The Suspect

6

Three hours ago I came up with a plan. It wasn’t my first. I worked my way through about a dozen, looking at all the fundamentals, but each had a fatal flaw. I have enough of those already. My ingenuity has to be tempered by my physical limitations. This meant jettisoning anything that requires me to abseil down a building, overpower a guard, short-circuit a security system or crack open a safe.

I also shelved any plan that didn’t have an exit strategy. That’s why most campaigns fail. The players don’t think far enough ahead. The endgame is the boring bit, the mopping-up operation, without the glamour and excitement of the principal challenge. Therefore, people get frustrated and only plan so far. From then on they imagine winging it, confident in their ability to master their retreat as skillfully as their advance.

I know this because I have had people in my consulting room who cheat, steal and embezzle for a living. They own nice houses, send their children to private schools and play off single-figure handicaps. They vote Tory and view law and order as an important issue because the streets just aren’t safe anymore. These people rarely get caught and hardly ever go to prison. Why? Because they plan for every outcome.

I am sitting in the darkest corner of a car park in Liverpool. On the seat beside me is a waxed paper shopping bag with a pleated rope handle. My old clothes are inside it and I’m now wearing new charcoal gray trousers, a woolen sweater and an overcoat. My hair is neatly trimmed and my face is freshly shaved. Lying between my legs is a walking stick. Now that I’m walking like a cripple, I might as well get some sympathy for it.

The phone rings. I don’t recognize the number on the screen. For a split second I wonder whether Bobby could have found me. I should have known it would be Ruiz.

“You surprise me, Professor O’Loughlin…” His voice is all gravel and phlegm. “I figured you for the sort who would turn up at the nearest police station with a team of lawyers and a PR man.”

“I’m sorry if I disappoint you.”

“I lost twenty quid. Not to worry— we’re running a new book. We’re taking bets on whether you get shot or not.”

“What are the odds?”

“I can get three to one on you dodging a bullet.”

I hear traffic noise in the background. He’s on a motorway.

“I know where you are,” he says.

“You’re guessing.”

“No. And I know what you’re trying to do.”

“Tell me.”

“First you tell me why you killed Elisa.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

Ruiz draws deeply on a cigarette. He’s smoking again. I feel a curious sense of achievement. “Why would I kill Elisa? That’s where I spent the night on the thirteenth of November. She was my alibi.”

“That’s unfortunate for you.”

“She wanted to give a statement, but I knew you wouldn’t believe her. You’d drag up her past and humiliate her. I didn’t want to put her through it all again…”

He laughs the way Jock often does, as though I’m soft in the head.

Talking over the top of him, I try to keep the desperation out of my voice. I tell him to go back to the beginning and look for the red edge.

“His name is Bobby Morgan— not Moran. Read the case notes. All the pieces are there. Put them together…”

He’s not listening to me. It’s too big for him to comprehend.

“Under different circumstances I might admire your enthusiasm, but I have enough evidence already,” he says. “I have motive, opportunity and physical evidence. You couldn’t have marked your territory any better if you’d pissed in every corner.”

“I can explain…”

“Good! Explain it to a jury! That’s the beauty of our legal system— you get plenty of chances to state your case. If the jury doesn’t believe you, you can appeal to the High Court and then the House of Lords and the European Court of Human sodding Rights. You can spend the rest of your life appealing. It obviously helps pass the time when you’re banged up for life.”

I press the “end call” button and turn off the phone.

Leaving the car park, I descend the stairs and emerge on street level. I dump my old clothes and shoes in a trash can, along with the travel bag and the soggy scraps of paper from my hotel room. As I head along the street, I swing my cane in what I hope is a jaunty, cheerful way. The shoppers are out and every store is bedecked with tinsel and playing Christmas carols. It makes me feel homesick. Charlie loves that sort of stuff— the department store Santas, window displays and watching old Bing Crosby movies set in Vermont.

