Suspect (10 page)

“How do you misunderstand something like that?”

I tel him how Catherine had confused my professional concern for something more intimate— about the kiss and her embarrassment. Her anger.

“You turned her down?”

“Yes.”

“So she made the complaint?”

“Yes. I didn’t even know until after it had been withdrawn, but there stil had to be an inquiry. I was suspended while the hospital board investigated. Other patients were interviewed.”

“Al because of one letter?”

“Yes.”

“Did you talk to Catherine?”

“No. She avoided me. I didn’t see her again until just before she left the Marsden. She apologized. She had a new boyfriend and they were going up north.”

“You weren’t angry with her?”

“I was bloody furious. She could have cost me my career.” Realizing how harsh that sounds, I add, “She was very fragile emotional y.” Ruiz opens the page of a notebook and begins writing something down.

“Don’t make too much of it.”

“It’s just information, Professor. Just like you I col ect pieces of information until two or three of them fit together.” Turning the pages of his notebook, he smiles at me gently.

“It’s amazing what you can find out these days. Married. One child. No religious affiliation. Educated at Charterhouse and London University. BA and MA in psychology. Taken into custody in August 1980 for projecting the image of a swastika on South Africa House during a Free Mandela demonstration in Trafalgar Square. Twice caught speeding on the M40; one outstanding parking ticket; denied a Syrian visa in 1987 because of a previous visit to Israel. Father a wel -known doctor. Three sisters. One works for the United Nations refugee program. Your wife’s father committed suicide in 1994. You have private medical insurance, an overdraft facility of £10,000 and you’re car tax is due for renewal on Wednesday.” He looks up. “I haven’t bothered with your tax returns, but I’d say you went into private practice because that house of yours must cost a bloody fortune.” He’s getting to the point now. This whole spiel is a message to me. He wants to show me what he’s capable of.

His voice grows quiet. “If I find that you’ve withheld information from my murder inquiry I’l send you to jail. You can practice some of your skil s firsthand when you’re two up in a cel with an inmate who wants you to give it up for Jesus.”

He closes the notebook and slips it into his pocket. Blowing on his cupped hands, he adds, “Thank you for your patience, Professor.” Ruiz is twenty yards away from me and I stil haven’t moved. He’s just threatened me with withholding information. If I tel him about Catherine’s letter he’l think I’ve been purposely holding it back. Why do I always do this— try to rationalize every element of a problem before letting it go?

Why, after so long, would Catherine write to me? Who mailed the letter? Why would she make a wild declaration of love, unprompted, pouring out her feelings, risking the pain of a rebuff?

That’s what Catherine did when she was hurting— she reopened old wounds. Maybe this was a manifestation of self-harm. Instead of using a razor blade she used words to open herself up. I can imagine her doing this. I can even picture her, sitting alone, writing quickly as if in danger of missing the moment. “Sorry if I’ve caused you grief,” is the phrase she used in her letter. She had no idea.

Ruiz is fifty yards away, a moving silhouette against the metal railing fence. I catch up with him before he reaches York Gate. He turns at the sound of his name. Instead of tel ing him about the letter I begin explaining why I didn’t tel him sooner. It’s like getting snagged in a whirlpool current and being dragged into the center.

“Where is this letter now?” he asks without rancor.

“At home in my desk.”

He doesn’t ask how I know it’s from Catherine. When I reach the bit about the phone number and the cal to Liverpool he’s talking on his mobile. That’s when I realize that he already knows about the cal ! It’s the only explanation. Either my phone, or more likely Catherine’s, is being bugged.

My heart gives a random thump, as though suddenly changing to a different rhythm. That’s why he turned up today. He’s known al along.

9

Another Monday afternoon and Bobby is late again. Meena gives him the curt, cold treatment. She wanted to go home early.

“I would hate to be married to your secretary,” he says, before checking himself. “She’s not your wife is she?”

“No.”

I motion for him to sit down. His buttocks spread out to fil the chair. Tugging at the cuffs of his coat, he seems distracted and anxious.

“How have you been?”

“No thanks, I’ve just had one.”

I pause to see if he realizes that his answer makes no sense. He doesn’t react.

“Do you know what I just asked you, Bobby?”

“Whether I want a tea or coffee.”

“No.”

A brief flicker of doubt crosses his face. “But you were going to ask me about the tea or coffee next.”

“So you were reading my mind?”

He smiles nervously and shakes his head.

“Do you believe in God?” he asks.

“Do you?”

