The Suspect

11

Social Services keeps files on children who have been sexually abused. I once had full access to them, but I’m no longer part of the system. The privacy laws are compelling.

I need help from someone I haven’t seen in more than a decade. Her name is Melinda Cossimo and I’m worried I might not recognize her. We arrange to meet in a coffee shop opposite the Magistrates Court.

When I first arrived in Liverpool Mel was a duty social worker. Now she’s an area manager (they call it a “child protection specialist”). Not many people last this long in social services. They either burn out or blow up.

Mel was your original punk, with spiky hair and a wardrobe of distressed leather jackets and torn denim. She was always challenging everyone’s opinions because she liked to see people stand up for their beliefs, whether she agreed with them or not.

Growing up in Cornwall, she had listened to her father, a local fisherman, pontificate on the distinction between “men’s work” and “women’s work.” Almost predictably, she became an ardent feminist and author of “When Women Wear the Pants”— her doctoral thesis. Her father must be turning in his grave.

Mel’s husband, Boyd, a Lancashire lad, wore khaki pants, turtleneck sweaters and rolled his own cigarettes. Tall and thin, he went gray at nineteen but kept his hair long and tied back in a ponytail. I only ever saw it loose once, in the showers after we had played badminton.

They were great hosts. We’d get together most weekends for dinner parties on Boyd’s run-down terrace, with its “wind chime” garden and cannabis plants growing in an old fishpond. We were all overworked, underappreciated and yet still idealistic. Julianne played the guitar and Mel had a voice like Joni Mitchell. We ate vegetarian feasts, drank too much wine, smoked a little dope and righted the wrongs of the world. The hangovers lasted until Monday and the flatulence until midweek.

Mel makes a face at me through the window. Her hair is straight and pinned back from her face. She’s wearing dark trousers and a tailored beige jacket. A white ribbon is pinned to her lapel. I can’t remember what charity it represents.

“Is this the management look?”

“No, it’s middle age.” She laughs, grateful to sit down. “These shoes are killing me.” She kicks them off and rubs her ankles.

“Shopping?”

“An appointment in the children’s court— an emergency care order.”

“Good result?”

“It could have been worse.”

I get the coffees while she minds the table. I know she’s checking me out— trying to establish how much has changed. Do we still have things in common? Why have I suddenly surfaced? The caring profession is a suspicious one.

“So what happened to your ear?”

“Got bitten by a dog.”

“You should never work with animals.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Mel watches as my left hand tries to stir my coffee. “Are you still with Julianne?”

“Uh-huh. We have Charlie now. She’s eight. I think Julianne might be pregnant again.”

“Aren’t you sure?” She laughs.

I laugh with her, but feel a pang of guilt.

I ask about Boyd. I picture him as an aging hippie, still wearing linen shirts and Punjabi pants. Mel turns her face away, but not before I see the pain drift across her eyes like a cloud.

“Boyd is dead.”

Sitting very still, she lets the silence grow accustomed to the news.

“When?”

“More than a year ago. One of those big four-wheel drives, with a bulbar, went through a stop sign and cleaned him up.”

I tell her that I’m sorry. She smiles sadly and licks milk froth from her spoon.

“They say the first year is the hardest. I tell you it’s like being fucked over by fifty cops with batons and riot shields. I still can’t get my head around the fact that he’s gone. I even blamed him for a while. I thought he’d abandoned me. It sounds silly, but out of spite I sold his record collection. It cost me twice as much to buy it back again.” She laughs at herself and stirs her coffee.

“You should have got in touch. We didn’t know.”

“Boyd lost your address. He was hopeless. I know I could have found you.” She smiles apologetically. “I just didn’t want to see anyone for a while. It would just remind me of the good old days.”

“Where is he now?”

“At home in a little silver pot on my filing cabinet.” She makes it sound as though he’s pottering around in the garden shed. “I can’t put him in the ground here. It’s too cold. What if it snows? He hated the cold.” She looks at me mournfully. “I know that’s stupid.”

