The Suspect

8

Saturday mornings and soggy sports fields seem to go together like acne and adolescence. That’s how I remember the winters of my childhood— standing ankle-deep in mud, freezing my bollocks off, playing for the school’s Second XV.

God’s-personal-physician-in-waiting had a bellow that rose above the howling wind. “Don’t just stand there like a cold bottle of piss,” he’d shout. “Call yourself a winger! I’ve seen continents drift faster than you.”

Thank goodness Charlie is a girl. She looks really cute in her soccer gear, with her hair pulled back and knee-length shorts. I don’t know how I managed to become coach. My knowledge of the game could fit on the back of a coaster, which is probably why the Tigers haven’t won a game all season.

You’re not supposed to count the score at this age, or keep a league table. It’s all about having fun and getting every child involved. Tell that to the parents.

Today we’re playing the Highgate Lions and each time they score the Tigers trudge back to halfway, debating who gets to kick off.

“It isn’t our strongest side,” I say apologetically to the opposition coach. Under my breath I’m praying, “Just one goal, Tigers. Just give us one goal. Then we’ll show them a real celebration.”

The range of abilities is a wonder to behold. Take Dominic— the kid standing at fullback with his hand down his shorts holding his scrotum. Ten minutes into the game he trots to the sideline and asks me which way we’re running. I have to stop myself slapping my forehead.

Teamwork is a complete mystery, particularly to the boys who see only the ball flashing into the back of the net and the personal glory of dancing around the corner post.

At halftime we’re down four nil. The kids are sucking on quarters of orange. I tell them how well they’re playing. “This team is undefeated,” I say, lying through my teeth. “But you guys are holding them.”

I put Douglas, our strongest kicker, in goal for the second half. Andrew, our leading goal-scorer, is fullback.

“But I’m a striker,” he whines.

“Dominic is playing up front.”

They all look at Dominic, who giggles and shoves his hand down his pants.

“Forget about dribbling, or passing, or scoring goals,” I say. “Just go out there and try to kick the ball as hard as you can.”

As the game restarts I have a posse of parents bending my ear about my positional changes. They think I’ve lost the plot. But there’s a method to my madness. Soccer at this level is all about momentum. Once the ball is moving forward the whole game moves in that direction. That’s why I want my strongest kickers at the back.

For the first few minutes nothing changes. The Tigers may as well be chasing shadows. Then the ball falls to Douglas and he hoofs it upfield. Dominic tries to run out of the way, falls over and brings down both defenders. The ball rolls loose. Charlie is closest. I’m muttering under my breath, “Nothing fancy. Just take the shot.”

Accuse me of favoritism. Call me biased. I don’t care. What comes next is the most sweetly struck, curling, rising, dipping, swerving shot ever sent goalward by a size-six football boot. Such are the scenes of celebration that any independent observer must be convinced that we’ve won.

Shell-shocked by our new strategy, the Lions fall apart. Even Dominic poaches a goal when the ball bounces off the back of his head and loops over the goalkeeper. The Tigers beat the Lions five goals to four. Our finest endorsement comes from Julianne, who isn’t what you’d call a dedicated football mum. I think she’d prefer Charlie to do ballet or to play tennis. Looking immaculate in a long black hooded coat and Wellingtons, she announces that she has never seen a more exciting piece of sport. The fact that she calls it a “piece of sport” is testament to how little she watches football.

Parents are wrapping their children up warmly and putting muddy boots into plastic bags. As I gaze across the field I notice a man standing alone on the far side of the pitch, with his hands in the pockets of an overcoat. I recognize the silhouette.

“What brings you out so early on a Saturday, Detective Inspector? It’s not the exercise.”

Ruiz glances toward the jogging path. “There’s enough heavy breathers in this town already.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Your neighbors.”

He unwraps a hard candy and pops it into his mouth, rattling it against his teeth.

“How can I help you?”

“Do you remember what I told you at our breakfast? I said that if the victim turns out to be the daughter of someone famous I’ll have forty detectives instead of twelve.”

“Yes.”

“Did you know your little nurse was the niece of a Tory MP and the granddaughter of a retired country court judge?”

“I read about her uncle in the papers.”

“I got the hyenas all over me— asking questions and shoving cameras in my face. It’s a media circus.”

I stare past him toward London Zoo. No matter how hard I try to push the thought away, Catherine’s letter keeps surfacing in my mind. I have wrestled with the implications and weighed the possibilities. Nothing is any clearer. I need more time.

Ruiz is still talking. “You’re one of the bright boys, right? University education, postgraduate degree, consultancy… I thought you might be able to help me out on this one. I mean you knew this girl, right? You worked with her. So I figured you might have an insight into what she might be mixed up in.”

“I only knew her as a patient.”

“But she talked to you. She told you about herself. What about friends or boyfriends?”

“I think she was seeing someone at the hospital. He might have been married because she wouldn’t talk about him.”

“She mention a name?”

“No.”

“Do you think she was promiscuous?”

“No.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”

He turns and nods at Julianne, who is suddenly beside me, slipping her arm through mine. Her hood is up and she looks like a nun.

“This is Detective Inspector Vincent Ruiz, the policeman I told you about.”

