Michael Robotham - Suspect

Many of the pieces have fallen into place as the weeks have passed. Bobby learned about our plumbing problems from my mother. She is notorious for boring people with stories of her children and grandchildren. She even showed him the photo albums and the building plans we submitted to council for the renovations.

D.J. dropped leaflets through every mailbox on the street. Each small job provided another reference and helped convince Julianne to hire him. Once inside, it was easy, although he almost came unstuck when Julianne caught him in my study one afternoon. That's when he made up the story of disturbing an intruder and chasing him out. He'd gone into the study to check to see if anything had been taken.

Bobby goes on trial at the end of next month. He hasn't entered a plea, but they expect it to be "not guilty." The case, though strong, is circumstantial. None of the physical evidence puts a murder weapon in his hand-not for Catherine or Elisa or Boyd or Erskine or Sonia Dutton or Esther Gorski.

Ruiz says it will be over after that, but he's wrong. This case will never be closed. People tried to shut this away years ago and look what happened. Ignore our mistakes and we are doomed to repeat them. Don't stop thinking of the white bear.

The events leading up to Christmas have almost become a surreal blur. Rarely do we talk about it, but I know from experience that it will come out one day. Sometimes late at night I hear a car door slam or heavy steps on the footpath and my mind won't be still. I have feelings of sadness, depression, frustration and anxiety. I am easily startled. I imagine people are watching me from doorways and parked cars. I can't see a white van without trying to make out the driver's face.

These are all common reactions to shock and trauma. Maybe it's good that I know these things, but I would prefer to stop analyzing myself.

I still have my disease, of course. I am part of a study being conducted at one of the research hospitals. Fenwick put me onto it. Once a month I drive to the hospital, clip a card to my shirt pocket and flip through the pages of Country Life while waiting my turn.

The head technician always offers me a cheery, "How are you today?"

"Well, since you ask, I have Parkinson's disease."

He smiles wearily, gives me an injection and runs a few tests on my coordination, using video cameras to measure the degree and frequency of my tremors.

I know it will get worse. But what the hell, I'm lucky. A lot of people have Parkinson's. Not all of them have a beautiful wife, a loving daughter and a new baby to look forward to.