As I’m about to cross the road, I spot a poster on the side of a newspaper van: MANHUNT FOR CATHERINE’S KILLER. My face is underneath, pinned beneath the plastic ties. Instantly I feel like I’m wearing a huge neon sign on my head with the arrow pointing downward.

The Adelphi Hotel is ahead of me. I push through the revolving door and cross the foyer, fighting the urge to quicken my stride. I tell myself not to walk too quickly or hunch over. Head up. Eyes straight ahead.

It’s a grand old railway hotel, dating back to a time when steam trains arrived from London and steamships left for New York. Now it looks as tired as some of the waitresses, who should be at home putting curlers in their hair.

The business center is on the first floor. The secretary is a skinny thing called Nancy, with permed red hair and a red cravat around her neck that matches her lipstick. She doesn’t ask for a business card or check if I have a room number.

“If you have any questions, just ask,” she says, keen to help.

“I’ll be fine. I just need to check my e-mails.” I sit at a computer terminal and turn my back to her.

“Actually, Nancy, you could do something for me. Can you find out if there are any flights to Dublin this afternoon?”

A few minutes later she rattles off a list. I choose the late-afternoon shuttle and I give her my debit card details.

“Can you also see about getting me to Edinburgh?” I ask.

She raises an eyebrow.

“You know what head offices are like,” I explain. “They can never make a decision.”

She nods and smiles.

“And see if there’s a sleeper available on the Isle of Man ferry.”

“The tickets are nonrefundable.”

“That’s OK.”

In the meantime, I search for the e-mail addresses of all the major newspapers and gather the names of news editors, chief reporters and police roundsman. I start typing an e-mail using my right hand, pressing one key at a time. I tuck my left hand under my thigh to stop it trembling.

I start with proof of my identity— giving my name, address, National Insurance number and employment details. They can’t think this is a hoax. They have to believe that I am Joseph O’Loughlin— the man who killed Catherine McBride and Elisa Velasco.

It is just after 4:00 p.m. Editors are deciding the running order for stories in the first edition. I need to change tomorrow’s headlines. I need to knock Bobby off his stride— to keep him guessing.

Up until now he’s always been two, three, four steps ahead of me. His acts of revenge have been brilliantly conceived and clinically executed. He didn’t simply apportion blame. He turned it into an art form. But for all his genius, he is capable of making a mistake. Nobody is infallible. He kicked a woman unconscious because she reminded him of his mother.

To whom it may concern:

This is my confession and testament. I, Joseph William O’Loughlin, do solemnly, sincerely and truly affirm that I am the man responsible for the murder of Catherine McBride and Elisa Velasco. I apologize to those who grieve at their loss. And for those of you who thought better of me, I am genuinely sorry.

I intend to give myself up to the police within the next 24 hours. At that point I will not seek to hide behind lawyers or to excuse the suffering I have caused. I will not claim there were voices inside my head. I wasn’t high on drugs or taking instructions from Satan. I could have stopped this. Innocent people have died. My every hour is long with guilt.

I list the names, starting with Catherine McBride. I put down everything I know about her murder. Boyd Cossimo is next. I describe Rupert Erskine’s last days; Sonia Dutton’s overdose; the fire that killed Esther Gorski and crippled her husband. Elisa comes last.

I do not plead any kind of mitigation. Some of you may wish to know more about my crimes. If so, you must walk in my shoes, or find someone who has done so. There is such a person. His name is Bobby Moran (aka Bobby Morgan) and he will appear at the Central Criminal Court in London tomorrow morning. He, more than anyone, understands what it means to be both victim and perpetrator.

Sincerely yours,

Joseph O’Loughlin

I have thought of everything, except what this will mean to Charlie. Bobby was a victim of a decision made beyond his control. I’m doing the same thing to my daughter. My finger hovers over the send button. I have no choice.

The e-mail disappears into the labyrinth of the electronic post office.

Nancy thinks I’m mad, but has made my travel arrangements, booking flights to Dublin, Edinburgh, London, Paris and Frankfurt. In addition there are first-class seats on trains to Birmingham, Newcastle, Glasgow, London, Swansea and Leeds. She has also managed to hire me a white Vauxhall Cavalier, which is waiting downstairs.