“Not to me.”

“I thought I might save up and take his ashes to Nepal. I could throw them off a mountain.”

“He was scared of heights.”

“Yeah. Maybe I should just tip them in the Mersey.”

“Can you do that?”

“Don’t see how anyone could stop me.” She laughs sadly. “So what brings you back to Liverpool? You couldn’t get away from here fast enough.”

“I wish I could have taken you guys with me.”

“Down south! Not likely! You know what Boyd thought of London. He said it was full of people searching for something that they couldn’t find elsewhere, having not bothered to look.”

I can hear Boyd saying exactly that.

“I need to get hold of a child protection file.”

“A red edge!”

“Yes.”

I haven’t heard that term for years. It’s the nickname given by social workers in Liverpool to child protection referrals because the initiating form has a dark crimson border.

“What child?”

“Bobby Morgan.”

Mel makes the connection instantly. I see it in her eyes. “I dragged a magistrate out of bed at two in the morning to sign the interim care order. The father committed suicide. You must remember?”

“No.”

Her brow furrows. “Maybe it was one of Erskine’s.” Rupert Erskine was the senior psychologist in the department. I was the junior half of the team— a fact he pointed out at every opportunity.

Mel had been the duty social worker on Bobby’s case.

“The referral came from a schoolteacher,” she explains. “The mother didn’t want to say anything at first. When she saw the medical evidence she broke down and told us she suspected her husband.”

“Can you get me the file?”

I can see she wants to ask me why. At the same time she realizes it is probably safer to remain ignorant. Closed child-care files are stored at Hatton Gardens, the head office of the Liverpool Department of Social Services. Files are held for eighty years and can only be viewed by an appropriate member of staff, an authorized agency or a court officer. All access becomes part of the record.

Mel stares at her reflection in her teaspoon. She has to make a decision. Does she help me or say no? She glances at her watch. “I’ll make a few phone calls. Come to my office at one thirty.”

She kisses me on the cheek as she leaves. Another coffee is ordered for the wait. Down times are the worst. They give me too much time to think. That’s when random thoughts bounce through my head like a ping-pong ball in a jar. Julianne is pregnant. We’ll need a child gate at the bottom of the stairs. Charlie wants to go camping this summer. What’s the connection between Bobby and Catherine?

Another van— but it’s not white. The driver tosses a bundle of papers onto the pavement in front of the café. The front-page headline reads: REWARD OFFERED IN MCBRIDE MURDER HUNT.

Mel has a clean desk with two piles of paperwork on either side in haphazard columns. Her computer is decorated with stickers, headlines and cartoons. One of them shows an armed robber pointing a gun and saying, “Your money or your life!” The victim replies, “I have no money and no life. I’m a social worker.”

We’re on the third floor of the Department of Social Services. Most of the offices are empty for the weekend. The view from Mel’s window is of a half-built prefabricated warehouse. She has managed to get me three files, each held together by a loop of red tape. I have an hour before she gets back from shopping.

I know what to expect. The first rule of intelligent tinkering is to save all the parts. That’s what the social services do. When they mess about with people’s lives they make a careful note of every decision. There will be interviews, family assessments, psych reports and medical notes. There will be minutes of every case conference and strategy meeting as well as copies of police statements and court rulings.

If Bobby spent time in a children’s home or psych ward, this will have been recorded. There will be names, dates and places. With any luck I can cross-reference these with Catherine McBride’s file and discover a link.

The first page of the file is a record of a telephone call from St. Mary’s School. I recognize Mel’s handwriting. Bobby had “displayed a number of recent behavioral changes.” Apart from wetting himself and soiling his pants, he had “displayed inappropriate sexual behavior.” He had removed his underpants and simulated sex with a seven-year-old girl.

Mel faxed through the information to the area manager. At the same time she phoned the clerk in the area office and organized a check through the index files to see if Bobby, his parents or any siblings had ever come up on file. When this drew a blank, she started a new file. The injuries worried her most. She consulted with Lucas Dutton, the assistant director (children), who made the decision to launch an investigation.

