The Suspect

7

The train journeys of my youth were to and from boarding school, when I’d gorge myself on bags of sweets and chewing gum, which weren’t allowed at Charterhouse.

Sometimes I think Semtex would have been more acceptable than bubblegum. One of the seniors, Peter Clavell, swallowed so much that it clogged his intestines and doctors had to remove the blockage through his rectum. Not surprisingly, gum wasn’t so popular after that.

My father’s back-to-school pep talk normally boiled down to a seven-word warning: “Don’t let me hear from the headmaster.” When Charlie started school I promised that I’d be a different sort of parent. I sat her down and gave her a talk best saved for secondary school, or perhaps even university. Julianne kept giggling, which set Charlie off.

“Don’t be scared of math,” I finished up saying.

“Why?”

“Because a lot of girls are scared of numbers. They talk themselves out of being good at things.”

“OK,” Charlie replied, having absolutely no idea what I was talking about.

I wonder if I’m going to get to see her start secondary school. For weeks I’ve been worried about this disease denying me things. Now it pales into insignificance, when set alongside murder.

As the train pulls into King’s Cross I walk slowly through the carriages, studying the platform for any sign of the police. I fall in step with an elderly woman pulling a large suitcase. As we reach the barrier I offer to help her and she nods gratefully. At the ticket booth, I turn to her. “Where’s your ticket, Mum?”

She doesn’t bat an eyelid as she hands it to me. I give both tickets to the guard and give him a weary smile.

“Don’t you hate these early starts?” he says.

“I’ll never get used to them,” I reply, as he hands me the stubs.

Weaving my way through the crowded concourse, I pause at the entrance to WH Smith where the morning papers are stacked side by side. SHRINK CONFESSES— “I KILLED CATHERINE” screams the headline in The Sun.

The broadsheets are reporting rising interest rates and a threatened strike by postal workers. Catherine’s story— my story— is beneath the fold. People reach past me and pick up copies. Nobody makes eye contact. This is London, a city where people walk bolt upright with fixed expressions as though ready to face anything and avoid everything. They have somewhere else to be. Don’t interrupt. Just keep moving.

Finding a rhythm to my stride, I weave my way through Covent Garden, past the restaurants and expensive boutiques. Reaching the Strand, I turn left and follow Fleet Street until the gothic façade of the Old Bailey comes into view.

A courthouse has stood on this site for nearly five hundred years and even before that, in medieval times, they held public executions here every Monday morning.

I take up a position across the road, tucked against a wall in an alley that runs down toward the Thames. There are brass plates on nearly every doorway. I glance occasionally at my watch, to give the impression of waiting for someone. Men and women in black suits and gowns glide past me, clutching box files and bundles of paper tied with ribbon.

At half past nine the first of the news crews arrives— a cameraman and sound recordist. Others join them. Some of the stills photographers carry stepladders and milk crates. The reporters stick together in the background— sipping takeout coffee, swapping gossip and misinformation.

Shortly before ten, I notice a cab pull up on my side of the road. Eddie Barrett gets out first, looking like Danny DeVito with hair. Bobby is behind him, at least two heads taller but still having somehow managed to find a suit that looks too big for him.

Both are less than fifteen feet away from me. I lower my head and blow into my hands. Bobby’s overcoat pockets are bulging with paper and his eyes are watery blue. The warmth of the cab meets the coldness of the air and fogs up his glasses. He pauses to wipe them clean. His hands are steady. The reporters have spotted Eddie and are waiting for him, with cameras poised and TV lights at the ready.

I see Bobby lower his head. He is too tall to hide his face. Reporters are firing questions at him. Eddie Barrett puts his hand on Bobby’s arm. Bobby pulls away as though scalded. A TV camera is right in his face. Flashguns flare. He wasn’t expecting this. He doesn’t have a plan.

Barrett is trying to hustle him up the stone steps and through the arches. Photographers are jostling each other and one of them suddenly tumbles backward. Bobby is standing over him, his fist raised. Bystanders grab at his shoulders and Eddie swings his briefcase like a scythe, clearing a path in front of them. The last thing I see as the doors close is Bobby’s head above the throng.

I allow myself a fleeting smile, but nothing more. I can’t afford to get my hopes up. Nearby, a gift shop window is crammed with marshmallow Santas and Christmas crackers in red and green. There are reindeer clocks with noses that glow in the dark. I use the reflection in the glass to watch the courthouse steps.

I can picture the scene inside. The press bench will be packed and the public gallery standing room only. Eddie loves working a crowd. He will ask for an adjournment due to my unprofessional conduct and claim his client has been denied natural justice because of my malicious allegations. A new psych report will have to be commissioned, which could take weeks. Blah, blah, blah…

There is always a chance the judge might say no and sentence Bobby immediately. More likely, he will grant the adjournment and Bobby will walk free— even more dangerous than before.

Rocking back and forth on my heels, I have to remind myself of the rules. Avoid standing with my feet too close together. Consciously lift feet to avoid shuffling and foot drag. Don’t instinctively pivot. My favorite suggestion for breaking a “frozen pose” is to step over an imaginary obstacle in front of me. I have visions of looking like Marcel Marceau.

I walk to the end of the block, turn and come back again, never taking my eye off the photographers still milling outside the court entrance. Suddenly, they surge forward, cameras raised. Eddie must have had a car waiting. Bobby comes out in a half crouch, pushing through the melee and falling into the backseat. The car door closes as the flashguns continue firing.

I should have seen this coming. I should have been prepared. Limping onto the road, I wave both arms and a walking stick at a black cab. It swerves out of my way and swings past, forcing a line of traffic to brake hard. A second cab has an orange beacon. The driver either stops or runs me over.

He doesn’t bat an eyelid when I tell him to follow that car. Maybe cabdrivers hear that all the time.

The silver sedan carrying Bobby is ahead of us, sandwiched between two buses and a line of cars. My driver manages to nudge into gaps and dodge between lanes, never losing touch. At the same time I notice him sneaking glances at me in the rearview mirror. He looks away quickly when our eyes meet. He is young, perhaps in his early twenties, with rust-colored hair and freckles on the back of his neck. His hands uncurl and flutter on the steering wheel.

“You know who I am.”

He nods.

“I’m not dangerous.”

He looks into my eyes, trying to find some reassurance. My face can’t give him any. My Parkinson’s mask is like cold chiseled stone.