Everything has been paid for with a debit card that doesn’t require authorization from a bank. The card is linked to a trust account set up by my father. Inheritance tax is another of his pet hates. I’m assuming Ruiz will have frozen all my accounts, but he can’t touch this one.

The lift doors open and I set out across the foyer, staring straight ahead. I bump into a potted palm and realize that I’m drifting sideways. Walking has become a constant assortment of adjustments and corrections, like landing a plane.

The rental car is parked outside. As I walk down the front steps of the hotel I keep expecting to feel a hand on my shoulder or to hear a shout of recognition or alarm. My fingers fumble with the keys. Black cabs are queued in front of me but one of them eases out of my way. I follow the stream of traffic, glancing in the mirrors and trying to remember the quickest way out of the city.

Stopped at a red light, I look beyond the stream of pedestrians at the multistory car park. Three police cars are blocking the entry ramp and another is on the pavement. Ruiz is leaning against an open car door, talking on the radio. He has a face like thunder.

As the lights change to green, I imagine Ruiz looking up and me saluting him like a World War I flying ace in a crippled plane, living to fight another day.

One of my favorite songs is on the radio— “Jumping Jack Flash.” At university I played bass guitar for a band called the Screaming Dick Nixons. We weren’t as good as the Rolling Stones, but we were louder. I knew nothing about playing the bass guitar, but it was the easiest instrument to fake. Mostly my ambition was to get laid, but that only ever happened to our lead singer, Morris Whiteside, who had long hair and a crucifixion scene tattooed on his torso. He’s now a senior accountant working for Deutsche Bank.

I head west toward Toxteth, and park the Cavalier in a vacant lot, among the cinders and weeds. A handful of teenagers watch me from the shadows beside a boarded-up community hall. I’m driving the sort of ancy car they normally only see on bricks.

I phone home. Julianne answers. Her voice sounds close, crystal clear, but already starting to shake. “Thank God! Where have you been? Reporters keep ringing the doorbell. They say you’re dangerous. They say the police are going to shoot you.”

I try to steer the conversation away from firearms. “I know who did this. Bobby is trying to punish me for something that happened a long time ago. It isn’t just me. He has a list of names…”

“What list?”

“Boyd is dead.”

“How?”

“He was murdered. So was Erskine.”

“My God!”

“Are the police still watching the house?”

“I don’t know. There was someone in a white van yesterday. At first I thought D.J. had come to finish the central heating, but he’s not due until tomorrow.”

I can hear Charlie singing in the background. A rush of tenderness catches in my throat.

The police will be trying to trace this call. With mobile phones, they have to work backward, identifying which towers are relaying the signals. There are probably half a dozen transmitters between Liverpool and London. As each one is ticked off, the search area narrows down.

“I want you to stay on the line, Julianne. If I don’t come back, just leave the line open. It’s important.” I slide the phone under the driver’s seat. The car keys are still in the ignition. I close the car door and walk away, head down, retreating into the darkness, wondering if Bobby is watching me still.

Twenty minutes later, on a railway platform that looks abandoned and burned out, I step gratefully onto a suburban train. The carriages are almost empty.

Ruiz will know about the ferry, train and airline bookings by now. He’ll realize I’m trying to stretch his resources, but he will have to check them anyway.

The express to London leaves from Lime Street Station. The police will search each carriage, but I’m hoping they won’t stay on the train. Edgehill is one stop farther, which is where I board a train to Manchester just after 10:30 p.m. After midnight I catch another, this one bound for York. I have a three-hour wait until the Great North Eastern Express leaves for London, sitting in a poorly lit ticket hall, watching the cleaners compete to do the least work.

I pay for the tickets with cash and choose the busiest carriage. Staggering drunkenly along the aisles, I topple into people and mumble apologies.

Only children stare at drunks. Adults avoid eye contact, hoping that I keep moving and choose somewhere else to sit. When I fall asleep leaning against a window the entire carriage lets out a silent collective sigh.