Michael Robotham - Suspect

Suddenly, I scrabble in the wastebasket collecting tissues. My eyes are drawn around the room. Did I touch that lamp? What about the toothbrush or the door, the windowsill, the banister…?

This is madness. I can't sterilize a crime scene. There will be traces of me all over this house. She brushed my hair. I slept in her bed. I used her bathroom. I drank wine from a wineglass, coffee from a coffee mug. I touched light switches, CD cases, dining chairs. We screwed on her sofa for God's sake!

The phone rings. My heart almost leaps out of my chest. I can't risk answering it. Nobody can know I'm here. I wait, listening to the ring and half expecting Elisa to suddenly stir and say, "Can someone please get that? It could be important."

The noise stops. I breathe again. What am I going to do? Call the police? No! I have to get out. At the same time, I can't leave her here. I have to tell someone.

My mobile starts to ring. I fumble through my jacket pockets and need both hands to hold it steady. I don't recognize the number.

"Is that Professor Joseph O'Loughlin?"

"Who wants to know?"

"This is the Metropolitan Police. Someone has called us about an intruder at an address in Ladbroke Grove. The informant gave this mobile as a contact number. Is that correct?"

My throat closes and I can hardly get the vowels out. I mumble something about being nowhere near that address. No, no, that's not good enough!

"I'm sorry. I can't hear you," I mumble. "You'll have to call back." I turn off the phone and stare at the blank screen in horror. I can't hear myself thinking over the roar in my head. The volume has been steadily building, until now it rattles inside my skull like a freight train entering a tunnel.

I have to get out. Run! Taking the stairs two at a time, I trip toward the bottom and fall. Run! Scooping up Elisa's car keys I think only of fresh air, a place far away and the mercy of sleep.

An hour before daybreak the roads are varnished with rain and patches of fog appear and disappear between the drizzle. Stealing Elisa's car is the least of my worries. Working the clutch with a useless left leg is the more immediate problem.

Somewhere near Wrexham I pull into a muddy farm road and fall asleep. Images of Elisa sweep into my head like the headlights that periodically brush across hedgerows. I see her blue lips and her bloody wrists; eyes that follow me still.

Questions and doubts go around in my head like there's a needle stuck in the groove. Poor Elisa.

"Worry about your own alibi," was what Jock said. What did he mean? Even if I could prove I didn't kill Catherine-which I now can't-they're going to blame me for this. They're coming for me now. In my mind I can picture policemen crossing the fields in a long straight line, holding Alsatians on leashes, riding horses, hunting me down. I stumble into ditches and claw my way up embankments. Brambles tear at my clothes. The dogs are getting closer.

There is a tap, tap, tapping sound on the window. I can see nothing but a bright light. My eyes are full of grit and my body stiff with cold. I fumble for the handle and roll down the window.

"Sorry to wake you, mister, but yer blockin' the road."

A grizzled head under a woolen hat peers at me through the window. A dog is barking at his heels and I hear the throb of a tractor engine, parked behind me.

"You don't want to go falling asleep for too long out here. It's bloody cold."

"Thanks."

Light gray clouds, stunted trees and empty fields lie ahead of me. The sun is up, but struggling to warm the day. I reverse out of the road and watch the tractor pass through a gate and bounce over puddles toward a half-ruined barn.

As the engine idles, I turn the heater up to full blast and call Julianne on the mobile. She's awake and slightly out of breath from her exercises.

"Did you give Jock Elisa's address?"

"No."

"Did you ever mention her name to him?"

"What's this all about, Joe? You sound scared."

"Did you say anything?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Don't get paranoid on me…"

I'm shouting at her, trying to make her listen, but she gets angry. "Don't hang up! Don't hang up!"

It's too late. Just before the line goes dead, I yell down the phone. "Elisa is dead!"

I hit redial. My fingers are stiff and I almost drop the phone. Julianne picks up instantly. "What do you mean?"

"Someone killed her. The police are going to think I did it."

"Why?"

"I found her body. My fingerprints and God knows what else are all over her flat…"

"You went to her flat!" There is disbelief in her voice. "Why did you go there?"

"Listen to me, Julianne. Two people are dead. Someone is trying to frame me."

"Why?"

"I don't know. That's what I'm trying to work out."

Julianne takes a deep breath. "You're frightening me, Joe. You're sounding crazy."

"Didn't you hear what I said?"

"Go to the police. Tell them what happened."

"I have no alibi. I'm their only suspect."

"Well, talk to Simon. Please, Joe."

Tearfully, she hangs up and this time leaves the phone off the hook. I can't get through.

God's-personal-physician-in-waiting opens the door in his dressing gown. He has a newspaper in one hand and an angry scowl designed to frighten off uninvited guests.

"I thought you were the blasted carol singers," he grumbles. "Can't stand them. None of them can hold a tune in a bucket."

"I thought the Welsh were supposed to be great choristers."

"Another blasted myth." He looks over my shoulder. "Where's your car?"

"I parked around the corner," I lie. I had left Elisa's Beetle at the local railway station and walked the last half mile.

He turns and I follow him along the hallway toward the kitchen. His battered carpet slippers make slapping noises against his chalk-white heels.

"Where's Mum?"

"She was up and out early. Some protest rally. She's turning into a bloody leftie-always protesting about something."

"Good for her."

He scoffs, clearly not in agreement.

"The garden looks good."

"You should see out back. Cost a bloody fortune. Your mother will no doubt give you the grand tour. Those bloody lifestyle programs on TV should be banned. Garden 'makeovers' and backyard 'blitzes'-I'd drop a bomb on all of them."

He isn't the slightest bit surprised to see me, even though I've turned up unannounced. He probably thinks that Mum mentioned it to him when he wasn't listening. He fills the kettle and empties the old tea leaves from the pot.

The tablecloth is dotted with flotsam gathered on various holidays, like a St. Mark's Cross tea caddy and a jam pot from Cornwall. The Silver Jubilee spoon had been a present from Buckingham Palace when they were invited to one of the Queen's garden parties.

"Would you like an egg? There isn't any bacon."

"Eggs will be fine."

"There might be some ham in the fridge if you want an omelette."

He follows me around the kitchen, trying to second-guess what I need. His dressing gown is tied at the waist with a tasseled cord and his glasses are clipped to the pocket with a gold chain so that he doesn't lose them.

He knows about my arrest. Why hasn't he said anything? This is his chance to say, "I told you so." He can blame it on my choice of career and tell me that none of this would have happened if I'd become a doctor.

He sits at the table, watching me eat, occasionally sipping his tea and folding and unfolding The Times. I ask him if he's playing any golf. Not for three years.

"Is that a new Mercedes out front?"

"No."

The silence seems to stretch out, but I'm the only one who finds it uncomfortable. He sits and reads the headlines, occasionally glancing at me over the top of the paper.