The “red edge” is easy to find because of the border. It records Bobby’s name, date of birth, address and details of his parents, school, GP and known health problems. There are also details about the deputy headmistress of St. Mary’s, the original referrer.

Mel had organized a full medical examination dated Monday, 12 September 1988. Dr. Richard Legende found “two or three marks about six inches long across both his buttocks.” He described the injuries as being consistent with “two or three successive blows with a hard item such as a studded belt.”

Bobby had been distressed throughout the examination and refused to answer any questions. Dr. Legende noted what appeared to be old scar tissue around the anus. “Whether the injury was caused accidentally or by deliberate penetration is not clear,” he wrote. In a later report he hardened his resolve and described the scarring as being “consistent with abuse.”

Bridget Morgan was interviewed. Hostile at first, she accused social services of being busybodies. When told of Bobby’s injuries and behavior, she began to qualify her answers. Eventually, she began making excuses for her husband.

“He’s a good man, but he can’t help himself. He gets angry and loses his rag.”

“Does he ever hit you?”

“Yeah.”

“What about Bobby?”

“He gets the worst of it.”

“When he beats Bobby, what does he use?”

“A dog collar… He’ll kill me if he knows I’m here… You don’t know what he’s like…”

When asked about any inappropriate sexual behavior, Bridget categorically denied her husband could have done such a thing. Her protests became more strident as the interview went on. She became tearful and asked to see Bobby.

All allegations of sexual abuse have to be reported to the police. After being told this, Bridget Morgan grew even more anxious. Clearly distressed, she admitted to having concerns about her husband’s relationship with Bobby. She wouldn’t or couldn’t elaborate.

Bobby and his mother were taken to Marsh Lane police station to be formally interviewed. A strategy meeting was held at the station. Those present were Mel Cossimo, her immediate boss Lucas Dutton, Detective Sergeant Helena Bronte and Bridget Morgan. Having spent a few minutes alone with Bobby, Mrs. Morgan accepted the need for an investigation.

Leafing through her police statement, I try to pick out the crux of her allegations. Two years earlier she claimed to have seen Bobby sitting on her husband’s lap, not wearing any underwear. Her husband had had only a towel around his waist and he appeared to be pushing Bobby’s hand between his legs.

During the previous year she had often found that Bobby had no underwear on when he undressed to have a bath. When asked why, he’d said, “Daddy doesn’t like me wearing underpants.”

The mother also claimed that her husband would only take a bath when Bobby was awake and would leave the bathroom door open. He would often invite Bobby to join him, but the boy made excuses.

Although not a strong statement, in the hands of a good prosecutor it could be damning enough. The next statement I expect to find is Bobby’s. It isn’t here. I turn several pages and find that no mention is made of a formal statement, which could explain why Lenny Morgan was never charged. Instead there is a videotape and a sheaf of handwritten notes.

A child’s evidence is crucial. Unless he or she admits to being molested the chances of success are slim. The abuser would have to admit the crime or the medical evidence would have to be incontrovertible.

Mel has a videotape recorder and TV in her office. I slide the tape out of the cardboard sleeve. The label has Bobby’s full name, as well as the date and place of the interview. As the first images flash onto the screen, the time is stamped in the bottom left-hand corner.

A child protection evaluation is very different from a normal patient consultation because of the time constraints. It can often take weeks to establish the sort of trust that allows a child to slowly reveal his or her inner world. Evaluations have to be done quickly and the questions are therefore more direct.

The child-friendly interview room has toys on the floor and brightly colored walls. Drawing paper and crayons have been left on the table. A small boy sits nervously on a plastic chair, looking at the blank piece of paper. He is wearing a school uniform with baggy shorts and scuffed shoes. He glances at the camera and I see his face clearly. He has changed a lot in fourteen years, but I still recognize him. He sits impassively, as if resigned to his fate.

