Michael Robotham - Suspect

"I think you should go home. There's no point in staying," I tell her.

"What about answering the phone?"

"I'm not expecting any calls."

It takes twenty minutes for Meena to leave, fussing over her desk and glancing fretfully at me as though she is breaking some secretarial code of loyalty. Once alone, I close the blinds, push the unsorted folders to one side and lean back in my chair.

What mirror did I break? What ladder did I walk under? I am not a believer in God or fate or destiny. Maybe this is the "law of averages." Maybe Elisa was right. My life has been too easy. Having won nearly every important toss of the coin, my luck has now run out.

The ancient Greeks used to say that Lady Luck was a very beautiful girl with curly hair who walked among people in the street. Perhaps her name was Karma. She is a fickle mistress, a prudent woman, a tramp and a Manchester United supporter. She used to be mine.

It rains on the walk to Covent Garden. In the restaurant I shake out my coat and hand it to a waitress. Drops of water leak down my forehead. Elisa arrives fifteen minutes later, wrapped warmly in a black overcoat with a fur collar. Underneath she's dressed in a dark blue camisole with spaghetti straps and a matching miniskirt. Her stockings are seamed and dark. She uses a linen napkin to dry herself and runs her fingers through her hair.

"I never remember to carry an umbrella anymore."

"Why is that?"

"I used to have one with a carved handle. It had a stiletto blade inside the shaft… in case of trouble. See how well you taught me." She laughs and reapplies her lipstick. I want to touch the tip of her tongue with my fingers.

I cannot explain what it is like to sit in a restaurant with such a beautiful woman. Men covet Julianne, but with Elisa there is real hunger as their insides flutter and their hearts knock. There is something very pure, impulsive and innately sexual about her. It is as though she has refined, filtered and distilled her sexuality to a point where a man can believe that a single drop might be enough to satisfy him for a lifetime.

Elisa glances over her shoulder and instantly attracts a waiter's attention. She orders a salad nicoise and I choose the penne carbonara.

Normally I enjoy the confidence that comes with sitting opposite Elisa, but today I feel old and decrepit, like a gnarled olive tree with brittle bark. She talks quickly and eats slowly, picking at the seared tuna and slices of red onion.

Although I let her talk, I feel desperate and impatient. My salvation must start today. She is still watching me. Her eyes are like mirrors within mirrors. I can see myself. My hair is plastered to my forehead. I feel like I haven't really slept in weeks.

Elisa apologizes for "rabbiting on." She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

I hesitate and then begin slowly-telling her about my arrest and the murder investigation. As I describe each new low point her eyes cloud with concern. "Why didn't you just tell the police you were with me?" she asks. "I don't mind."

"It's not that easy."

"Is it because of your wife?"

"No. She knows."

Elisa shrugs her shoulders, neatly summing up her views on marriage. As a cultural institution she has nothing against it because it always provided some of her best customers. Married men were preferable to single men because they showered more often and smelled better.

"So what's stopping you from telling the police?"

"I wanted to ask you first."

She laughs at how old-fashioned that sounds. I feel myself blush.

"Before you say anything, I want you to think very carefully," I tell her. "I am in a very difficult position when I admit to spending the night with you. There are codes of conduct… ethics. You are a former patient."

"But that was years ago."

"It makes no difference. There are people who will try to use it against me. They already see me as a maverick because of my work with prostitutes and the TV documentary. And they're lining up to attack me over this… over you."

Her eyes flash. "They don't need to know. I'll go to the police and give a statement. I'll tell them you were with me. Nobody else has to find out."

I try to muster all the kindness I have left, but my words still sting. "Think for a moment what will happen if I get charged. You will have to give evidence. The prosecution will try everything they can to destroy my alibi. You are a former prostitute. You have convictions for malicious wounding. You have spent time in jail. You are also a former patient of mine. I met you when you were only fifteen. No matter how many times we tell them this was just one night, they'll think it was more…" I run out of steam, stabbing my fork into my half-finished bowl of pasta.

Elisa's lighter flares. The flame catches in her eyes, which are already blazing. I have never seen her come so close to losing her poise. "I'll leave it up to you," she says softly. "But I'm willing to give a statement. I'm not afraid."

"Thank you."

We sit in silence. After a while she reaches across the table and squeezes my hand again. "You never told me why you were so upset that night."

"It doesn't matter anymore."

"Is your wife very upset?"

"Yes."

"She is lucky to have you. I hope she realizes that."

As I open the office door I'm aware of a presence in the room. The chrome-faced clock above the filing cabinet shows half past three. Bobby Moran is standing in front of my bookcase. He seems to have appeared out of thin air.

He turns suddenly. I don't know who is more startled.

"I knocked. There was no answer." He drops his head. "I have an appointment," he says, reading my thoughts.

"Shouldn't that be with your lawyer? I heard you were suing me for slander, breach of confidentiality and whatever else he can dredge up."

He looks embarrassed. "Mr. Barrett says I should do those things. He says I could get a lot of money."

He squeezes past me and stands at my desk. He's very close. I can smell fried dough and sugar. Damp hair is plastered to his forehead in a ragged fringe.

"Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you." There is something threatening in his voice.

"I can't help you, Bobby. You haven't been honest with me."

"Are you always honest?"

"I try to be."

"How? By telling the police I killed that girl?"

He picks up a smooth glass paperweight from my desk and weighs it in his right hand, then his left. He holds it up to the light.

"Is this your crystal ball?"

"Please, put it down."

"Why? Scared I might bury it in your forehead?"

"Why don't you sit down?"

"After you." He points to my chair. "Why did you become a psychologist? Don't tell me. Let me guess… A repressive father and an overprotective mother. Or is there a dark family secret? A relative who started howling at the moon so they locked her away?"

I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing how close he is to the truth. "I'm not here to talk about me."

Bobby glances at the wall behind me. "How can you hang that diploma? It's a joke! Until three days ago you thought I was someone completely different. Yet you were going to stand up in court and tell a judge whether I should be locked up or set free. What gives you the right to destroy someone's life? You don't know me."

Listening to him I sense that for once I am talking to the real Bobby Moran. He lobs the paperweight onto the desk where it rolls in slow motion and drops into my lap.

"Did you kill Catherine McBride?"

"No."

"Did you know her?"

His eyes lock onto mine. "You're not very good at this, are you? I expected more."

"This is not a game."

"No. It's more important than that."