The Suspect

5

At the office I cross the lobby aware that the security guards and receptionist are staring at me. I take the lift upstairs to find Meena at her desk and an empty waiting room.

“Where is everyone?”

“They canceled.”

“Everyone?”

I lean over her desk and look down the appointments list for the day. All the names are crossed out with a red line. Except for Bobby Moran.

Meena is still talking. “Mr. Lilley’s mother died. Hannah Barrymore has the flu. Zoe has to mind her sister’s children…” I know she’s trying to make me feel better.

I point to Bobby’s name and tell her to cross it out.

“He hasn’t called.”

“Trust me.”

Despite Meena’s best efforts to clean up, my office is still a mess. Evidence of the police search is everywhere, including the fine graphite powder they used to dust for fingerprints.

“They didn’t take any of your files, but some of them were mixed up.”

I tell her not to worry. The notes cease to be important if I no longer have any patients. She stands at the door, trying to think of something positive to say. “Did I get you into trouble?”

“What do you mean?”

“The girl who applied for the job… the one who was murdered… should I have handled it differently?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Did you know her?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

This is the first time that anyone has acknowledged the fact that Catherine’s death might have saddened me. Everybody else has acted as though I have no feelings one way or the other. Maybe they think I have some special understanding of grief or control over it. If that’s the case, they’re wrong. Getting to know patients is what I do. I learn about their deepest fears and secrets. A professional relationship becomes a personal one. It can be no other way.

I ask Meena about Catherine. How did she sound on the phone? Did she ask questions about me? The police took away her letters and job application, but Meena has kept a copy of her CV.

She fetches it for me and I glance at the covering letter and the first page. The problem with a curriculum vitae is that it tells you virtually nothing of consequence about a person. Schools, exam results, tertiary education, work experience— none of it reveals an individual’s personality or temperament. It is like trying to judge a person’s height from their hair color.

Before I can finish reading, the phone rings in the outer office. Hoping it might be Julianne I pick up the call before Meena can patch it through. The voice on the line is like a force-ten gale. Eddie Barrett lets loose with a string of colorful invective. He is particularly imaginative when it comes to describing uses for my Ph.D. in the event of a toilet paper shortage.

“Listen, you overqualified headshrinker, I’m reporting you to the British Psychological Society, the Qualifications Board and the U.K. Registrar of Expert Witnesses. Bobby Moran is also going to sue you for slander, breach of duty and anything else he can find. You’re a disgrace! You should be struck off! More to the point, you’re an asshole!”

I have no time to respond. Each time I sense a break in Eddie’s diatribe, he simply rolls on through. Maybe this is how he wins so many cases— he doesn’t shut up for long enough to let anyone else get a word in.

The truth is I have no defense. I have broken more professional guidelines and personal codes than I can list, but I would do the same again. Bobby Moran is a sadist and a serial liar. Yet at the same time I feel a terrible sense of loss. By betraying a patient’s trust I have opened a door and crossed a threshold into a place that is supposed to be out of bounds. Now I’m waiting for the door to hit me in the ass.

Eddie hangs up and I stare at the phone. I press the speed dial. Julianne’s voice is on the answering machine. My guts contract. Life without her seems unthinkable. I have no idea what I want to say. I try to be cheerful because I figure Charlie might hear the message. I finish up sounding like Father Christmas. I call back and leave another message. The second one is even worse.

I give up and begin sorting out my files. The police emptied my filing cabinets, looking for anything hidden at the back of the drawers. I look up as Fenwick’s head peers around the door. He is standing in the corridor, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

“A quick word, old boy.”

“Yes.”

“Terrible business all this. Just want to say ‘Chin up,’ and all that. Don’t let the rotters get you down.”

“That’s very nice of you, Fenwick.”

He sways from foot to foot. “Awful business. A real bugger. I’m sure you understand. What with the negative publicity and the like…” He looks wretched.

“What’s the matter, Fenwick?”

“Given the circumstances, old boy, Geraldine suggested it might be better if you weren’t my best man. What would the other guests say? Awfully sorry. Hate kicking a man when he’s down.”

“That’s fine. Good luck.”

“Jolly good. Well… um… I’ll leave you to it. I’ll see you this afternoon at the meeting.”

“What meeting?”

“Oh dear, hasn’t anyone told you? What a bugger!” His face turns bright pink.

“No.”

“Well, it’s not really my place…” He mumbles and shakes his head. “The partners are having a meeting at four. Some of us— not me, of course— are a little concerned about the impact of all this on the practice. The negative publicity and the like. Never good news having the police raid the place and reporters asking questions. You understand.”

“Of course.” I smile through gritted teeth. Fenwick is already backing out of the door. Meena flashes him a look that sends him into full retreat.