There is something else. Something more. The details return like surrendered soldiers. I have seen this boy before. Rupert Erskine asked me to review a case. A young boy who wasn’t responding to any of his questions. A new approach was needed. Perhaps a new face.

The video is still running. I hear my voice. “Do you prefer to be called Robert, Rob or Bobby?”

“Bobby.”

“Do you know why you’re here, Bobby?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I have to ask you a few questions. Is that OK?”

“I want to go home.”

“Not just yet. Tell me, Bobby, you understand the difference between the truth and a lie, don’t you?”

He nods. “If I said that I had a carrot instead of a nose, what would that be?”

“A lie.”

“That’s right.”

The tape continues. I ask nonspecific questions about school and home. Bobby talks about his favorite TV shows and toys. He relaxes and begins doodling on a sheet of paper as he talks.

If he had three magic wishes what would they be? After two false starts and shuffling his choices, he came up with owning a chocolate factory, going camping and building a machine that would make everybody happy. Who would he most like to be? Sonic the Hedgehog because “he runs really fast and saves his friends.”

Watching the video I can recognize some of the mannerisms and body language of the adult Bobby. He rarely smiled or laughed. He maintained eye contact only briefly.

I ask him about his father. At first Bobby is animated and open. He wants to go home and see him. “We’re making an invention. It’s going to stop shopping bags from spilling in the trunk of the car.”

Bobby draws a picture of himself and I get him to name the different body parts. He mumbles when he talks about his “private parts.”

“Do you like it when you have a bath with your dad?”

“Yes.”

“What do you like about it?”

“He tickles me.”

“Where does he tickle you?”

“All over.”

“Does he ever touch you in a way that you don’t like?”

Bobby’s brow furrows. “No.”

“Does he ever touch your private parts?”

“No.”

“What about when he washes you?”

“I suppose.” He mumbles something else that I can’t make out.

“What about your mum? Does she ever touch your private parts?”

He shakes his head and asks to go home. He screws up the piece of paper and refuses to answer any more questions. He isn’t upset or scared. It is another example of the “distancing” that is common in sexually abused children who try to make themselves smaller and less of a target.

The interview ends, the outcome clearly inconclusive. Body language and mannerisms weren’t enough to formulate an opinion.

Turning back to the files, I piece together the history of what happened next. Mel recommended that Bobby be placed on the Child Protection Register— a list of all children in the area who were considered to be at risk. She applied for an interim custody order— getting a magistrate out of bed at 2:00 a.m.

Police arrested Lenny Morgan. His house was searched, along with his bus depot locker and a neighboring garage he rented as a workshop. He maintained his innocence throughout. He described himself as a loving father who had never done anything wrong or been in trouble with the police. He claimed to have no knowledge of Bobby’s injuries, but admitted to “giving him a whack” when he dismantled and broke a perfectly good alarm clock.

I knew none of this. My involvement ended after a single interview. It was Erskine’s case.

A child protection case conference was held on Monday, August 15. The conference was chaired by Lucas Dutton and included the duty social worker, consultant psychologist Rupert Erskine, Bobby’s GP, the deputy headmistress of his school and Detective Sergeant Helena Bronte.

The minutes of the meeting indicate that Lucas Dutton ran the proceedings. I remember him. At my first case conference he shot me down in flames when I offered an alternative suggestion to his own. Directors are rarely questioned— especially by junior psychologists whose diplomas are fresh enough to smudge.

The police didn’t have enough evidence to charge Lenny Morgan, but the criminal investigation continued. Based on the physical evidence and Bridget Morgan’s statement the conference recommended that Bobby be removed from his family and placed in foster care unless his father agreed to voluntarily stay away. Daily contact would be arranged but father and son were never to be left alone.

Bobby spent five days in foster care before Lenny agreed to leave the family home and live separately until the allegations were fully investigated.

