Michael Robotham - Suspect

I protest about not having the time, but she doesn't react to the urgency in my voice. It won't take long to wash a few things, she says.

I stare at the naked stranger in the mirror. He has lost weight. That can happen when you don't eat. I know what Julianne would say: "Why can't I lose weight that easily?" The stranger in the mirror smiles at me.

I come downstairs wearing a robe and hear Mel hang up the phone. By the time I reach the kitchen she has opened a bottle of wine and is filling two glasses.

"Who did you call?"

"Nobody important."

She curls up in a large armchair, with the stem of her wineglass slotted between the first and second fingers of her outspread hand. Her other hand rests on the back of an open book, lying facedown across the armrest. The reading lamp above her casts a shadow beneath her eyes and gives her mouth a harsh downward curve.

This has always been a house I associate with laughter and good times, but now it seems too quiet. One of Boyd's paintings hangs above the mantelpiece and another on the opposite wall. There is a photograph of him and his motorbike at the Isle of Man TT track.

"So what have you done?"

"The police think I killed Catherine McBride, among others."

"Among others?" One eyebrow arches like an oxbow.

"Well, just one 'other.' A former patient."

"You're going to tell me that you've done nothing wrong."

"Not unless being foolish is a crime."

"Why are you running?"

"Because someone wants to frame me…"

"Bobby Morgan."

"Yes."

She raises her hand. "I don't want to know any more. I'm in enough trouble for showing you the files."

"We got it wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"I just talked to Bridget Morgan. I don't think Bobby's father abused him."

"She told you that!"

"She wanted out of the marriage. He wouldn't give her a divorce."

"He left a suicide note."

"One word."

"An apology."

"Yes, but for what?"

Mel's voice is cold. "This is ancient history, Joe. Leave it alone. You know the unwritten rule-never go back, never reopen a case. I have enough lawyers looking over my shoulder without another bloody lawsuit…"

"What happened to Erskine's notes? They weren't in the files."

She hesitates. "He might have asked to have them excluded."

"Why?"

"Perhaps Bobby asked to see his file. He's allowed to do that. A ward can see the write-ups by the duty social worker and some of the minutes of the meetings. Third party submissions like doctor's notes and psych reports are different. We need to get permission from the specialist to release them…"

"Are you saying that Bobby saw his file?"

"Maybe." In the same breath she dismisses the idea. "It's an old file. Things get misplaced."

"Could Bobby have removed the notes?"

She whispers angrily, "You can't be serious, Joe! Worry about yourself."

"Could he have seen the video?"

She shakes her head, refusing to say anything more. I can't let it go. Without her help my frail improbable theory goes south. Talking quickly, as though afraid she might stop me, I tell her about the chloroform, the whales and the windmills: how Bobby has stalked me for months, infiltrating the lives of everyone around me.

At some point she puts my washed clothes in the dryer and refills my wineglass. I follow her to the kitchen and shout over the whine of the blender as it pulverizes warm chickpeas. She puts a dollop of humus on slices of toast, seasoned with crushed black pepper.

"So that's why I need to find Rupert Erskine. I need his notes or his memories."

"I can't help you anymore. I've done enough." She glances at the clock on the stove.

"Are you expecting someone?"

"No."

"Who did you call earlier?"

"A friend."

"Did you call the police?"

She hesitates. "No. I left instructions with my secretary. If I didn't call her back in an hour she had to contact the police."

I glance at the same clock, counting backward. "Christ, Mel!"

"I'm sorry. I have my career to think about."

"Thanks for nothing." My clothes aren't quite dry, but I wrestle on the trousers and shirt. She grabs at my sleeve. "Give yourself up."

I brush her hand aside. "You don't understand."

My left leg is swinging as I try to move quickly. My hand is on the front door.

"Erskine. You wanted to find him." She blurts it out. "He retired ten years ago. Last I heard he was living near Chester. Someone from the department contacted him a while back. We had a chat… caught up."

She remembers the address-a village called Hatchmere. Vicarage Cottage. I scribble the details on a scrap of paper balanced on the hallway table. My left hand refuses to budge. My right hand will have to do.

All mornings should be so bright and clear. The sun angles through the cracked back window of the Land Rover, fracturing into a disco ball of beams. With two hands on the handle, I force a side window open and peer outside. Someone has painted the world white; turned color into monochrome.

Cursing the stiffness of the door, I shove it open and swing my legs outside. The air smells of dirt and wood smoke. Scooping a handful of snow, I rub it into my face, trying to wake up. Then I undo my fly and pee on the base of a tree, painting it a darker brown. How far did I travel last night? I wanted to keep going, but the headlights on the Land Rover kept cutting out and plunging me into darkness. Twice I nearly finished up in a ditch.

How did Bobby spend the night? I wonder if he's looking for me or watching Julianne and Charlie. He's not going to wait for me to figure this out. I need to hurry.

Hatchmere Lake is fringed with reeds and the water reflects the blueness of the sky. I stop at a red-and-white house and ask directions. An old lady, still in her dressing gown, answers the door and mistakes me for a tourist. She starts giving me the history of Hatchmere, which segues into her own life story about her son who works in London and her grandchildren whom she only sees once a year.

I keep thanking her and backing away. She stands at her front gate as I struggle to start the Land Rover. That's just what I need. She's probably an expert on cribbage, crosswords and remembering license plates. "I never forget a number," she'll say, as she rattles it off to the police.

The engine kindly turns over and fires, belching smoke from the exhaust. I wave and smile. She looks concerned for me.

Vicarage Cottage has Christmas lights strung over the windows and doors. Parked on the front path are a handful of toy cars circled like wagons around an old milk crate. Hanging diagonally across the path is a rust-stained bedsheet with two ends tied to a tree. A boy squats underneath with a plastic ice-cream bucket on his head. He points a wooden stick at my chest.

"Are you a Slytherin?" he says with a lisp.

"Pardon?"

"You can only come in here if you're from Gryffindor." The freckles on his nose are the color of toasted corn.

A young woman appears at the door. Her blond hair is sleep-tossed and she's fighting a cold. A baby is perched on her hip sucking on a small piece of toast.

"You leave the man alone, Brendan," she says, smiling at me tiredly.

Stepping around the toys, I reach the door. I can see an ironing board set up behind her.

"I'm sorry about that. He thinks he's Harry Potter. Can I help you?"

"Hopefully, yes. I'm looking for Rupert Erskine."

A shadow crosses her face. "He doesn't live here anymore."

"Do you know where I might find him?"

She swaps her baby onto her opposite hip and does up a loose button on her blouse. "You'd be better asking someone else."

"Would one of the neighbors know? It's very important that I see him."