Michael Robotham - Suspect

A courthouse has stood on this site for nearly five hundred years and even before that, in medieval times, they held public executions here every Monday morning.

I take up a position across the road, tucked against a wall in an alley that runs down toward the Thames. There are brass plates on nearly every doorway. I glance occasionally at my watch, to give the impression of waiting for someone. Men and women in black suits and gowns glide past me, clutching box files and bundles of paper tied with ribbon.

At half past nine the first of the news crews arrives-a cameraman and sound recordist. Others join them. Some of the stills photographers carry stepladders and milk crates. The reporters stick together in the background-sipping takeout coffee, swapping gossip and misinformation.

Shortly before ten, I notice a cab pull up on my side of the road. Eddie Barrett gets out first, looking like Danny DeVito with hair. Bobby is behind him, at least two heads taller but still having somehow managed to find a suit that looks too big for him.

Both are less than fifteen feet away from me. I lower my head and blow into my hands. Bobby's overcoat pockets are bulging with paper and his eyes are watery blue. The warmth of the cab meets the coldness of the air and fogs up his glasses. He pauses to wipe them clean. His hands are steady. The reporters have spotted Eddie and are waiting for him, with cameras poised and TV lights at the ready.

I see Bobby lower his head. He is too tall to hide his face. Reporters are firing questions at him. Eddie Barrett puts his hand on Bobby's arm. Bobby pulls away as though scalded. A TV camera is right in his face. Flashguns flare. He wasn't expecting this. He doesn't have a plan.

Barrett is trying to hustle him up the stone steps and through the arches. Photographers are jostling each other and one of them suddenly tumbles backward. Bobby is standing over him, his fist raised. Bystanders grab at his shoulders and Eddie swings his briefcase like a scythe, clearing a path in front of them. The last thing I see as the doors close is Bobby's head above the throng.

I allow myself a fleeting smile, but nothing more. I can't afford to get my hopes up. Nearby, a gift shop window is crammed with marshmallow Santas and Christmas crackers in red and green. There are reindeer clocks with noses that glow in the dark. I use the reflection in the glass to watch the courthouse steps.

I can picture the scene inside. The press bench will be packed and the public gallery standing room only. Eddie loves working a crowd. He will ask for an adjournment due to my unprofessional conduct and claim his client has been denied natural justice because of my malicious allegations. A new psych report will have to be commissioned, which could take weeks. Blah, blah, blah…

There is always a chance the judge might say no and sentence Bobby immediately. More likely, he will grant the adjournment and Bobby will walk free-even more dangerous than before.

Rocking back and forth on my heels, I have to remind myself of the rules. Avoid standing with my feet too close together. Consciously lift feet to avoid shuffling and foot drag. Don't instinctively pivot. My favorite suggestion for breaking a "frozen pose" is to step over an imaginary obstacle in front of me. I have visions of looking like Marcel Marceau.

I walk to the end of the block, turn and come back again, never taking my eye off the photographers still milling outside the court entrance. Suddenly, they surge forward, cameras raised. Eddie must have had a car waiting. Bobby comes out in a half crouch, pushing through the melee and falling into the backseat. The car door closes as the flashguns continue firing.

I should have seen this coming. I should have been prepared. Limping onto the road, I wave both arms and a walking stick at a black cab. It swerves out of my way and swings past, forcing a line of traffic to brake hard. A second cab has an orange beacon. The driver either stops or runs me over.

He doesn't bat an eyelid when I tell him to follow that car. Maybe cabdrivers hear that all the time.

The silver sedan carrying Bobby is ahead of us, sandwiched between two buses and a line of cars. My driver manages to nudge into gaps and dodge between lanes, never losing touch. At the same time I notice him sneaking glances at me in the rearview mirror. He looks away quickly when our eyes meet. He is young, perhaps in his early twenties, with rust-colored hair and freckles on the back of his neck. His hands uncurl and flutter on the steering wheel.

"You know who I am." He nods.

"I'm not dangerous."

He looks into my eyes, trying to find some reassurance. My face can't give him any. My Parkinson's mask is like cold chiseled stone.

This stretch of the Grand Union Canal is graceless and untidy, with the asphalt towpath pitted and broken. A rusting iron fence leans at a precarious angle, separating the terraced back gardens from the water. A graffiti-daubed trailer, missing a door, sits on bricks instead of wheels. A child's half-buried tricycle sprouts from a vegetable patch.

Bobby hasn't looked over his shoulder since the car dropped him at Camley Street behind St. Pancras Station. I know the rhythm of his walk now. He passes the lockkeeper's cottage and keeps going. The gasworks cast a shadow over the abandoned factories that lie along the south bank. A redevelopment sign announces a new industrial estate.

Four narrow boats are moored against a stone wall on the curve. Three are brightly painted in reds and greens. The fourth has a tug-style bow, with a black hull and a maroon trim to the cabin.

Bobby steps lightly on board and appears to knock on the deck. He waits for several seconds and then unlocks the sliding hatch. He pushes it forward and unlatches the door below. He steps down into the cabin, out of sight. I wait on the edge of the towpath, hidden by a bramble that is trying to swallow a fence. A woman in a gray overcoat pulls at a dog lead, dragging the animal quickly past me.

Five minutes pass. Bobby emerges and glances in my direction. He slides the hatch closed and steps ashore. Reaching into his pocket, he counts loose change in his hand. Then he sets off along the path. I follow at a distance until he climbs a set of steps onto a bridge. He turns south toward a garage.

I return to the boat. I need to see inside. The lacquered door is closed but not locked. The cabin is dark. Curtains are drawn across the window slits and portholes. Two steps lead me down into the galley. The stainless steel sink is clean. A lone cup sits draining on a tea towel.

Six steps farther is the saloon. It looks more like a workshop than a living area, with a bench down one side. My eyes adjust to the light and I see a pegboard dotted with tools-chisels, wrenches, spanners, screwdrivers, metal cutters, planes and files. There are boxes of pipes, washers, drill bits and waterproof tape on shelves. The floor is partly covered with drums of paint, rust preventives, epoxy, wax, grease and machine oil. A portable generator squats under the bench. An old radio hangs on a cord from the ceiling. Everything has its proper place.

On the opposite wall there is another pegboard, but this one is clear. The only attachments are four leather cuffs-two near the floor and a matching set near the roof. My eyes are drawn to the floor. I don't want to look. The bare wood and baseboards are stained by something deeper than the darkness.

Reeling backward, I strike the bulkhead and emerge into a cabin. Everything seems slightly askew. The mattress is too large for the bed. The lamp is too large for the table. The walls are covered in scraps of paper but it's too dark for me to see them properly. I turn on a lamp and my eyes take a moment to adjust.

Suddenly I'm sitting down. Newspaper cuttings, photographs, maps, diagrams and drawings cover the walls. I see images of Charlie on her way to school, playing soccer, singing in the school choir, shopping with her grandmother, on a merry-go-round, feeding the ducks. Others show Julianne at her yoga class, at the supermarket, painting the garden furniture, answering the door… Looking closer, I recognize receipts, ticket stubs, soccer newsletters, business cards, photocopies of bank statements and telephone bills, a street map, a library card, a reminder for school fees, a parking notice, registration papers for the car…