Michael Robotham - Suspect

At the Albion Hotel the receptionist is knitting, moving her lips as she counts the stitches. Canned laughter emanates from somewhere beneath her feet. She doesn't acknowledge me until she finishes a row. Then she hands me a note. It has the name and telephone number of a teacher who taught Bobby at St. Mary's school. The morning will be soon enough.

The stairs feel steeper than before. I'm tired and drunk. I just want to sink down and sleep.

I wake up suddenly, breathing hard. My hand slides across the sheets looking for Julianne. She normally wakes when I cry out in my sleep. She puts her hand on my chest and whispers that everything is all right.

Taking deep breaths, I wait for my heartbeat to slow and then slip out of bed, tiptoeing across to the window. The street is empty except for a newspaper van making a delivery. I touch my ear gingerly and feel the roughness of the stitches. There is blood on my pillow.

The door opens. There is no knock. No warning footsteps. I'm positive that I locked it. A hand appears, red-nailed, long-fingered. Then a face coloured with lipstick and blusher. She is pale-skinned and thin, with short-cropped blond hair.

"Shhhhhhhh!"

A person giggles behind her.

"For fuck's sake, will you be quiet."

She's reaching for the light switch. I'm standing silhouetted against the window.

"This room is taken."

Her eyes meet mine and she utters a single shocked expletive. Behind her a large disheveled man in an ill-fitting suit has his hand inside her top.

"You scared the crap out of me," she says, pushing his hand away. He gropes drunkenly at her breasts again.

"How did you get into this room?"

She rolls her eyes apologetically. "Made a mistake."

"The door was locked."

She shakes her head. Her male friend looks over her shoulder. "What's he doing in our room?"

"It's his room, ya moron!" She hits him in the chest with a silver diamante clutch bag and starts pushing him backward out of the room. As she closes the door she turns and smiles. "You want some company? I can piss this guy off."

She's so thin I can see the bones in her chest above her breasts. "No thanks."

She shrugs and hikes up her tights beneath her miniskirt. Then the door closes and I hear them trying to creep along the hall and climb to the next floor.

For a moment I feel a flush of anger. Did I really forget to lock the door? I was drunk, maybe even partly concussed.

It is just after six. Julianne and Charlie will still be sleeping. I take out my mobile and turn it on, staring at the glowing face in the darkness. There are no messages. This is my penance… to think about my wife and daughter when I fall asleep and when I wake up.

Sitting on the windowsill, I watch the sky grow lighter. Pigeons wheel and soar over the rooftops. They remind me of Varanasi in India, where the vultures circle high over funeral pyres, waiting for the charred remains to be dumped in the Ganges. Varanasi is a sorry slum of a city, with crumbling buildings, cross-eyed children and nothing of beauty except the brightly colored saris and swaying hips of the women. It appalled and fascinated me. The same is true of Liverpool.

I wait until seven before calling Julianne. A male voice answers. At first I think I've dialed the wrong number but then I recognize Jock's voice.

"I was just thinking about you," he says in a booming voice. Charlie is in the background, saying, "Is that Dad? Can I talk to him? Please let me."

Jock covers the receiver, but I can still hear him. He tells her to fetch Julianne. Charlie complains, but obeys.

Meanwhile, Jock is full of chummy bonhomie. I interrupt him. "What are you doing there, Jock? Is everything OK?"

"Your plumbing still sucks."

What does he know about my fucking plumbing? He matches my coldness with his own. I can picture his face changing. "Someone tried to break in. Julianne got a bit spooked. She didn't want to be in the house on her own. I offered to stay."

"Who? When?"

"It was probably just some addict. He came through the front door. The plumbers had left it open. D.J. found him in the study and chased him down the street. Lost him near the canal."

"Was anything taken?"

"No."

I hear footsteps on the stairs. Jock puts his hand over the phone.

"Can I talk to Julianne? I know she's there."

"She says no."

I feel a flush of anger. Jock tries to banter again. "She wants to know why you called her mother at three in the morning."

A vague memory surfaces: dialing the number; her mother's icy rebuke. She hung up on me.

"Just let me talk to Julianne."

"No can do, old boy. She's not feeling very well."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. She's feeling a bit off-color."

"Is anything wrong?"

"No. She's in good order. I've given her a full physical." He's trying to wind me up. It's working.

"Give her the fucking phone…"

"I don't think you're in any position to give me orders, Joe. You're only making things worse."

I want to sink my fist into his hundred-sit-ups-a-day stomach. Then I hear a telltale click. Someone has picked up the phone in my office. Jock doesn't realize.

I try to sound conciliatory and tell him that I'll call later. He puts the phone down, but I wait, listening.

"Dad, is that you?" Charlie asks nervously.

"How are you, sweetheart?"

"Good. When are you coming home?"

"I don't know. I have to sort out a few things with Mummy."

"Did you guys have a fight?"

"How did you know?"

"When Mum's angry at you I should never let her brush my hair."

"I'm sorry."

"That's OK. Was it your fault?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you just say you're sorry? That's what you tell me to do when I have a fight with Taylor Jones."

"I don't think that's going to be enough this time."

I can hear her thinking about this. I can even picture her biting her bottom lip in concentration.

"Dad?"

"Yes."

"Well… um… I want to ask you something. It's about… well…" She keeps starting and stopping. I tell her to think of the whole question in her head and then ask me.

Finally it comes blurting out. "There was this picture in the newspaper… someone with a coat over his head. Some of the kids were talking… at school. Lachlan O'Brien said it was you. I called him a liar. Then last night I took one of the newspapers from the trash. Mum had thrown them out. I sneaked them upstairs to my room…"

"Did you read the story?"

"Yes."

My stomach lurches. How do I explain the concept of wrongful arrest and mistaken identity to an eight-year-old? Charlie has been taught to trust the police. Justice and fairness are important-even in the playground.

"It was a mistake, Charlie. The police made a mistake."

"Then why is Mum angry at you?"

"Because I made another mistake. A different one. It has nothing to do with the police or with you."

She falls silent. I can almost hear her thinking.

"What's wrong with Mummy?" I ask.

"I don't know. I heard her tell Uncle Jock she was late."

"Late for what?"

"She didn't say. She just said she was late."

I ask her to repeat the statement word for word. She doesn't understand why. My mouth is dry. It isn't just the hangover. In the background I can hear Julianne calling Charlie's name.

"I have to go," whispers Charlie. "Come home soon."

She hangs up quickly. I don't have a chance to say goodbye. My first instinct is to call straight back. I want to keep calling until Julianne talks to me. Does "late" mean what I think it means? I feel sick to the stomach: hopeless in the head.

I could be home in three hours if I caught a train. I could stand on the doorstep until she agrees to talk to me. Maybe that's what she wants-for me to come running back to fight for her.