Michael Robotham - Suspect

"That's bullshit and you know it!"

"You have to understand things from my point of view. I didn't want to get involved."

"So you dump me even deeper in the shit."

"You had an alibi-you just didn't use it."

Alibis. That's what it comes down to. I should have been at home with my wife-my pregnant wife. She should have been my alibi!

It was a Wednesday night. Julianne had her Spanish class. She normally doesn't get home until after ten.

"Why didn't you keep your appointment with Catherine?"

There's a smile behind his eyes. "I had a better offer."

He's not going to tell me. He wants me to ask.

"You were with Julianne."

"Yes."

I feel something shift inside me. I'm scared now.

"Where did you see her?"

"Worry about your own alibi, Joe."

"Answer the question."

"We had dinner. She wanted to see me. She asked about your condition. She didn't trust you to tell her the truth."

"And after dinner?"

"We came back here for coffee."

"Julianne is pregnant." I make it a statement, not a question.

I watch him contemplating another lie, but he decides against it. We now have a mutual understanding. All his mediocre lies and half-truths have diminished him.

"Yes, she's pregnant." Then he laughs quietly. "Poor Joe, you don't know whether to be happy or sad. Don't you trust her? You should know her better than that."

"I thought I knew you."

A toilet flushes upstairs. Julianne is getting ready for bed. My eyes travel from the lighted window back to Jock. Suddenly I see the answer.

"Catherine didn't write those letters to me-she wrote them to you."

He doesn't answer.

"We have the same initials: J.O. That's how she addressed the letters. And you called her Florence."

His silence infuriates me. I want to take one of his tennis rackets and break his kneecaps. "Did you post her letter to me? What were you trying to do-frame me?"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"You have to tell the police."

"Maybe I should tell them where you are."

He isn't joking. Inwardly I want to kill him. I'm sick of the contest.

"Is this about Julianne? Do you think I've been keeping the seat warm all these years? Forget it! She's not going to come running to you if something happens to me. Not if you betray me. You'll never be able to live with yourself."

"I live with myself now, that's the problem." His eyes are shining and his oboe voice is wavering. "You're a very lucky man, Joe, to have a family like this. It never worked out for me."

"You couldn't stay with any woman long enough."

"I didn't find the right one."

Frustration is etched on his face. Suddenly it becomes clear to me. I see Jock's life for what it is-a series of bitter, repetitive disappointments, in which his mistakes and failings have been recast over and over because he could never break the mold.

"Get out of my house, Jock, and stay away from Julianne."

He collects his things-a briefcase and a jacket-and turns toward me as he holds up the front door key, leaving it on the kitchen counter. I see him glance upstairs as if contemplating whether to say goodbye to Julianne. He decides against it and leaves.

As the front door closes behind him I feel a hollow, nagging doubt. The police are waiting outside. He could so easily tell them.

Before I can rationalize the danger, Julianne appears downstairs. Her hair is almost dry and she's wearing pajama bottoms and a rugby sweater. Completely still, I watch her from the garden. She gets a glass of water and turns toward the French doors to check if they're locked. Her eyes meet mine and show no emotion. She reaches down and picks up a ski jacket which is hanging on the back of a chair. Slipping it around her shoulders, she steps outside.

"What happened to you?"

"I fell over the fence."

"I'm talking about your ear."

"A dodgy tattooist."

She's in no mood for glib asides. "Are you spying on me?"

"No. Why?"

She shrugs. "Someone has been watching the house."

"The police."

"No. Someone else."

"Jock said somebody tried to break in."

"D.J. scared him off." She makes him sound like a guard dog.

The light behind her, shining through her hair, creates a soft halo effect. She's wearing the "ugliest slippers in the world," which I bought her from a farm souvenir shop. I can't think of anything to say. I just stand there, not knowing whether to reach out for her. The moment has passed.

"Charlie wants a kitten for Christmas," she says, hugging the jacket around her.

"I thought that was last year."

"Yes, but now she's stumbled on the perfect formula. If you want a kitten, ask for a horse."

I laugh and she smiles, never taking her eyes off me. The next question is framed with her usual directness.

"Did you have an affair with Catherine McBride?"

"No."

"The police have her love letters."

"She wrote them to Jock."

Her eyes widen.

"They had an affair when they were both at the Marsden. Jock was the married man she was seeing."

"When did you find out?"

"Tonight."

Her eyes are still fixed on mine. She doesn't know whether to believe me or not. "Who sent the letter to you?"

"I don't know."

"And why hasn't Jock told the police?"

"I'm still trying to work that out. I don't trust him. I don't want him here."

"Why?"

"Because he lied to me and he's kept details from the police and he arranged to meet Catherine on the night she died."

"Surely you're not serious! This is Jock you're talking about. Your best friend…"

"With my wife as his alibi." It sounds like an accusation.

Her eyes narrow to the points of knitting needles.

"An alibi for what, Joe? Do you think he killed someone or do you think he's screwing me?"

"That's not what I said."

"No. That's right. You never say what you mean. You couch everything in parenthesis and inverted commas and open questions…" She's on a roll. "If you're such a brilliant psychologist, you should start looking at your own defects. I'm tired of propping up your ego. Do you want me to tell you again? Here's the list: You are nothing at all like your father. Your penis is the right size. You spend more than enough time with Charlie. You don't have to be jealous of Jock. My mother really does like you. And I don't blame you for ruining my black cashmere sweater by leaving tissues in your pockets. Satisfied?"

Ten years of potential therapy condensed to six bullet points. My God, this woman is good. The neighborhood dogs start barking and it sounds like a muffled chorus of "here, here!"

She turns to go inside. I don't want her to leave so I start talking-telling her the whole story about finding Catherine's CV and searching Jock's apartment. I try to sound rational, but I'm afraid that I come across as though I'm clutching at straws.

Her beautiful face looks bruised.

"You met Jock that night. Where did you go?"

"He took me for supper in Bayswater. I knew you wouldn't tell me the truth about the diagnosis. I wanted to ask him."

"When did you call him?"

"That afternoon."

"What time did he leave here?"

She shakes her head sadly. "I don't even recognize you anymore. You're obsessed! I'm not the one whom…"

I don't want to hear it. I blurt out: "I know about the baby."

She trembles slightly. It might be the cold. That's when I see the realization in her eyes that we're losing each other. The pulse is getting weaker. She might want me, but she doesn't need me. She is strong enough to cope on her own. She lived through the loss of her father; Charlie's meningitis scare when she was eighteen months old; a biopsy on her right breast. She is stronger than I am.

As I leave, breathing in the coldness of the air, I turn back to look at the rear of the house. Julianne has gone. The kitchen is in darkness. I can follow her progress as she moves upstairs, turning off the lights.