Say You're sorry

2

Oxford is blanketed by snow, surprised by its own silence. Mounds of dirty ice have been plowed to the sides of the roads or shoveled from driveways and footpaths. The dreaming spires look particularly pensive, shrouded by mist and guarded by gargoyles with beards of ice.

I’ve spent the morning preparing my conference speech, sitting on a sprawling armchair in the lounge of the Randolph Hotel. There is a Morse Bar-named after the fictional detective-with photographs around the walls of the lead characters.

Charlie has been shopping all morning in Cornmarket Street. She’s standing in front of the open fire, warming up.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“How about sushi?”

“I don’t like Japanese.”

“It’s very healthy.”

“Not for whales or for dolphins.”

“We’re not going to eat whale or dolphin.”

“What about the blue fin tuna?”

“So you’re boycotting all things Japanese?”

“Until they stop their so-called scientific whaling program.”

My left arm trembles. My medication is wearing off and an unseen force is tugging at my invisible strings like a fish nibbling on a baited hook.

I can give you chapter and verse about my condition, having read every paper, medical journal, celebrity autobiography and online blog about Parkinson’s. I know the theories, the symptoms, the prognosis and the possible treatments-all of which will delay the progress but cannot cure my condition. I haven’t given up the search. I have given up obsessing over it.

Glancing over Charlie’s shoulder, I see two men in the foyer, shrugging off their overcoats. Beads of moisture spray the marble tiles. They have mud on their shoes and a farmyard smell about them.

The older one is in his forties with a disconcertingly low hairline that seems to be creeping down his forehead to meet his eyebrows. His colleague is younger and taller with the body of an ex-fighter who has slightly gone to seed.

A police badge is flashed.

“We’re looking for Professor O’Loughlin.”

The young receptionist is ringing my room. Charlie nudges me. “They’re asking for you.”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We’re going to lunch.”

The suspense is killing her. She announces loudly, “Are you looking for my father?”

The men turn.

“He’s right here,” she says.

“Professor O’Loughlin?” asks the older man.

I look at Charlie, showing my disappointment.

“Yes,” I answer.

“We’ve come to collect you, sir. I’m DS Casey. This is my colleague Trainee Detective Constable Brindle Hughes.”

“People call me Grievous,” says the younger man, smiling awkwardly.

“We were going out,” I say, pointing to the revolving door.

Casey answers, “Our guv wants to see you, sir. He says it’s important.”

“Who’s your guv?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Drury.”

“I don’t know him.”

“He knows you.”

There is a pause. My attitude to detectives is similar to my views on priests-they do important jobs but they make me nervous. It’s not the confessional nature of their work-I have nothing to feel guilty about-it is more a sense of having done my share. I want to put a sign up saying, “I’ve given.”

“Tell your boss that I’m very sorry, but I’m unavailable. I’m looking after my daughter.”

“I don’t mind,” says Charlie, getting interested.

Casey lowers his voice. “A husband and wife are dead.”

“I can give you the names of other profilers-”

“The guv doesn’t want anyone else.”

Charlie tugs at my sleeve. “Come on, Dad, you should help them.”

“I promised you lunch.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“What about the shopping.”

“I don’t have any money, which means I’d have to guilt you into buying me something. I’d prefer to save up my guilt points for something I really want.”

“Guilt points?”

“You heard me.”

The detectives seem to find this conversation amusing. Charlie grins at them. She’s bored. She wants some excitement. But this isn’t the sort of adventure anyone wants. Two people are dead. It’s tragic. It’s pointless. It’s the sort of work I try to avoid.

Charlie won’t let it go. “I won’t tell Mum,” she says. “Please can we go?”

“You have to stay here.”

“No, that’s not fair. Let me come.”

Casey interrupts. “We’re only going to the station, sir.”

A police car is parked outside. Charlie slides into the back seat alongside me.

We drive in silence through the near-empty streets. Oxford looks like a ghost city trapped in a snow dome. Charlie leans forward, straining at the seat belt.

“Is this about the body in the ice?”

“How do you know about that?” asks Casey.

“We saw it from the train.”

“Different case, miss,” says Grievous. “Not one for us.”

“What do you mean?”

“A lot of motorists were stranded by the blizzard. Most likely she wandered away from her car and fell into the lake.”

Charlie shivers at the thought. “Do they know who she was?”

“Not yet.”

“Hasn’t anybody reported her missing?”

“They will.”

