Michael Robotham - Suspect

I like him. He isn't into clothes. Men who take too much care with their presentation can look ambitious but also vain. When he talks he looks into the distance as if trying to see what's coming. I've seen the same look on farmers who never seem comfortable focusing on anything too close, particularly faces. His smile is apologetic.

"Sorry to gate-crash your convention," he says wryly, addressing Elisa.

"Well fuck off then!" She says it with a sweet voice and a poisonous smile.

"It's lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss, or should I say Madam?"

I step between them. "How can we help you?"

"Who are you?" He looks me up and down.

"Professor Joseph O'Loughlin."

"No shit! Hey, fellas, it's that guy from the ledge. The one who talked down that kid." His voice rumbles hoarsely. "I never seen anyone more terrified." His laugh is like a marble dropped down a drain. Another thought occurs to him. "You're that expert on hookers, aren't you? You wrote a book or something."

"A research paper."

He shrugs ambivalently and motions to his men, who separate and move down the aisles.

Clearing his throat, he addresses the room.

"My name is Detective Inspector Vincent Ruiz of the Metropolitan Police. Three days ago the body of a young woman was found in Kensal Green, West London. We estimate she died about two weeks ago. At this stage we have been unable to identify her but we have reason to believe that she may have been a prostitute. You are all going to be shown an artist's impression of the young woman. If any of you recognize her I would appreciate if you could make yourself known to us. We're after a name, an address, an associate, a friend-anyone who might have known her."

Blinking rapidly, I hear myself ask, "Where was she found?"

"In a shallow grave beside the Grand Union Canal."

The hall seems cavernous and echoing. Drawings are passed from hand to hand. The noise level rises. A languid wrist is thrust toward me. The sketch looks like one of those charcoal drawings you see tourists posing for in Covent Garden. She's young with short hair and large eyes. That describes a dozen women in the hall.

Five minutes later the detectives return, shaking their heads at Ruiz. The detective inspector grunts and wipes his misshapen nose on a handkerchief.

"You know this is an illegal gathering," he says, glancing at the tea urn. "It's an offense to allow prostitutes to assemble and consume refreshments."

"The tea is for me," I say.

He laughs dismissively. "You must drink a lot of tea. Either that or you take me for an idiot." He's challenging me.

"I know what you are," I bristle.

"Well? Don't keep me in suspense."

"You're a country boy who found himself in the big city. You grew up on a farm, milking cows and collecting eggs. You played rugby until some sort of injury ended your career, but you still wonder if you could have gone all the way. Since then it's been a struggle to keep the weight off. You're divorced or widowed, which explains why your shirt needs a decent iron and your suit needs dry-cleaning. You like a beer after work and a curry after that. You're trying to give up smoking, which is why you keep fumbling in your pockets for chewing gum. You think gyms are for wankers, unless they have a boxing ring and punch bags. And the last time you took a holiday you went to Italy because someone told you it was wonderful, but you ended up hating the food, the people and the wine."

I'm surprised by how cold and indifferent I sound. It's as though I've been infected by the prejudices swirling around me.

"Very impressive. Is that your party trick?"

"No," I mumble, suddenly embarrassed. I want to apologize but don't know where to start.

Ruiz fumbles in his pockets and then stops himself. "Tell me something, Professor. If you can work out all that just by looking at me, how much can a dead body tell you?"

"What do you mean?"

"My murder victim. How much could you tell me about her if I showed you her body?"

I'm not sure if he's being serious. In theory it might be possible, but I deal in people's minds; I read their mannerisms and body language; I look at the clothes they wear and the way they interact; I listen for changes in their voices and their eye movements. A dead body can't tell me any of this. A dead body turns my stomach.

"Don't worry she won't bite. I'll see you at Westminster Mortuary at nine o'clock tomorrow morning." He roughly tucks the address in the inside pocket of my jacket. "We can have breakfast afterward," he adds, chuckling to himself.

Before I can respond, he turns to leave, flanked by detectives. Then at the last possible moment, just before he reaches the door, he stops and spins back toward me.

"You were wrong about one thing."

"What's that?"

"Italy. I fell in love with it."

Outside on the pavement, when the last of the police cars have disappeared, Elisa kisses me on the cheek.

"I'm sorry about that."

"It's not your fault."

"I know. I just like kissing you."

She laughs and tousles my hair. Then she makes a fuss about getting a brush from her bag and fixing it up again. She stands in front of me and pushes my head down slightly as she tries to straighten my curls. From here I can see down her sweater to the swoop of her lace-covered breasts and the dark valley in between.

"People are going to start talking," she teases.

"There's nothing to talk about." The statement is too abrupt. Her eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly.

She lights a cigarette and then guillotines the flame with the lid of her lighter. For a fleeting moment I see the light reflect off the golden specks in her green eyes. No matter how Elisa styles her hair it always appears sleep-tousled and wild. She cocks her head to one side and looks at me intently.

"I saw you on the news. You were very brave."

"I was terrified."

"Is he going to be OK-the boy on the roof?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to be OK?"

The question surprises me, but I don't know how to respond. I follow her back into the hall and help her stack the chairs. She unplugs the overhead projector and hands me a box of pamphlets. The same painting of Mary Magdalene is printed on the front fold.

Elisa puts her chin on my shoulder. "Mary Magdalene is the patron saint of prostitutes."

"I thought she was a redeemed sinner."

Annoyed, she corrects me. "The Gnostic Gospels call her a visionary. She's also been called the Apostle of Apostles because she brought them the news of the Resurrection."

"And you believe all that?"

"Jesus disappears for three days and the first person to see him alive is a whore. I'd say that was pretty typical!" She doesn't laugh. It isn't meant to be funny.

I follow her back onto the front steps, where she turns and locks the door.

"I have my car. I can give you a lift to your office," she says, fumbling for her keys. We turn the corner and I see her red Volkswagen Beetle on a parking meter.

"There is another reason I chose that painting," she explains.

"Because it was painted by a woman."

"Yes, but that's not all. It's because of what happened to the artist. Artemisia Gentileschi was raped when she was nineteen by her instructor, Tassi, although he denied touching her. During his trial he said Artemisia was a lousy painter, who invented the rape story because she was jealous. He accused her of being 'an insatiable whore' and called all his friends to give evidence against her. They even had her examined by midwives to find out if she was still a virgin."

Elisa sighs dolefully. "Not much has changed in four centuries. The only difference now is that we don't torture our rape victims with thumbscrews to find out if they're telling the truth."