Concern creases her forehead. “Is this about Catherine?” She pushes back her hood.

Ruiz looks at her as most men do. No makeup, no perfume, no jewelry and she can still turn heads.

“Are you interested in the past, Mrs. O’Loughlin?”

She hesitates. “That depends.”

“Did you know Catherine McBride?”

“She caused us a lot of grief.”

Ruiz’s eyes dart to mine and I get a sinking feeling.

Julianne looks at me and realizes her mistake. Charlie is calling her. She looks over her shoulder and then turns back to Ruiz.

“How did she cause you grief?” he asks.

Julianne makes no attempt to hide her anger. “She tried to ruin our marriage.”

“Catherine didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” I say, cutting her short.

Julianne shrugs. “OK, I’ll let you tell the story. I’ve promised Charlie a hot chocolate.”

Ruiz doesn’t want her to go. “Perhaps we can talk later,” he says.

Julianne nods and gives my arm a squeeze. “We’ll see you at the café.”

We watch her leave, stepping gracefully between muddy puddles and patches of turf. Ruiz tilts his head to one side as though trying to read something written sideways on my lapels.

My credibility is nonexistent. Whatever I say he’s not going to believe.

Ruiz crushes the hard candy between his teeth and grinds it into sugary water. “So how did my murder victim try to ruin your marriage?”

“That’s an exaggeration. It was all a misunderstanding. Catherine made an allegation that I sexually assaulted her under hypnosis. She withdrew the complaint within hours, but it still had to be investigated.”

“How do you misunderstand something like that?”

I tell him how Catherine had confused my professional concern for something more intimate— about the kiss and her embarrassment. Her anger.

“You turned her down?”

“Yes.”

“So she made the complaint?”

“Yes. I didn’t even know until after it had been withdrawn, but there still had to be an inquiry. I was suspended while the hospital board investigated. Other patients were interviewed.”

“All because of one letter?”

“Yes.”

“Did you talk to Catherine?”

“No. She avoided me. I didn’t see her again until just before she left the Marsden. She apologized. She had a new boyfriend and they were going up north.”

“You weren’t angry with her?”

“I was bloody furious. She could have cost me my career.” Realizing how harsh that sounds, I add, “She was very fragile emotionally.”

Ruiz opens the page of a notebook and begins writing something down.

“Don’t make too much of it.”

“It’s just information, Professor. Just like you I collect pieces of information until two or three of them fit together.”

Turning the pages of his notebook, he smiles at me gently.

“It’s amazing what you can find out these days. Married. One child. No religious affiliation. Educated at Charterhouse and London University. BA and MA in psychology. Taken into custody in August 1980 for projecting the image of a swastika on South Africa House during a Free Mandela demonstration in Trafalgar Square. Twice caught speeding on the M40; one outstanding parking ticket; denied a Syrian visa in 1987 because of a previous visit to Israel. Father a well-known doctor. Three sisters. One works for the United Nations refugee program. Your wife’s father committed suicide in 1994. You have private medical insurance, an overdraft facility of £10,000 and you’re car tax is due for renewal on Wednesday.”

He looks up. “I haven’t bothered with your tax returns, but I’d say you went into private practice because that house of yours must cost a bloody fortune.”

He’s getting to the point now. This whole spiel is a message to me. He wants to show me what he’s capable of.

His voice grows quiet. “If I find that you’ve withheld information from my murder inquiry I’ll send you to jail. You can practice some of your skills firsthand when you’re two up in a cell with an inmate who wants you to give it up for Jesus.”

He closes the notebook and slips it into his pocket. Blowing on his cupped hands, he adds, “Thank you for your patience, Professor.”

Ruiz is twenty yards away from me and I still haven’t moved. He’s just threatened me with withholding information. If I tell him about Catherine’s letter he’ll think I’ve been purposely holding it back. Why do I always do this— try to rationalize every element of a problem before letting it go?

Why, after so long, would Catherine write to me? Who mailed the letter? Why would she make a wild declaration of love, unprompted, pouring out her feelings, risking the pain of a rebuff?

That’s what Catherine did when she was hurting— she reopened old wounds. Maybe this was a manifestation of self-harm. Instead of using a razor blade she used words to open herself up. I can imagine her doing this. I can even picture her, sitting alone, writing quickly as if in danger of missing the moment. “Sorry if I’ve caused you grief,” is the phrase she used in her letter. She had no idea.

Ruiz is fifty yards away, a moving silhouette against the metal railing fence. I catch up with him before he reaches York Gate. He turns at the sound of his name. Instead of telling him about the letter I begin explaining why I didn’t tell him sooner. It’s like getting snagged in a whirlpool current and being dragged into the center.

“Where is this letter now?” he asks without rancor.

“At home in my desk.”

He doesn’t ask how I know it’s from Catherine. When I reach the bit about the phone number and the call to Liverpool he’s talking on his mobile. That’s when I realize that he already knows about the call! It’s the only explanation. Either my phone, or more likely Catherine’s, is being bugged.

My heart gives a random thump, as though suddenly changing to a different rhythm. That’s why he turned up today. He’s known all along.