The second case file begins with a contents page. I scan the list and continue reading. For three months the Morgan family was shadowed by social workers and psychologists, who tried to discover exactly how it functioned. Bobby’s behavior was monitored and reviewed, particularly during the contact visits with his father. At the same time Erskine interviewed Bridget, Lenny and Bobby separately, taking detailed histories. He also spoke to the maternal grandmother, Pauline Aherne, and Bridget’s younger sister.

Both seemed to confirm Bridget’s suspicions about Lenny. In particular Pauline Aherne claimed to have witnessed an example of inappropriate behavior when father and son were wrestling at bedtime and she saw Lenny’s hand inside Bobby’s pajamas.

When I compared her statement to Bridget’s, I noticed how they used many of the same phrases and descriptions. This would have concerned me if it had been my case. Blood is thicker than water— never more so than in child custody cases.

Lenny Morgan’s first wife had died in a car accident. A son from the first marriage, Dafyyd Morgan, had left home at eighteen without coming to the attention of Social Services.

Several attempts were made to find him. Child-care workers traced his teachers and a swimming coach, who reported no cause for concern in his behavior. Dafyyd had left school at fifteen and been apprenticed to a local building firm. He dropped out and his last known address was a backpacker’s hostel in western Australia.

The file contains Erskine’s conclusions, but not his session notes. He described Bobby as “anxious, fidgety and temperamentally fragile” and also displaying “symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“When questioned about any sexual abuse, Bobby became increasingly defensive and agitated,” Erskine wrote. “He also seems defensive if anyone suggests his family is not ideal. It is as if he is working hard to hide something.”

Of Bridget Morgan he wrote: “Her first concern is always for her son. She is particularly reluctant to allow any further interviews with Bobby because of the anxiety these create. Bobby has apparently been wetting the bed and has had problems sleeping.”

Her concern was understandable. At a rough count, I estimated Bobby was interviewed more than a dozen times by therapists, psychologists and social workers. Questions were repeated and rephrased.

During free play sessions he was observed undressing dolls and naming body parts. None of these sessions were recorded, but a therapist reported that Bobby placed one doll on top of the other and made grunting noises.

Erskine included two of Bobby’s drawings in the file. I hold them at arm’s length. They’re rather good in an abstract sort of way— a cross between Picasso and the Flintstones. The figures are robotlike, with skewed faces. Adults are drawn excessively large and children very small.

Erskine concluded:

There are several significant pieces of evidence which, in my opinion, strongly support the possibility of sexual contact between Mr. Morgan and his son.

First, there is the evidence of Bridget Morgan as well as that of the maternal grandmother, Mrs. Pauline Aherne. Neither woman appears to have any reason to be biased or embellish their accounts. Both witnessed occasions when Mr. Morgan exposed himself to his son and removed his son’s underwear.

Secondly, there is the evidence of Dr. Richard Legende who found “two or three strap marks about six inches long across both of the child’s buttocks.” More perturbing was the evidence of scar tissue around the anus.

Added to this we have the behavioral changes in Bobby. He has displayed an unhealthy interest in sex, as well as a working knowledge far beyond that of a normal eight-year-old.

Based on these facts, I believe there exists a strong likelihood that Bobby has been sexually abused, most probably by his father.

There must have been another case conference in mid-November. I can find no minutes. The police investigation was suspended, but the file left open.

The third file is full of legal documents— some of them bound in ribbon. I recognize the paperwork. Satisfied that Bobby was at risk, Social Services had applied for a permanent care order. The lawyers were set loose.

“What are you mumbling about?” Mel is back from her shopping, balancing two cups of coffee on a ledger. “Sorry I can’t offer you anything stronger. Remember when we used to smuggle boxes of wine in here at Christmas?”

“I remember Boyd getting drunk and watering the plastic plants in the foyer.”

We both laugh.

“Bring back any memories?” She motions to the files.

“Sadly.” My left hand is trembling. I push it into my lap. “What did you make of Lenny Morgan?”

She sits down and kicks off her shoes. “I thought he was a pig. He was abusive and violent.”

