The Suspect

14

An hour before daybreak the roads are varnished with rain and patches of fog appear and disappear between the drizzle. Stealing Elisa’s car is the least of my worries. Working the clutch with a useless left leg is the more immediate problem.

Somewhere near Wrexham I pull into a muddy farm road and fall asleep. Images of Elisa sweep into my head like the headlights that periodically brush across hedgerows. I see her blue lips and her bloody wrists; eyes that follow me still.

Questions and doubts go around in my head like there’s a needle stuck in the groove. Poor Elisa.

“Worry about your own alibi,” was what Jock said. What did he mean? Even if I could prove I didn’t kill Catherine— which I now can’t— they’re going to blame me for this. They’re coming for me now. In my mind I can picture policemen crossing the fields in a long straight line, holding Alsatians on leashes, riding horses, hunting me down. I stumble into ditches and claw my way up embankments. Brambles tear at my clothes. The dogs are getting closer.

There is a tap, tap, tapping sound on the window. I can see nothing but a bright light. My eyes are full of grit and my body stiff with cold. I fumble for the handle and roll down the window.

“Sorry to wake you, mister, but yer blockin’ the road.”

A grizzled head under a woolen hat peers at me through the window. A dog is barking at his heels and I hear the throb of a tractor engine, parked behind me.

“You don’t want to go falling asleep for too long out here. It’s bloody cold.”

“Thanks.”

Light gray clouds, stunted trees and empty fields lie ahead of me. The sun is up, but struggling to warm the day. I reverse out of the road and watch the tractor pass through a gate and bounce over puddles toward a half-ruined barn.

As the engine idles, I turn the heater up to full blast and call Julianne on the mobile. She’s awake and slightly out of breath from her exercises.

“Did you give Jock Elisa’s address?”

“No.”

“Did you ever mention her name to him?”

“What’s this all about, Joe? You sound scared.”

“Did you say anything?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t get paranoid on me…”

I’m shouting at her, trying to make her listen, but she gets angry.

“Don’t hang up! Don’t hang up!”

It’s too late. Just before the line goes dead, I yell down the phone. “Elisa is dead!”

I hit redial. My fingers are stiff and I almost drop the phone. Julianne picks up instantly. “What do you mean?”

“Someone killed her. The police are going to think I did it.”

“Why?”

“I found her body. My fingerprints and God knows what else are all over her flat…”

“You went to her flat!” There is disbelief in her voice. “Why did you go there?”

“Listen to me, Julianne. Two people are dead. Someone is trying to frame me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to work out.”

Julianne takes a deep breath. “You’re frightening me, Joe. You’re sounding crazy.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“Go to the police. Tell them what happened.”

“I have no alibi. I’m their only suspect.”

“Well, talk to Simon. Please, Joe.”

Tearfully, she hangs up and this time leaves the phone off the hook. I can’t get through.

God’s-personal-physician-in-waiting opens the door in his dressing gown. He has a newspaper in one hand and an angry scowl designed to frighten off uninvited guests.

“I thought you were the blasted carol singers,” he grumbles. “Can’t stand them. None of them can hold a tune in a bucket.”

“I thought the Welsh were supposed to be great choristers.”

“Another blasted myth.” He looks over my shoulder. “Where’s your car?”

“I parked around the corner,” I lie. I had left Elisa’s Beetle at the local railway station and walked the last half mile.

He turns and I follow him along the hallway toward the kitchen. His battered carpet slippers make slapping noises against his chalk-white heels.

“Where’s Mum?”

“She was up and out early. Some protest rally. She’s turning into a bloody leftie— always protesting about something.”

“Good for her.”

He scoffs, clearly not in agreement.

“The garden looks good.”

“You should see out back. Cost a bloody fortune. Your mother will no doubt give you the grand tour. Those bloody lifestyle programs on TV should be banned. Garden ‘makeovers’ and backyard ‘blitzes’— I’d drop a bomb on all of them.”

He isn’t the slightest bit surprised to see me, even though I’ve turned up unannounced. He probably thinks that Mum mentioned it to him when he wasn’t listening. He fills the kettle and empties the old tea leaves from the pot.

The tablecloth is dotted with flotsam gathered on various holidays, like a St. Mark’s Cross tea caddy and a jam pot from Cornwall. The Silver Jubilee spoon had been a present from Buckingham Palace when they were invited to one of the Queen’s garden parties.

“Would you like an egg? There isn’t any bacon.”

“Eggs will be fine.”

“There might be some ham in the fridge if you want an omelette.”

He follows me around the kitchen, trying to second-guess what I need. His dressing gown is tied at the waist with a tasseled cord and his glasses are clipped to the pocket with a gold chain so that he doesn’t lose them.

He knows about my arrest. Why hasn’t he said anything? This is his chance to say, “I told you so.” He can blame it on my choice of career and tell me that none of this would have happened if I’d become a doctor.

He sits at the table, watching me eat, occasionally sipping his tea and folding and unfolding The Times. I ask him if he’s playing any golf. Not for three years.

“Is that a new Mercedes out front?”

“No.”