St. Aldates Police Station has an iron and glass canopy over the front entrance, which has collected a foot of snow. A council worker perched on a ladder is using a shovel to break up the frozen white wave, which explodes into fragments on the paving stones below.

Instead of parking at the station, the detectives carry on for another hundred yards and turn right before pulling up outside a Chinese restaurant where denuded ducks are hanging in the window.

“Why are we here?”

“Guv has invited you to lunch.”

Upstairs in a private dining room, a dozen detectives are seated around a large circular banqueting table. The food carousel is laden with steaming plates of pork, seafood, noodles and vegetables.

The man in charge has a napkin tucked into his shirt and is opening a crab claw with a silver pincer. He sucks out the flesh and picks up another claw. Even seated, he gives the impression of being large. Mid-forties. Fast-tracked through the ranks. He has a shock of dark hair and razor burns on his face. I notice his wedding ring and his unironed shirt. He hasn’t been home for a couple of days, but has managed to shower and shave.

Beyond the circular table, a series of whiteboards have been set up to display photographs and a timeline of events. The victims’ names are written across the top. The restaurant has become an incident room.

DCI Drury tugs his napkin from his collar and tosses it onto the table. It’s a signal. Waiters converge and carry away the leftovers. Pushing back from the table, Drury rises with all the grace and coordination of a deck chair.

“Professor O’Loughlin, thanks for joining us.”

“I wasn’t given a great deal of choice.”

“Good.”

He belches and pushes his arms through the sleeves of his jacket.

“Can I get you something to eat?”

I look at Charlie. She’s starving.

“Excellent,” says Drury. “Grievous, get her a menu.” He leans closer. “That’s not his real name, Miss. His initials are GBH. Do you know what they stand for?”

Charlie shakes her head.

“Grievous Bodily Harm.” The DCI laughs. “Don’t worry, he’s too wet behind the ears to be dangerous.” He turns to me. “How do you like my incident room, Professor?”

“It’s unconventional.”

“I encourage people to feel like part of a team. We drink together. We eat together. Everyone is free to give an opinion. Admit their mistakes. Express their doubts. My department has the best clean-up rate in the county.”

Your mothers must be very proud, I think, rapidly forming a negative opinion of the DCI because of his cockiness and sense of entitlement.

He picks up a toothpick and cleans his teeth. “You were recommended to me.”

“By whom?”

“A mutual friend. I was told you might not come.”

“You were well informed.”

He smiles. “My apologies if we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start again. I’m Stephen Drury.”

He shakes my hand, holding it a second longer than necessary.

“I have a double homicide, which looks like a home invasion. The husband had his skull caved in. His wife was tied to a bed, possibly raped, and set on fire.”

The words are whispered. I glance across the room to Charlie, who is spooning fried rice onto a plate.

“When?”

“Three nights ago.”

I glance at the whiteboard, which has a photograph of a whitewashed farmhouse barely touched by fire. Snow was falling when the images were taken, giving them a sepia tone. A smudge of smoke rises from the roofline, etched hard against the white sky.

“What do you want from me?”

“I have a suspect in custody. He worked for the family. We found his prints in the house and he has burns to both his hands. He denies killing the couple and says he was trying to save them.”

“You don’t believe him?”

“This particular suspect has a history of mental illness. He’s on anti-psychotic medication. Right now he’s climbing the walls, talking to himself, scratching at his arms. Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he’s lying. I can only hold him for twenty-two more hours. That’s how long I have to make a case.”

“I still don’t understand-”

“How should I treat him? How hard can I push? I don’t want some smart-arse defense lawyer claiming I put words in this lad’s mouth or browbeat him into confessing.”

“A psychological assessment will take days.”

“I’m not asking for his life story, just your impressions.”

“Where are his clinical files?”

“We can’t get access to them.”

“Who is his psychiatrist?”

“Dr. Victoria Naparstek.”

The penny drops. I met Dr. Naparstek eighteen months ago at a mental health tribunal hearing that involved one of her patients. She called me an arrogant, condescending, misogynistic prick because I bullied her patient into showing his true personality. I got him to admit that he fantasized about following Dr. Naparstek home and raping her.

Did I bully him? Yes. Did I overstep the boundaries? Absolutely, but the good doctor should have thanked me. Instead, she threatened to report me to the British Psychological Society and have me disciplined.

Why would she recommend me for this case? Something doesn’t make sense.

Drury is waiting for my decision. I glance at Charlie, wishing she were home.

“OK, I’ll talk to your suspect, but first I want to see the crime scene.”

“Why?”

“Context.”