“What did he do?”

“He confronted me outside the court. I went to use a phone in the foyer. He asked me why I was doing this— as if it was personal. When I tried to get past him, he pushed me against the wall and put his hand around my throat. He had this look in his eyes…” She shudders.

“You didn’t press charges?”

“No.”

“He was upset?”

“Yes.”

“What about the wife?”

“Bridget. She was all fur coat and no knickers. A real social climber.”

“But you liked her?”

“Yes.”

“What happened about the care order?”

“One magistrate agreed with the application and two claimed there was insufficient evidence to sustain the argument.”

“So you tried to get Bobby made a ward of the court?”

“You bet. I wasn’t letting the father anywhere near him. We went straight to the county court and got a hearing that afternoon. The papers should be all there.” She motions toward the files.

“Who gave evidence?”

“I did.”

“What about Erskine?”

“I used his report.”

Mel is getting annoyed at my questions. “Any social worker would have done what I did. If you can’t get the magistrates to see sense, you go to a judge. Nine times out of ten you’ll get wardship.”

“Not anymore.”

“No.” She sounds disappointed. “They’ve changed the rules.”

From the moment Bobby became a ward, every major decision on his welfare was made by a court instead of his family. He couldn’t change schools, get a passport, join the army or get married without the court’s permission. It also guaranteed that his father would never be allowed back into his life.

Turning the pages of the file, I come across the judgment. It runs to about eight pages, but I scan them quickly, looking for the outcome.

The husband and wife are each genuinely concerned about the welfare of the child. I am satisfied that they have in the past, in their own way, attempted to discharge their obligations as parents to the best of their ability. Unfortunately in the husband’s case, his ability to properly and appropriately discharge his obligations to the child has, in my view, been adversely affected by the allegations hanging over his head.

I have taken into consideration the countervailing evidence— namely the husband’s denials. At the same time, I am aware that the child wishes to live with both his father and mother. Clearly, the weight given to those wishes must be balanced against other matters relevant to Bobby’s welfare.

The child welfare guidelines and tests are clear. Bobby’s interests are paramount. This court cannot grant custody or access to a parent, if that custody or access would expose a child to an unacceptable risk of sexual abuse.

I hope that in due course, when Bobby has acquired a level of self-protection, maturity and understanding, he will have an opportunity to spend time with his father. However, until that time arrives, which I see regrettably as being some time in the future, he should not have contact with his father.

The judgment bears a court seal and is signed by Mr. Justice Alexander McBride, Catherine’s grandfather.

Mel is watching me from the far side of the desk. “Find what you were looking for?”

“Not really. Did you ever have much to do with Justice McBride?”

“He’s a good egg.”

“I suppose you’ve heard about his granddaughter.”

“A terrible thing.”

She spins her chair slowly around and stretches out her legs until her shoes rest on the wall. Her eyes are fixed on me.

“Do you know if Catherine McBride had a file?” I ask casually.

“Funny you should ask that.”

“Why?”

“I’ve just had someone else ask to see it. That’s two interesting requests in one day.”

“Who asked for the file?”

“A murder squad detective. He wants to know if your name crops up in there.”

Her eyes are piercing. She is angry with me for holding something back. Social workers don’t confide in people easily. They learn not to trust… not when dealing with abused children, beaten wives, drug addicts, alcoholics and parents fighting for custody. Nothing can be taken at face value. Never trust a journalist, or a defense lawyer, or a parent who is running scared. Never turn your back in an interview or make a promise to a child. Never rely on foster carers, magistrates, politicians or senior public servants. Mel had trusted me. I had let her down.

“The detective says you’re a subject of interest. He says Catherine made a sexual assault complaint against you. He asked if any other complaints had ever been made.”

This is Mel’s territory. She has nothing against men, just the things they do.

“The sexual assault is a fiction. I didn’t touch Catherine.”

