Michael Robotham - Suspect

Moving suddenly, I stumble and land awkwardly on the path. Scrambling upward, I set off in a limping run toward the house, ignoring my mother's questions about not seeing the stable.

Bursting through the door, I ricochet off the laundry wall, upsetting a washing basket and a box of detergent on a shelf. A pair of my mother's knickers catches on the toe of my boot. The nearest telephone is in the kitchen. Julianne answers on the third ring. I don't give her time to speak.

"You said someone was watching the house."

"Hang up, Joe, the police are trying to find you."

"Did you see someone?"

"Hang up and call Simon."

"Please, Julianne!"

She recognizes the desperation in my voice. It matches her own.

"Did you see anyone?"

"No."

"What about the person D. J. chased out of the house-did he get a good look at him?"

"No."

"He must have said something. Was he big, tall, overweight?"

"DJ. didn't get that close."

"Do you have someone in your Spanish class called Bobby or Robert or Bob? He's tall, with glasses."

"There is a Bobby."

"What's his last name?"

"I don't know. I gave him a lift home one night. He said he used to live in Liverpool…"

"Where's Charlie? Get her out of the house! Bobby wants to hurt you. He wants to punish me…"

I try to explain but she keeps asking me why Bobby would do such a thing? It's the one question I can't answer.

"Nobody is going to hurt us, Joe. The street is crawling with police. One of them followed me around the supermarket today. I shamed him into carrying my shopping bags…"

Suddenly I realize that she's probably right. She and Charlie are safer at the house than anywhere else because the police are watching them… waiting for me.

Julianne is still talking, "Call Simon, please. Don't do anything silly."

"I won't."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

Simon's home number is written on the back of his business card. When he answers I can hear Patricia in the background. He's sleeping with my sister. Why does that seem strange?

His voice drops to a whisper and I can hear him taking the phone somewhere more private. He doesn't want Patricia to hear the conversation.

"Did you have lunch with anyone on Thursday?"

"Elisa Velasco."

"Did you go home with her?"

"No."

He takes a deep breath. I know what's coming.

"Elisa was found dead at her flat. She was suffocated with a garbage bag. They're coming for you, Joe. They have a warrant. They want you for murder."

My voice is high-pitched and shaking. "I know who killed her. He's a patient of mine-Bobby Morgan. He's been watching me…"

Simon isn't listening. "I want you to go to the nearest police station. Give yourself up. Call me when you get there. Don't say anything unless I'm with you…"

"But what about Bobby Morgan?"

Simon's voice is more insistent. "You have to do as I say. They have DNA evidence, Joe. Traces of your semen and strands of your hair; your fingerprints were in the bedroom and bathroom. On Thursday evening a cabdriver picked you up less than a mile from the murder scene. He remembers you. You flagged him down outside the same hotel where Catherine McBride went missing…"

"You wanted to know where I spent the night of the thirteenth? I'll tell you. I was with Elisa."

"Well your alibi is dead."

The statement is so blunt and honest, I stop trying to convince him. The facts have been laid out, one by one, revealing how hopeless my position is. Even my denials sound hollow.

My father is standing in the doorway dressed in his tracksuit. Behind him, through the open curtains of the living room, two police cars have pulled into the drive.

Book Three In the real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.

– F. SCOTT FITZGERALD,

The Crack-up

Three miles is a long way when you're running in Wellington boots. It is even farther when your socks have slipped down and gathered in a ball beneath your arches, making you run like a penguin.

Scrambling along muddy sheep tracks and jumping between rocks, I follow a partly frozen stream cutting through the fields. In spite of the boots I manage to keep up a good pace and only occasionally glance behind me. Right now I'm doing everything automatically. If I stop for anything I'm finished.

My childhood holidays were spent exploring these fields. I used to know every copse and hillock; the best fishing spots and hiding places. I kissed Ethelwyn Jones in the hayloft of her uncle's barn on her thirteenth birthday. It was my first kiss with tongues and I got an instant hard-on. She leaned right into it and let out a scream, biting down hard on my bottom lip. She wore braces and had a mouth like Jaws in the James Bond films. I had a blood blister on my lip for a fortnight, but it was worth it.

When I reach the A55 I slip beneath the concrete pylons of a bridge and carry on along the stream. The banks grow steeper and twice I slide sideways into the water, breaking thin ice at the edges.

I reach a waterfall about ten feet high and drag myself upward using tufts of grass and rocks as handholds. My knees are muddy and trousers wet. Ten minutes farther on, I duck under a fence and find a track marked for ramblers.

My lungs have started to hurt, but my mind is clear. As clear as the cold air. As long as Julianne and Charlie are safe, I don't care what happens to me. I feel like a rag that has been tossed around in a dog's mouth. Someone is playing with me, ripping me to shreds, my family, my life, my career… Why? This is all bullshit. It's like trying to read mirror writing-everything is back to front.

A hundred yards on-over a farm gate-I reach the road to Llanrhos. The narrow blacktop has hedgerows down either side, broken by farm gates and potholed tracks. Staying close to the ditch along one side, I head toward a church spire in the distance. Patches of mist have settled in the low ground like pools of spilled milk. Twice I leap off the road when I hear a vehicle coming. The second is a police van, with dogs barking from behind the mesh-covered windows.

The village seems deserted. The only places open are a cafe and an estate agent with a BACK IN TEN MINUTES sign on the door. There are colored lights in some of the windows and a Christmas tree in the square, opposite the war memorial. A man walking a dog nods hello to me. My teeth are clenched so hard that I can't reply.

I find a park bench and sit down. Steam is rising off my oilskin jacket. My knees are covered in mud and blood. The palms of my hands are scratched and my fingernails are bleeding. I want to close my eyes to think, but I need to stay alert.

The houses around the square are like storybook cottages, with picket fences and wrought-iron arbors. They have Welsh names written in flowery script beside each front door. At the top of the square, white streamers are threaded through the railings of the church and soggy confetti clings to the steps.

Welsh weddings are like Welsh funerals. They use the same cars, florists and church halls, with their ancient tea urns operated by the same ample-breasted women wearing spacious floral dresses and support hose.

The cold leaks into my limbs as the minutes tick by. A battered Land Rover turns into the square and crawls slowly around the park. I watch and wait. Nobody is following. Stiff-legged, I stand. My sweat-soaked shirt clings to the small of my back.

The passenger door groans with age and neglect. I slide into the seat. A large pillow of foam covers the rusting springs and torn vinyl. The engine is so badly tuned that it sets off a thousand rattles and clinks as my father struggles to find first gear.

"Damn machine! Hasn't been driven in months."