The silence seems to stretch out, but I’m the only one who finds it uncomfortable. He sits and reads the headlines, occasionally glancing at me over the top of the paper.

The farmhouse has been in the family since before I was born. For most of that time, until my father semiretired, it was our holiday house. He had other places in London and Cardiff. Elsewhere, teaching hospitals and universities would provide him with accommodation if he accepted visiting fellowships.

When he bought the farmhouse it had ninety acres, but he leased most of the land to the dairy farmer next door. The main house, built out of local stone, has low ceilings and strange angles where the foundations have settled over more than a century.

I want to clean up before Mum gets home. I ask Dad if I can borrow a shirt and maybe a pair of trousers. He shows me his wardrobe. On the end of the bed is a man’s tracksuit, neatly folded.

He notices me looking. “Your mother and I go walking.”

“I didn’t know.”

“It’s only been the last few years. We get up early if the weather is OK. There are some nice walks in Snowdonia.”

“So I hear.”

“Keeps me fit.”

“Good for you.”

He clears his throat and goes looking for a fresh towel. “I suppose you want a shower instead of a bath.” He makes it sound newfangled and disloyal. A true Welshman would use a tin tub in front of the coal fire.

I push my face into the jets of water, hearing it rush past my ears. I’m trying to wash away the grime of the past few days and drown out the voices in my head. This all began with a disease, a chemical imbalance, a baffling neurological disorder. It feels more like a cancer— a blush of wild cells that have infected every corner of my life, multiplying by the second and fastening on to new hosts.

I lie down in the guest bedroom and close my eyes. I just want a few minutes’ rest. Wind beats against the windows. I can smell sodden earth and coal fires. I vaguely remember my father putting a blanket over me. Maybe it’s a dream. My dirty clothes are hanging over his arm. He reaches down and strokes my forehead.

A while later I hear the ring of spoons in mugs and the sound of my mother’s voice in the kitchen. The other sound— almost as familiar— is my father breaking ice for the ice bucket.

Opening the curtains, I see snow on the distant hills and the last of the frost retreating across the lawn. Maybe we’ll have a white Christmas— just like the year Charlie was born.

I can’t stay here any longer. Once the police find Elisa’s body they will put the pieces together and come looking instead of waiting for me to turn up somewhere. This is one of the first places they’ll search.

Urine splatters into the bowl. My father’s trousers are too big for me, but I cinch in the belt making the material gather above the pockets. They don’t hear me padding along the hallway. I stand in the doorway watching them.

My mother, as always, is dressed to perfection, wearing a peach-colored cashmere sweater and a gray skirt. She thickened around her middle after she turned fifty and has never managed to lose the weight.

She puts a cup of tea in front of my father and kisses him on the top of his head with a wet smacking sound. “Look at this,” she says. “My stockings have a run. That’s the second pair this week.” He slips his hand around her waist and gives her a squeeze. I feel embarrassed. I don’t remember ever seeing them share such an intimate moment.

My mother jumps in surprise and admonishes me for having “crept up on her.” She begins fussing about what I’m wearing. She could easily take the trousers in, she says. She doesn’t ask about my own clothes.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” she asks. “We’ve been worried sick, especially after all those ghastly stories in the newspapers.” She makes the tabloids sound as attractive as a soggy fur ball deposited on a carpet.

“Well at least that’s all over with now,” she says sternly, as if determined to draw a line under the whole episode. “Of course, I’ll have to avoid the bridge club for a while but I daresay it will all be forgotten soon enough. Gwyneth Evans will be insufferably smug. She will think she’s off the hook now. Her eldest boy, Owen, ran off with the nanny and left his poor wife with two boys to look after. Now the ladies will have something else to talk about.”

My father seems oblivious to the conversation. He is reading a book with his nose so close to the pages that it looks as though he’s trying to inhale them.

“Come on, I want to show you the garden. It looks wonderful. But you must promise to come back in the spring when the blooms are out. We have our own greenhouse and there are new shingles on the stable roof. All that damp is gone. Remember the smell? There were rats nesting behind the walls. Awful!”

She fetches two pairs of Wellingtons. “I can’t remember your size.”

“These are fine.”

She makes me borrow Dad’s Barbour and then leads the way, down the back steps onto the path. The pond is frozen the color of watery soup and the landscape is pearl gray. She points out the dry stone wall which had crumbled during my childhood, but now stands squat and solid, pieced together like a three-dimensional jigsaw. A new greenhouse with glass panels and a framework of freshly milled pine backs onto the wall. Trays of seedlings cover trestle tables and spring baskets, lined with moss, hang from the ceiling. She flicks a switch and a fine spray fogs the air.

“Come and see the old stables. We’ve had all the junk cleared out. We could make it into a granny flat. I’ll show you inside.”

We follow the path between the vegetable patch and the orchard. Mum is still talking, but I’m only half listening. I can see her scalp beneath the parting of her gray hair.

“How was your protest meeting?” I ask.

“Good. We had more than fifty people.”

“What was it all about?”

“We’re trying to stop that blasted wind farm. They want to build it right on the ridge.” She points in the general direction. “Have you ever heard a wind turbine? The noise is monstrous. Blades flashing around. The air screaming in pain.”

