Michael Robotham - Suspect

What happened next? It isn't easy carrying a body. Perhaps he dragged her onto the towpath. No, he needed somewhere private. Somewhere he'd prepared in advance. A flat or a house? Neighbors can be nosy. There are dozens of derelict factories along the canal.

Did he risk using the towpath? The homeless sometimes sleep under the bridges or couples use them for romantic rendezvous.

The shadow of a narrow boat moves past me. The rumble of the motor is so low that the sound barely reaches me. The only light on the vessel is near the wheel. It casts a red glow on the face of the helmsman. I wonder. Traces of machine oil and diesel were found on Catherine's buttocks and hair.

I peer around the tree. The park bench is empty. Damn! Where has he gone? There is a figure on the far side of the church, moving along the railings. I can't be sure it's him.

My mind sets off at a run, but my legs are left behind. I finish up doing a perfect limp fall. Nothing is broken. Only my pride hurts.

I stumble onward and reach the corner of the church where the iron railings take a ninety-degree turn. The figure is staying on the path but moving much more quickly. I doubt if I can keep up with him.

What is he doing? Has he seen me? Jogging slowly, I carry on, losing sight of him occasionally. Doubt gnaws at my resolve. What if he's stopped up ahead? Perhaps he's waiting for me. The six lanes of the Westway curve above me, supported by enormous concrete pillars. The glow of headlights is too high to help me.

Ahead I hear a splash and a muffled cry. Someone is in the canal. Arms are thrashing at the water. I start running. There is the faint outline of a figure beneath the bridge. The sides of the canal are higher there. The stone walls are black and slick.

I try to shrug off my overcoat. My right arm gets caught in the sleeve and I swing it around until it comes loose. "This way! Over here!" I call.

He doesn't hear me. He can't swim.

I kick off my shoes and leap. The cold slaps me so hard I swallow a mouthful of water. I cough it out through my mouth and nose. Three strokes. I'm with him. I slide my arm around him from behind and pull him backward, keeping his head above the surface. I talk to him gently, telling him to relax. We'll find a place to get out. Wet clothes weigh him down.

I swim us away from the bridge. "You can touch the bottom here. Just hold on to the side." I scramble up the stone wall and pull him up after me.

It isn't Bobby. Some poor tramp, smelling of beer and vomit, lies at my feet, coughing and spluttering. I check his head, neck and limbs for any sign of trauma. His face is smeared with snot and tears.

"What happened?"

"Some sick fuck threw me in the canal! One minute I'm sleepin' and the next I'm flying." He's resting on his knees, doubled over and swaying back and forth like an underwater plant. "I tell yer it ain't safe no more. It's like a fuckin' jungle… Did he take me blanket? If he took me blanket you can throw me back in."

His blanket is still under the bridge, piled on a makeshift bed of flattened cardboard boxes.

"What about me teeth?"

"I don't know."

He curses and scoops up his things, jealously clutching them to his chest. I suggest calling an ambulance and then the police, but he wants none of it. My whole body has started to tremble and I feel like I'm inhaling slivers of ice.

Retrieving my overcoat and shoes, I give him a soggy twenty-pound note and tell him to find somewhere to dry out. He'll probably buy a bottle and be warm on the inside. My feet squelch in my shoes as I climb the stairs onto the bridge. The Grand Union Hotel is on the corner.

Almost as an afterthought, I lean over the side of the bridge and call out, "How often do you sleep here?"

His voice echoes from beneath the stone arch. "Only when the Ritz is full."

"Have you ever seen a narrow boat moored under the bridge?"

"Nah. They moor farther along."

"What about a few weeks ago?"

"I try not to remember things. I mind me own business."

He has nothing to add. I have no authority to press him. Elisa lives close by. I contemplate knocking on her door but I've brought enough trouble to her doorstep already.

After twenty minutes I manage to hail a cab. The driver doesn't want to take me because I'll ruin the seats. I offer him an extra twenty quid. It's only water. I'm sure he's had worse.

Jock isn't home. I am so tired I can barely get my shoes off before collapsing into the spare bed. In the early hours I hear his key in the lock. A woman laughs drunkenly and kicks off her shoes. She comments on all the gadgets.

"Just wait till you see what I keep in the bedroom," says Jock, triggering more giggles.

I wonder if he has any earplugs.

It is still dark as I pack a sports bag and leave a note taped to the microwave. Outside, a street-sweeping machine is polishing the streets. There isn't a hamburger wrapper in sight.

On the ride toward the city I keep looking through the rear window. I change cabs twice and visit two cash machines before catching a bus along Euston Road.

I feel as though I'm slowly coming out of an anesthetic. Over the past few days I have been letting details slip. Even worse, I have stopped trusting my instincts.

I am not going to tell Ruiz about Elisa. She shouldn't have to face a grilling in the witness box. I want to spare her that ordeal, if possible. And when this is all over-if nobody knows about her-I might still have a career that can be resurrected.

Bobby Moran had something to do with Catherine McBride's death. I'm convinced of it. If the police won't put him under the microscope then it's up to me. People normally need a motive to kill, but not to stay free. I will not let them send me to prison. I will not be separated from my family.

At Euston Station I do a quick inventory. Apart from a change of clothes, I have Bobby Moran's notes, Catherine McBride's CV, my mobile phone and a thousand pounds in cash. I forgot to bring a photograph of Charlie and Julianne. The one I keep at the office is from years ago. They were playing on one of those colorful adventure playgrounds, each putting their heads through a porthole. Charlie's hair was much shorter and her face still had the roundness of a lollipop. Julianne looked like her teenage sister.

I pay for the train ticket in cash. With fifteen minutes to spare, I have time to buy a toothbrush, toothpaste, a recharger for my mobile phone and one of those traveling towels that looks like a car chamois.

"Do you sell umbrellas?" I ask hopefully. The shopkeeper looks at me as though I've asked for a shotgun.

Nursing a takeout coffee, I board the train and find a double seat facing forward. I keep my bag beside me, covered by my overcoat.

The empty platform slides past the window and the northern suburbs of London disappear the same way. The train leans on floating axles as it corners at high speed.

We tear past tiny stations with empty platforms where trains no longer seem to stop. One or two vehicles are parked in the long-term car parks that look so far beyond the pale that I half expect to see a hose running from an exhaust pipe and a body slumped over a steering wheel.

My head is full of questions. Catherine applied to be my secretary. She phoned Meena twice, and then took a train down to London, arriving a day early.

Why did she phone the office that evening? Who answered the call? Did she have second thoughts about surprising me? Did she want to cancel? Perhaps she'd been stood up and just wanted to go out for a drink. Maybe she wanted to apologize for causing me so much trouble.

All of this is supposition. At the same time, it fits the framework of detail. It can be built upon. All the pieces can be made to fit a story, except for one-Bobby.