There are no benign possibilities. My esteemed colleagues are to discuss my partnership— banishment being the issue. My resignation will be sought. A choice of words will be agreed and a chat with the chief accountant will wrap the whole thing up without any fuss. Bollocks to that!

Fenwick is already halfway down the corridor. I call after him. “Tell them I’ll sue the practice if they try to force me out. I’m not resigning.”

Meena gives me a look of solidarity. It is mixed with another expression that could be mistaken for pity. I’m not used to people feeling sorry for me.

“I think you should go home. There’s no point in staying,” I tell her.

“What about answering the phone?”

“I’m not expecting any calls.”

It takes twenty minutes for Meena to leave, fussing over her desk and glancing fretfully at me as though she is breaking some secretarial code of loyalty. Once alone, I close the blinds, push the unsorted folders to one side and lean back in my chair.

What mirror did I break? What ladder did I walk under? I am not a believer in God or fate or destiny. Maybe this is the “law of averages.” Maybe Elisa was right. My life has been too easy. Having won nearly every important toss of the coin, my luck has now run out.

The ancient Greeks used to say that Lady Luck was a very beautiful girl with curly hair who walked among people in the street. Perhaps her name was Karma. She is a fickle mistress, a prudent woman, a tramp and a Manchester United supporter. She used to be mine.

It rains on the walk to Covent Garden. In the restaurant I shake out my coat and hand it to a waitress. Drops of water leak down my forehead. Elisa arrives fifteen minutes later, wrapped warmly in a black overcoat with a fur collar. Underneath she’s dressed in a dark blue camisole with spaghetti straps and a matching miniskirt. Her stockings are seamed and dark. She uses a linen napkin to dry herself and runs her fingers through her hair.

“I never remember to carry an umbrella anymore.”

“Why is that?”

“I used to have one with a carved handle. It had a stiletto blade inside the shaft… in case of trouble. See how well you taught me.” She laughs and reapplies her lipstick. I want to touch the tip of her tongue with my fingers.

I cannot explain what it is like to sit in a restaurant with such a beautiful woman. Men covet Julianne, but with Elisa there is real hunger as their insides flutter and their hearts knock. There is something very pure, impulsive and innately sexual about her. It is as though she has refined, filtered and distilled her sexuality to a point where a man can believe that a single drop might be enough to satisfy him for a lifetime.

Elisa glances over her shoulder and instantly attracts a waiter’s attention. She orders a salad nicoise and I choose the penne carbonara.

Normally I enjoy the confidence that comes with sitting opposite Elisa, but today I feel old and decrepit, like a gnarled olive tree with brittle bark. She talks quickly and eats slowly, picking at the seared tuna and slices of red onion.

Although I let her talk, I feel desperate and impatient. My salvation must start today. She is still watching me. Her eyes are like mirrors within mirrors. I can see myself. My hair is plastered to my forehead. I feel like I haven’t really slept in weeks.

Elisa apologizes for “rabbiting on.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

I hesitate and then begin slowly— telling her about my arrest and the murder investigation. As I describe each new low point her eyes cloud with concern. “Why didn’t you just tell the police you were with me?” she asks. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Is it because of your wife?”

“No. She knows.”

Elisa shrugs her shoulders, neatly summing up her views on marriage. As a cultural institution she has nothing against it because it always provided some of her best customers. Married men were preferable to single men because they showered more often and smelled better.

“So what’s stopping you from telling the police?”

“I wanted to ask you first.”

She laughs at how old-fashioned that sounds. I feel myself blush.

“Before you say anything, I want you to think very carefully,” I tell her. “I am in a very difficult position when I admit to spending the night with you. There are codes of conduct… ethics. You are a former patient.”

“But that was years ago.”

“It makes no difference. There are people who will try to use it against me. They already see me as a maverick because of my work with prostitutes and the TV documentary. And they’re lining up to attack me over this… over you.”

Her eyes flash. “They don’t need to know. I’ll go to the police and give a statement. I’ll tell them you were with me. Nobody else has to find out.”

I try to muster all the kindness I have left, but my words still sting. “Think for a moment what will happen if I get charged. You will have to give evidence. The prosecution will try everything they can to destroy my alibi. You are a former prostitute. You have convictions for malicious wounding. You have spent time in jail. You are also a former patient of mine. I met you when you were only fifteen. No matter how many times we tell them this was just one night, they’ll think it was more…” I run out of steam, stabbing my fork into my half-finished bowl of pasta.

Elisa’s lighter flares. The flame catches in her eyes, which are already blazing. I have never seen her come so close to losing her poise. “I’ll leave it up to you,” she says softly. “But I’m willing to give a statement. I’m not afraid.”

“Thank you.”

We sit in silence. After a while she reaches across the table and squeezes my hand again. “You never told me why you were so upset that night.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Is your wife very upset?”

“Yes.”

“She is lucky to have you. I hope she realizes that.”