. You said so yourself. Maybe in the summer we can go to Cornwall…"

"Yeah. You're right. Cornwall would be nice." As hard as I try to sound enthusiastic, I know I don't succeed. Julianne slips an arm around my waist and pulls herself closer. I feel her warm breath on my throat.

"With any luck I might be pregnant by then," she whispers. "We don't want to be too far away."

My head aches and my throat is scratchy. It could be a hangover. It might be the flu. According to the papers half the country has succumbed to some exotic bug from Beijing or Bogota-one of those places that nobody ever leaves without carrying a virulent germ.

The good news is that I have had no detectable side effects from taking selegiline except for the insomnia, a pre-existing condition. The bad news is that the drug has had absolutely no effect on my symptoms.

I telephone Jock at seven.

"How do you know it isn't working?" he says, annoyed at being woken.

"I don't feel any different."

"That's the whole point. It doesn't make the symptoms go away-it stops them getting worse."