Michael Robotham - Suspect

Indian boys are stung by bees, eaten by fish, hugged by bears and chopped in half until only one remains, left alone. I feel like that last little Indian boy.

I understand what Bobby is doing now. He is trying to take away what each of us holds most dear-the love of a child, the closeness of a partner, the sense of belonging. He wants us to suffer as he suffered, to lose what we most love, to experience his loss.

Mel and Boyd had been soul mates. Anyone who knew them could see that. Jerzy and Esther Gorski had survived the Nazi gas chambers and settled in north London, where they raised their only child, Alison, who became a schoolteacher and moved to Liverpool. Firemen discovered Jerzy's body at the bottom of the stairs. He was still alive, despite the burns. Esther suffocated in her sleep.

Catherine McBride, a favored granddaughter in a well-connected family-wayward, spoiled and smothered-had never lost the heart of her grandfather, who doted on her and forgave her indiscretions.

Rupert Erskine had no wife or children. Perhaps Bobby couldn't discover what he held most dear or perhaps he knew all along. Erskine was a cantankerous old sod, about as likable as a carpet burn. We made excuses for him because it can't have been easy looking after his wife for all those years. Bobby didn't give him any latitude. He left him alive long enough-tied to a chair-to regret his limitations.

There might be other victims. I don't have time to find them all. Elisa is my failure. I didn't discover Bobby's secret soon enough. Bobby has grown more sophisticated with each death, but I am to be the prize. He could have taken Julianne or Charlie from me, but instead he has chosen to take it all-my family, friends, career, reputation and finally my freedom. And he wants me to know that he's responsible.

The whole point of analysis is to understand, not to take the essence of something and reduce it to something else. Bobby once accused me of playing God. He said people like me couldn't resist putting our hands inside someone's psyche and changing the way they view the world.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I've made mistakes and fallen into the trap of not thinking hard enough about cause and effect. And I know it isn't good enough, in the wash-up, to make excuses and say, "I meant well." I've used the same words. "With the best possible intentions…" and "with all the goodwill in the world…"

In one of my first cases in Liverpool I had to decide if a mentally handicapped twenty-year-old, with no family support and a lifetime of institutionalized care, could keep her unborn child.

I can still picture Sharon with her summer dress, stretched tightly over the swell of her pregnancy. She had taken great care, washing and brushing her hair. She knew how important the interview was for her future. Yet despite her efforts she had forgotten little things. Her socks were the same color, but different lengths. The zipper at the side of her dress was broken. A smudge of lipstick stained her cheek.

"Do you know why you're here, Sharon?"

"Yes sir."

"We have to decide whether you can look after your baby. It's a very big responsibility."

"I can. I can. I'll be a good mother. I'm going to love my baby."

"Do you know where babies come from?"

"It's growing inside me. God put it there." She spoke very reverentially and rubbed her tummy.

I couldn't fault her logic. "Let's play a 'what if game. OK? I want you to imagine that you're bathing your baby and the telephone rings. The baby is all slippery and wet. What do you do?"

"I… I… I… put my baby on the floor, wrapped in a towel."

"While you are on the telephone, someone knocks on the front door. Do you answer it?"

She momentarily looked unsure. "It might be the fire brigade," I added. "Or maybe it's your social worker."

"I'd answer the door," she said, nodding her head forcefully.

"It turns out to be your neighbor. Some young boys have thrown a rock through her window. She has to go to work. She wants you to sit inside her flat and wait for the glaziers to come."

"Those little shits-they're always throwing rocks," Sharon said, bunching her fists.

"Your neighbor has satellite TV: movie channels, cartoons, daytime soap operas. What are you going to watch while you're waiting?"

"Cartoons."

"Will you have a cup of tea?"

"Maybe."

"Your neighbor has left you some money to pay the glazier. Fifty quid. The job is only going to cost Ј45, but she says you can keep the change."

Her eyes lit up. "I can keep the money?"

"Yes. What are you going to buy?"

"Chocolate."

"Where are you going to buy it?"

"Down the shops."

"When you go to the shops what do you normally take?"

"My keys and my purse."

"Anything else?"

She shook her head.

"Where is your baby, Sharon?"

A look of panic spread across her face and her bottom lip began to tremble. Just when I thought she was going to cry, she suddenly announced, "Barney will look after her."

"Who's Barney?"

"My dog."

A couple of months later, I sat outside the delivery suite and listened to Sharon sobbing as her baby boy was swaddled in a blanket and taken away from her. It was my job to transfer the boy to a different hospital. I strapped him in a carry-cot on the backseat of my car. Looking down at the sleeping bundle, I wondered what he'd think, years from then, about the decision I had made for him. Would he thank me for rescuing him or blame me for ruining his life?

A different child has come back. His message is clear. We have failed Bobby. We failed his father-an innocent man, arrested and questioned for hours about his sex life and the length of his penis. His house and workplace were searched for child pornography that didn't exist and his name put on a central index of sex offenders despite him never having been charged, let alone convicted.

This indelible stain was going to blot his life forever. All his future relationships would be tainted. Wives and partners would have to be told. Fathering a child would become a risk. Coaching a kid's soccer team would be downright reckless. Surely this is enough to drive a man to suicide.

Socrates-the wisest of all Greeks-was wrongly convicted of corrupting the youth of Athens and sentenced to death. He could have escaped, but he drank the poison. Socrates believed that our bodies are less important than our souls. Maybe he had Parkinson's.

I share the blame for Bobby. I was part of the system. Mine was the cowardice of acquiescence. Rather than disagree I said nothing. I went along with the majority view. I was young, just starting my career, but that is no excuse. I acted like a spectator instead of a referee.

Julianne called me a coward when she threw me out. I know what she means now. I have sat in the grandstand, not wanting to get drawn into my marriage or my disease. I kept my distance, scared of what might happen. I have let my own state of mind absorb me. I was so worried about rocking the boat that I failed to spot the iceberg.

Three hours ago I came up with a plan. It wasn't my first. I worked my way through about a dozen, looking at all the fundamentals, but each had a fatal flaw. I have enough of those already. My ingenuity has to be tempered by my physical limitations. This meant jettisoning anything that requires me to abseil down a building, overpower a guard, short-circuit a security system or crack open a safe.

I also shelved any plan that didn't have an exit strategy. That's why most campaigns fail. The players don't think far enough ahead. The endgame is the boring bit, the mopping-up operation, without the glamour and excitement of the principal challenge. Therefore, people get frustrated and only plan so far. From then on they imagine winging it, confident in their ability to master their retreat as skillfully as their advance.