Michael Robotham - Suspect

Erskine is a good psychologist and a good man. He nursed his wife through MS until she died and he's raised a lot for a research grant in her name. Mel has passion and a social conscience that always puts me to shame. At the same time, she has never made any pretense of neutrality. She knows what she knows. Gut instinct counts.

I don't know where any of this leaves me. I'm tired and I'm hungry. I still don't have any evidence that Bobby knew Catherine McBride, let alone murdered her.

A dozen steps before I reach my hotel room I know something is wrong. The door is open. A wine-dark stain leaks across the carpet, heading for the stairs. A potted palm lies on its side across the doorway. The clay pot must have broken in half when it sheared off the door handle.

A cleaner's cart is parked in the stairwell. It contains two buckets, mops, scrubbing brushes and a collection of wet rags. The cleaning lady is standing in the middle of my room. The bed is upside down, littered with the remains of a broken drawer. The sink-wrenched from the wall-lies beneath a broken pipe and a steady trickle of water.

My clothes are scattered across the sodden carpet, interspersed with torn pages of notes and ripped folders. My sports bag is crammed inside the bowl of the toilet, decorated with a turd.

"There is nothing like having your room properly cleaned, is there?" I say.

The cleaning lady looks at me in disbelief.

Spearmint toothpaste spells out a message on the mirror that's full of local flavor: go home or get boxed. Simple. Succinct. Precise. The hotel manager wants to call the police. I have to open my wallet to change his mind. Picking through the debris, there isn't much worth salvaging. Gingerly, I lift a bundle of soggy papers smeared with ink. The only sheet legible is the last page of Catherine's CV. I had read the cover letter in the office but got no farther. Glancing down the page I see a list of three character references. Only one of them matters: Dr. Emlyn R. Owen. She gives Jock's Harley Street address and phone number.

Maintenance work, leaves on the line, signal failures, point faults… pick any one of them, they all add up to the same thing-the intercity express train will be late arriving in London. The conductor apologizes frequently over the loudspeaker, keeping everyone awake.

I buy a cup of tea from the dining car, along with a "gourmet" sandwich, which is evidence of how culinary words can be devalued. It tastes of nothing except mayonnaise. Random thoughts keep nudging away at my tiredness. Missing pieces. New pieces. No pieces at all.

There are little lies, so tiny that it doesn't much matter whether you do or you don't believe them. Other lies seem small, but have huge ramifications. And sometimes it isn't a case of what you say but what you don't say. Jock's lies are always close to the truth.

Catherine was having an affair with someone at the Marsden-a married man. She was in love with him. She reacted badly when he broke things off. On the night she died she arranged to meet someone. Was it Jock? Maybe that's why she called my office-because he didn't show up. Or maybe he did show. He's not married anymore. An old flame rekindled.

It was Jock who introduced me to Bobby. He said it was a favor for Eddie Barrett.

Jesus! I can't get my head around this. I wish I could go to sleep and wake up in a different body-or a different life. Any scenario would be better than this one. My best friend-I want to be wrong about him. We've been together from the very beginning. I used to think that sharing a delivery suite made us like brothers; nongenetic twins, who breathed the same air and saw the same bright light as we entered the world.

I don't know what to think anymore. He has lied to me. He's in my house and he's taking advantage of everything that has happened. I have seen the way he looks at Julianne, with an emotion far baser than envy.

Everything with Jock is a contest. A duel. And he hates it most if he thinks you're not trying because it cheapens his victories.

Catherine would have been an easy conquest. Jock could always pick the vulnerable ones, although they didn't excite him as much as girls who were self-assured and cool. His affairs caused two divorces. He couldn't help himself.

Why would Catherine have stayed in touch with someone who broke her heart? And why would she list Jock as a reference on her CV?

Someone must have told her that I needed a secretary. It's too big a coincidence to think she happened to answer an advertisement and discover that she was applying to work for me. Perhaps Jock had started seeing her again. He wouldn't have to keep it a secret this time. Not unless he was embarrassed about the trouble Catherine had caused me.

What am I missing?

She left the Grand Union Hotel alone. Jock hadn't turned up or perhaps he'd arranged to meet her later. No! This is stupid! Jock isn't capable of torturing someone-forcing her to drive a knife through her own flesh. He can be a bully but he's not a sadist.

I'm going around in circles. What do I know to be true? He knew Catherine. He knew about her self-harm. He lied about knowing her.

A touch of fear passes across my consciousness like a slight fever. Julianne would have said that someone had walked across my grave.

Euston Station on a cold clear evening. The taxi queue stretches along the footpath and up the steps. On the ride to Hampstead, watching the red digits climb on the meter, I formulate a plan.

The doorman at Jock's mansion block has gone home for the evening, but the caretaker recognizes my face and buzzes me through to the foyer.

"What happened to your ear?"

"Insect bite. Infected."

The internal staircase is stained deep mahogany and the stair rods gleam brightly as they reflect light from the chandeliers. Jock's flat is in darkness. I open the door and notice the blinking red light of the alarm. It isn't armed. Jock has trouble remembering the code.

I leave the lights off and walk through the flat until I reach the kitchen. The black-and-white marble tiles are like a giant chessboard. The light above the stove illuminates the floor and lower cabinets. I don't know why I'm frightened of turning on the overhead lights. I guess this feels more like a break-in than a house call.

First I try the drawer beneath the phone looking for some evidence that he knew Catherine-an address book or a letter or an old telephone bill. I move to the wardrobe in the main bedroom where Jock has his shirts and suits and ties arranged by color. A dozen shirts, still wrapped in plastic, are set out on separate shelves.

At the back of the wardrobe I find a box full of hanging files, including one for bills and invoices. The most recent phone bill in a clear plastic sleeve. The service summary provides a breakdown of STD and international calls as well as calls to mobiles.

Scanning the first list I look for any numbers with O151 as the prefix-the code for Liverpool. I don't have any of Catherine's numbers.

Yes I do! Her CV!

I pull the still-damp pages from my jacket and spread them carefully on the rug. The ink has run into the corners, but I can still read the address. I compare the numbers with the phone bill, running down the calls made on the thirteenth of November. The numbers jump out at me-two calls to Catherine's mobile. The second was at 5:24 p.m. and lasted for just over three minutes-too long for it to be a wrong number and long enough to make a date.

Something doesn't make sense. Ruiz has Catherine's phone records. He must know about these calls.

Ruiz's card is in my wallet, but it has almost turned to pulp after my swim in the canal. At first I get his answering machine, but before I can hang up a gruff voice curses the technology and tells me to wait. I can hear him trying to turn the machine off.