Michael Robotham - Suspect

"Yes."

"And arsonists help fight fires?"

Ruiz leans across the desk toward me, until I can see the capillaries beneath the skin of his nose. I swear he can breathe through those pores.

"Are you willing to talk to me without your lawyer present?"

"If you turn off the tape."

Simon objects and wants to talk to me alone. Outside in the corridor we have a frank exchange of views. He tells me I'm being stupid. I agree. But if I can get Ruiz to listen, maybe I can convince him to look at Bobby again.

"I want it noted that I advised you against this."

"Don't worry, Simon. Nobody's going to blame you."

Ruiz is waiting for me. A cigarette is alight in the ashtray. He stares at it intently, watching it burn down. The gray ash forms a misshapen tower that will tumble with the slightest breath.

"I thought you were quitting."

"I am. I like to watch."

The ash topples and Ruiz pushes the ashtray to one side. He nods.

The room seems so much larger with just the two of us. Ruiz pushes back his chair and puts his feet on the table. His black brogues have worn heels. Above one sock, on the white of his ankle, there is a streak of black shoe polish.

"We took your photograph to every pub and wine bar in Leicester Square and Covent Garden," he says. "Not one barman or barmaid remembers you."

"I'm easy to forget."

"We're going out again tonight. Maybe we'll trigger someone's memory. Somehow I don't think so. I don't think you were anywhere near the West End."

I don't respond.

"We also showed your photograph to the regulars at the Grand Union Hotel. Nobody remembers seeing you there. They remembered Catherine. She was dressed real nice, according to some of the lads. One of them offered to buy her a drink, but she said she was waiting for someone. Was it you?"

"No."

"Who was it?"

"I still think it was Bobby Moran."

Ruiz lets out a low rumble that ends with a hacking cough. "You don't give up, do you?"

"Catherine didn't die on the night she disappeared. Her body wasn't found for eleven days. Whoever tortured her took a long time to break her spirit-days perhaps. Bobby could have done it."

"Nothing points to him."

"I think he knew her."

Ruiz laughs ironically. "That's the difference between what you do and what I do. You base your conclusions on bell curves and empirical models. A sob story about a lousy childhood and you're ready to put someone in therapy for ten years. I deal with facts and right now they're all pointing to you."

"What about intuition? Gut instincts? I thought detectives used them all the time."

"Not when I'm trying to get approval for a surveillance budget."

We sit in silence, measuring the gulf between us. Eventually Ruiz speaks. "I talked to your wife yesterday. She described you as being a little 'distant' lately. You suggested the family go away on a trip… to America. It came up suddenly. She couldn't explain why."

"It had nothing to do with Catherine. I wanted to see more of the world."

"Before it's too late." His voice softens. "Tell me about your Parkinson's. Must be pretty gutting to get news like that-particularly when you've got a good-looking wife, a young daughter, a successful career. How many years are you going to lose? Ten? Twenty?"

"I don't know."

"I reckon news like that would make a guy feel pretty pissed off with the world. You've worked with cancer patients. You tell me-do they get bitter and feel cheated?"

"Some of them do."

"I bet some of them want to tear down the world. I mean, why should they get all the shitty luck, right? What are you going to do in a situation like that? Go quietly, or rail against the dying of the light? You could settle old scores and make amends. Nothing wrong with exacting a bit of rough justice if it's the only kind on offer."

I want to laugh at his clumsy attempt at psychoanalysis. "Is that what you'd do, Inspector?" It takes Ruiz a few moments to realize that I'm now scrutinizing him. "You think the vigilante spirit might take you?"

Doubt fills his eyes, but he won't let it stay there. He wants to move on, to change the subject, but first I want to set him straight about people with terminal illnesses or incurable diseases. Yes, some want to lash out in frustration at the sense of hopelessness and helplessness. But the bitterness and anger soon fade. Instead of feeling sorry for themselves they face the fury of the ill wind and look ahead. And they resolve to enjoy every moment they have left, to suck the marrow out of life until it dribbles down their chin.

Sliding his feet to the floor, Ruiz puts both hands flat on the table and levers himself upward. He doesn't look at me as he speaks. "I want you charged with murder but the Director of Public Prosecutions says I don't have enough evidence. He's right, but then so am I. I'm going to keep looking until we find some more. It's just a matter of time." His eyes are gazing at something a great distance away.

"You don't like me, do you?" I ask.

"Not particularly."

"Why?"

"Because you think I'm a dumb, foul-mouthed plod, who doesn't read books and thinks the theory of relativity has something to do with inbreeding."

"That's not true."

He shrugs and reaches for the door handle.

"How much of this is personal?" I ask.

His answer rumbles through the closing door. "Don't flatter yourself."

The same WPC who has shadowed me for the last forty-eight hours hands me my tennis racket and a parcel containing my watch, wallet, wedding ring and shoelaces. I have to count my money, including the loose change, and sign for them.

The clock on the wall of the charge room says it's 9:45 p.m. What day is it? Wednesday. Seven days before Christmas. A small silver tree is perched on the front counter, decorated with a handful of baubles and a wonky star. Hanging on the wall behind it is a banner saying, PEACE AND GOODWILL TO ALL MEN.

The WPC offers to call me a cab. I wait in the reception area until the driver gives me a blast on the horn. I'm tired, dirty and smell of stale sweat. I should go home, yet when I slide into the backseat of the cab I feel my courage leak away. I want to tell the driver to head in the opposite direction. I don't want to face Julianne. Semantics aren't going to wash with her. Only the unqualified truth.

I have never loved anyone as much as I love her-not until Charlie came along. There is no justification for cheating on her. I know what people will say. They'll call it classic midlife paranoia. I hit my forties and, fearing my own mortality, have a one-night stand. Or they'll put it all down to self-pity. On the same day I learn of my progressive neurological disease I sleep with another woman-getting my fill of sex and excitement before my body falls apart.

I have no excuses for what happened. It wasn't an accident or a moment of madness. It was a mistake. It was sex. It was tears, semen and someone other than Julianne.

Jock had just told me the bad news. I was sitting in his office, unable to move. A huge bloody butterfly had flapped its wings in the Amazonian jungle and the vibrations had been circling the world waiting to knock me down.

Jock offered to take me for a drink. I said no. I needed some air. For the next few hours I wandered around the West End, visiting bars and trying to feel like just another person having a few drinks to unwind.

First I thought I wanted to be alone. Then I realized that I really needed to talk to somebody. Somebody who wasn't part of my perfect life: somebody who didn't know Julianne, or Charlie, or any of my friends or family. So that's how I finished up on Elisa's doorstep. It wasn't an accident. I sought her out.

In the beginning we just talked. We talked for hours. (Julianne will probably say this makes my infidelity worse because it was more than just some insatiable male craving.) What did we talk about? Childhood memories. Favorite holidays. Special songs. Maybe none of these things. The words weren't important. Elisa knew I was hurting, but didn't ask why. She knew I would either tell her or I wouldn't. It made no difference to her.