The Suspect

Epilogue

The nightmares of my recent past still see me running— escaping the same monsters and rabid dogs and Neanderthal second-row forward— but now they seem more real. Jock says it is a side effect of the levodopa, my new medication.

The dosage has halved in the past two months. He says I must be under less stress. What a comedian!

He phones me every day and asks if I fancy a game of tennis. I tell him no and he tells me a joke. “What’s the difference between a nine-month pregnant woman and a Playboy centerfold?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nothing, if her husband knows what’s good for him.”

This is one of the cleaner ones and I risk telling Julianne. She laughs, but not as loudly as I do.

We’re living in Jock’s flat while we decide whether to rebuild or buy a new place. This is Jock’s way of trying to make amends, but he hasn’t been forgiven. In the meantime, he’s moved in with a new girlfriend, Kelly, who hopes to be the next Mrs. Jock Owen. She will need a harpoon gun or a cast-iron prenup to get him anywhere near an altar.

Julianne has thrown away all his gadgets and the out-of-date frozen meals in the freezer. Then she went out and bought fresh sheets for the beds and new towels.

Her morning sickness is over, thankfully, and her body is getting bigger each day (everything except her bladder). She is convinced we’re having a boy, because only a man could cause her so much grief. She always looks at me when she says this. Then she laughs, but not as loudly as I do.

I know she’s watching me closely. We watch each other. Maybe it’s the disease she’s looking for or perhaps she doesn’t trust me entirely. We had an argument yesterday— our first since nursing things back together. We’re going up to Wales for a week and she complained that I always leave my packing until the last possible minute.

“I never forget anything.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“You should do it earlier. It’s less stressful.”

“For who?”

“For you.”

“But I’m not the one who is getting stressed.”

After tiptoeing around her for five months, grateful for her forgiveness, I decided to draw a gentle line in the sand. I asked her, “Why do women fall in love with men and then try to change them?”

“Because men need help,” she replied, as if this were common knowledge.

“But if I become the man you want, I won’t be the man I am.”

She rolled her eyes and said nothing, but since then she’s been less prickly. This morning she came and sat on my lap, putting her arms around my neck and kissing me with the sort of passion that marriage is supposed to kill. Charlie said “Yuck!” and hid her eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“You guys are French kissing.”

“What do you know about French kissing?”

“It’s when you slobber over each other.”

I rubbed my hand across Julianne’s stomach and whispered, “I want our children never to grow up.”

Our architect has arranged to meet me at the hole in the ground. The only thing left standing is the staircase, which goes nowhere. The force of the blast sent the concrete floor of the kitchen through the roof and blew the boiler into a yard two streets over. The shock wave shattered almost every window on the block and three houses have had to be demolished.

Charlie says she saw someone at a first-floor window just before the blast. Anyone on that floor would have been vaporized, say the experts, which might explain why they didn’t find so much as a fingernail or a fiber or a stray tooth. Then again, I keep asking myself, why would D.J. stick around once the gas had been turned on and the timer set to fire the boiler? He had plenty of time to get out, unless he planned this as a final act in every sense of the word.

Charlie doesn’t understand that he could have done these things. She asked me the other day if I thought he was in heaven. I felt like saying, “I just hope he’s dead.”

His bank accounts haven’t been touched in two months and nobody has seen him. There is no record of him leaving the country, applying for a job, renting a room, buying a car or cashing a check.

Ruiz has pieced together the early facts. D.J. was born in Blackpool. His mother, a sewing machinist, married Lenny in the late sixties. She died in a car accident when D.J. was seven. His grandparents (her parents) raised him until Lenny remarried. Then he fell under Bridget’s spell.

I suspect that he experienced everything Bobby did, although no two children react the same way to sexual abuse or to sadism. Lenny was the most important figure in both their lives and his death lay at the heart of everything.

D.J. finished his apprenticeship in Liverpool, becoming a master plumber. He joined a local firm where people remember him more with apprehension than fondness. He smiled a lot, but there was nothing endearing or infectious about him. At a bar one night he drove a broken bottle into a woman’s face because she didn’t laugh at the punch line of his joke.

He disappeared in the late eighties and reappeared in Thailand running a bar and a brothel. Two teenage junkies who tried to smuggle a kilo of heroin out of Bangkok, told police they had met their supplier in D.J.’s bar, but he skipped the country before anyone could link him to the bust.

He turned up in Australia, working his way down the east coast on building sites. In Melbourne he befriended an Anglican minister and became the manager of a homeless shelter. For a while he seemed to have mended his ways. No more sucker punches, broken noses or snapping ribs with his boots.

Appearances can be deceptive. The Victorian police are now investigating the disappearance of six people from the hostel over a four-year period. Many of their welfare checks were still being cashed up until eighteen months ago when D.J. appeared in the U.K. again.

I don’t know how he found Bobby, but it can’t have been too hard. Given the difference in their ages when D.J. left home, they must have been virtually strangers. Yet they discovered a shared desire.

Bobby’s fantasies of revenge were just that— fantasies— but D.J. had the experience and the lack of empathy to make them come true. One was the architect, the other the builder. Bobby had the creative vision. D.J. had the tools. The end result was a psychopath with a plan.

Many of the pieces have fallen into place as the weeks have passed. Bobby learned about our plumbing problems from my mother. She is notorious for boring people with stories of her children and grandchildren. She even showed him the photo albums and the building plans we submitted to council for the renovations.

D.J. dropped leaflets through every mailbox on the street. Each small job provided another reference and helped convince Julianne to hire him. Once inside, it was easy, although he almost came unstuck when Julianne caught him in my study one afternoon. That’s when he made up the story of disturbing an intruder and chasing him out. He’d gone into the study to check to see if anything had been taken.

Bobby goes on trial at the end of next month. He hasn’t entered a plea, but they expect it to be “not guilty.” The case, though strong, is circumstantial. None of the physical evidence puts a murder weapon in his hand— not for Catherine or Elisa or Boyd or Erskine or Sonia Dutton or Esther Gorski.

Ruiz says it will be over after that, but he’s wrong. This case will never be closed. People tried to shut this away years ago and look what happened. Ignore our mistakes and we are doomed to repeat them. Don’t stop thinking of the white bear.

The events leading up to Christmas have almost become a surreal blur. Rarely do we talk about it, but I know from experience that it will come out one day. Sometimes late at night I hear a car door slam or heavy steps on the footpath and my mind won’t be still. I have feelings of sadness, depression, frustration and anxiety. I am easily startled. I imagine people are watching me from doorways and parked cars. I can’t see a white van without trying to make out the driver’s face.

These are all common reactions to shock and trauma. Maybe it’s good that I know these things, but I would prefer to stop analyzing myself.

I still have my disease, of course. I am part of a study being conducted at one of the research hospitals. Fenwick put me onto it. Once a month I drive to the hospital, clip a card to my shirt pocket and flip through the pages of Country Life while waiting my turn.

The head technician always offers me a cheery, “How are you today?”

“Well, since you ask, I have Parkinson’s disease.”

He smiles wearily, gives me an injection and runs a few tests on my coordination, using video cameras to measure the degree and frequency of my tremors.

I know it will get worse. But what the hell! I’m lucky. A lot of people have Parkinson’s. Not all of them have a beautiful wife, a loving daughter and a new baby to look forward to.