I can’t hide the anger in my voice. Turning the other cheek is for people who want to look the other way. I’m sick of being accused of something I haven’t done.

On the walk back to the Albion Hotel I try to put the pieces together. My stitched ear is throbbing but it helps focus my thoughts. It’s like being able to concentrate with the TV turned up full volume.

Bobby was the same age as Charlie when he lost his father. A tragedy like that can take a terrible toll, but more than one person is needed to shape a child’s mind. There are grandparents, uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, teachers, friends and a huge cast of extras. If I could call on all of these people and interview them, maybe I could discover what happened to him.

What am I missing? A child is made a ward of the court. His father commits suicide. A sad story but not unique. Children aren’t made wards of the court anymore. The law changed in the early nineties. The old system was too open to abuse. Precious little evidence was required and there were no checks and balances.

Bobby had shown all the signs of being sexually abused. Victims of child abuse find ways of protecting themselves. Some suffer from traumatic amnesia; others bury their pain in their unconscious minds or refuse to reflect on what has happened. At the same time there are sometimes social workers who “verify” rather than question allegations of abuse. They believe that accusers never lie and abusers always do.

The more Bobby denied anything had happened, the more people believed it had to be true. This one cast-iron assumption underpinned the entire investigation.

What if we got it wrong?

Researchers at the University of Michigan once took a synopsis of an actual case involving a two-year-old girl and presented it to a panel of experts, including eight clinical psychologists, twenty-three graduate students and fifty social workers and psychiatrists. The researchers knew from the outset the child had not been sexually abused.

The mother alleged abuse based on her discovery of a bruise on her daughter’s leg and a single pubic hair (which she thought looked like the father’s) in the girl’s nappy. Four medical examinations showed no evidence of abuse. Two lie detector tests and a joint police and Child Protection Service investigation cleared the father.

Despite this, three-quarters of the experts recommended that the father’s contact with the daughter be either highly supervised or stopped altogether. Several of them even concluded that the girl had been sodomized.

There is no such thing as presumed innocence in child abuse cases. The accused is guilty until proven otherwise. The stain is invisible yet indelible.

I know all the defenses to arguments like this. False accusations are rare. We get it wrong more times than we get it right.

Erskine is a good psychologist and a good man. He nursed his wife through MS until she died and he’s raised a lot for a research grant in her name. Mel has passion and a social conscience that always puts me to shame. At the same time, she has never made any pretense of neutrality. She knows what she knows. Gut instinct counts.

I don’t know where any of this leaves me. I’m tired and I’m hungry. I still don’t have any evidence that Bobby knew Catherine McBride, let alone murdered her.

A dozen steps before I reach my hotel room I know something is wrong. The door is open. A wine-dark stain leaks across the carpet, heading for the stairs. A potted palm lies on its side across the doorway. The clay pot must have broken in half when it sheared off the door handle.

A cleaner’s cart is parked in the stairwell. It contains two buckets, mops, scrubbing brushes and a collection of wet rags. The cleaning lady is standing in the middle of my room. The bed is upside down, littered with the remains of a broken drawer. The sink— wrenched from the wall— lies beneath a broken pipe and a steady trickle of water.

My clothes are scattered across the sodden carpet, interspersed with torn pages of notes and ripped folders. My sports bag is crammed inside the bowl of the toilet, decorated with a turd.

“There is nothing like having your room properly cleaned, is there?” I say.

The cleaning lady looks at me in disbelief.

Spearmint toothpaste spells out a message on the mirror that’s full of local flavor: GO HOME OR GET BOXED. Simple. Succinct. Precise. The hotel manager wants to call the police. I have to open my wallet to change his mind. Picking through the debris, there isn’t much worth salvaging. Gingerly, I lift a bundle of soggy papers smeared with ink. The only sheet legible is the last page of Catherine’s CV. I had read the cover letter in the office but got no farther. Glancing down the page I see a list of three character references. Only one of them matters: Dr. Emlyn R. Owen. She gives Jock’s Harley Street address and phone number.