Standing on tiptoes, she reaches above the stable door to get the key from its hiding place.

The tightness in my chest returns. “What did you say?”

“When?”

“Just then… ‘the air was screaming in pain.’ ”

“Oh, the windmills; they make such a horrible sound.”

She has the key in her hand. It is tied to a small piece of carved wood. Unconsciously, my hand flashes out and grips her wrist. I turn it over and the pressure makes her fingers open.

“Who gave you that?” My voice is trembling.

“Joe, you’re hurting me.” She looks at the key ring. “Bobby gave me that. He’s the young man I’ve been telling you about. He fixed the stone wall and the shingles on the stable. He built the greenhouse and did the planting. Such a hard worker. He took me to see the windmills…”

For a brief moment I feel myself falling, but nothing happens. It’s like someone has tilted the landscape and I’m leaning into it, clutching the door frame.

“When?”

“He stayed with us for three months over the summer…”

“What did he look like?”

“How can I put it politely? He’s very tall, but perhaps a little overweight. Big-boned. Sweet as can be. He only wanted room and board.”

The truth isn’t a blinding light or a cold bucket of water in the face. It leaks into my consciousness like a red wine stain on a pale carpet or a dark shadow on a chest X-ray. Bobby knew things about me, things I dismissed as coincidences. Tigers and Lions, Charlie’s painting of the whale… He knew things about Catherine and how she died. A mind reader. A stalker. A medieval conjurer who disappears and reappears in a puff of smoke.

But how did he know about Elisa? He saw us having lunch together and then followed her home. No. I saw him that afternoon. He turned up for his appointment. That’s when I lost him by the canal— close to Elisa’s house.

No comprenderás todavía lo que comprenderás en el futuro. You don’t understand yet what you will understand in the end…

Moving suddenly, I stumble and land awkwardly on the path. Scrambling upward, I set off in a limping run toward the house, ignoring my mother’s questions about not seeing the stable.

Bursting through the door, I ricochet off the laundry wall, upsetting a washing basket and a box of detergent on a shelf. A pair of my mother’s knickers catches on the toe of my boot. The nearest telephone is in the kitchen. Julianne answers on the third ring. I don’t give her time to speak.

“You said someone was watching the house.”

“Hang up, Joe, the police are trying to find you.”

“Did you see someone?”

“Hang up and call Simon.”

“Please, Julianne!”

She recognizes the desperation in my voice. It matches her own.

“Did you see anyone?”

“No.”

“What about the person D.J. chased out of the house— did he get a good look at him?”

“No.”

“He must have said something. Was he big, tall, overweight?”

“D.J. didn’t get that close.”

“Do you have someone in your Spanish class called Bobby or Robert or Bob? He’s tall, with glasses.”

“There is a Bobby.”

“What’s his last name?”

“I don’t know. I gave him a lift home one night. He said he used to live in Liverpool…”

“Where’s Charlie? Get her out of the house! Bobby wants to hurt you. He wants to punish me…”

I try to explain but she keeps asking me why Bobby would do such a thing? It’s the one question I can’t answer.

“Nobody is going to hurt us, Joe. The street is crawling with police. One of them followed me around the supermarket today. I shamed him into carrying my shopping bags…”

Suddenly I realize that she’s probably right. She and Charlie are safer at the house than anywhere else because the police are watching them… waiting for me.

Julianne is still talking, “Call Simon, please. Don’t do anything silly.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Simon’s home number is written on the back of his business card. When he answers I can hear Patricia in the background. He’s sleeping with my sister. Why does that seem strange?

His voice drops to a whisper and I can hear him taking the phone somewhere more private. He doesn’t want Patricia to hear the conversation.

“Did you have lunch with anyone on Thursday?”

“Elisa Velasco.”

“Did you go home with her?”

“No.”

He takes a deep breath. I know what’s coming.

“Elisa was found dead at her flat. She was suffocated with a garbage bag. They’re coming for you, Joe. They have a warrant. They want you for murder.”

My voice is high-pitched and shaking. “I know who killed her. He’s a patient of mine— Bobby Morgan. He’s been watching me…”

Simon isn’t listening. “I want you to go to the nearest police station. Give yourself up. Call me when you get there. Don’t say anything unless I’m with you…”

“But what about Bobby Morgan?”

Simon’s voice is more insistent. “You have to do as I say. They have DNA evidence, Joe. Traces of your semen and strands of your hair; your fingerprints were in the bedroom and bathroom. On Thursday evening a cabdriver picked you up less than a mile from the murder scene. He remembers you. You flagged him down outside the same hotel where Catherine McBride went missing…”

“You wanted to know where I spent the night of the thirteenth? I’ll tell you. I was with Elisa.”

“Well your alibi is dead.”

The statement is so blunt and honest, I stop trying to convince him. The facts have been laid out, one by one, revealing how hopeless my position is. Even my denials sound hollow.

My father is standing in the doorway dressed in his tracksuit. Behind him, through the open curtains of the living room, two police cars have pulled into the drive.