“I used to.”

“What happened?”

“I couldn’t find him. He’s supposed to be everywhere. I mean, he’s not supposed to be playing hide-and-seek.” He glances at his reflection in the darkened window.

“What sort of God would you like, Bobby— a vengeful God or a forgiving one?”

“A vengeful God.”

“Why?”

“People should pay for their sins. They shouldn’t suddenly get forgiven because they plead they’re sorry or repent on their deathbed. When we do wrong we should be punished.” The last statement rattles in the air like a copper penny dropped on a table.

“What are you sorry for, Bobby?”

“Nothing.” He answers too quickly. Everything about his body language is screaming denial.

“How does it feel when you lose your temper?”

“Like my brain is boiling.”

“When was the last time you felt like this?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Who made you angry?”

“Nobody.”

Asking him direct questions is pointless, because he simply blocks them. Instead I take him back to an earlier point and let him build up momentum like a boulder rol ing down a hil . I know the day— November 11. He missed his appointment that afternoon.

I ask him what time he woke. What did he have for breakfast? When did he leave home?

Slowly I move him closer to the point where he lost control. He had taken the Tube to the West End and visited a jeweler in Hatton Garden. He and Arky are getting married in the spring.

Bobby had arranged to pick up their wedding rings. He argued with the jeweler and stormed out. It was raining. He was running late. He stood in Holborn Circus trying to hail a cab.

Having got this far, Bobby pul s away again and changes the subject.

“Who do you think would win a fight between a tiger and a lion?” he asks in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Why?”

“I’d like to know your opinion.”

“Tigers and lions don’t fight each other. They live in different parts of the world.”

“Yes, but if they
did
fight each other, who would win?”

“The question is pointless. Inane.”

“Isn’t that what psychologists do— ask pointless questions?”

His entire demeanor has changed in the space of a single question. Suddenly cocky and aggressive, he jabs his finger at me.

“You ask people what they’d do in hypothetical situations. Why don’t you try me? Go on. ‘What would I do if I was the first person to discover a smal fire in a movie theater?’ Isn’t that the sort of question you ask? Would I put the fire out? Or go for the manager? Or evacuate the building? I know what you people do. You take a harmless answer and you try to make a sane person seem crazy.”

“Is that what you think?”

“That’s what I
know
.”

He’s talking about a Mental Status Examination. Clearly, Bobby has been evaluated before, yet there’s no mention of it in his medical history. Each time I put pressure on him, he reacts with hostility. It’s time to crank it up a notch.

“Let me tel you what I
know
, Bobby. Something happened that day. You were pissed off. You were having a bad day. Was it the jeweler? What did he do?” My voice is sharp and unforgiving. Bobby flinches. His hackles rise.

“He’s a lying bastard! He got the engraving wrong on the wedding bands. He misspel ed Arky’s name, but he said it was my mistake. He said I gave him the wrong spel ing. The bastard wanted to charge me extra.”

“What did you do?”

“I smashed the glass on his counter.”

“How?”

“With my fist.”

He holds up his hand to show me. Faint yel ow-and-purple bruising discolors the underside.

“What happened then?”

He shrugs and shakes his head. That can’t be al . There has to be something more. He talked of punishing “her”— a woman. It must have happened after he left the shop. He was on the street, angry, his brain boiling.

“Where did you first see her?”

He blinks at me rapidly. “Coming out of a music store.”

“What were you doing?”

“Queuing for a taxi. It was raining. She took my cab.”

“What did she look like?”

“I don’t remember her.”

“How old was she?”

“I don’t know.”

“You say that she
took
your cab— did you say anything to her?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What did you do?”

He flinches.

“Was she with anyone else?”

He glances at me and hesitates. “What do you mean?”

“Who was she with?”

“A boy.”

“How old was he?”

“Maybe five or six.”

“Where was the boy?”

“She was dragging him by the hand. He was screaming. I mean, real y screaming. She was trying to ignore him. He dropped like a dead weight and she had to drag him along. And this kid just kept screaming. And I started wondering, why isn’t she talking to him? How can she let him scream? He’s in pain or he’s frightened. Nobody else was doing anything. It made me angry. How could they just stand there?”

“Who were you angry at?”

“Al of them. I was angry at their indifference. I was angry at this woman’s neglect. I was angry with myself for hating the little boy. I just wanted him to stop screaming…”

“So what did you do?”

His voice drops to a whisper. “I wanted her to make him stop. I wanted her to listen to him.” He stops himself.

“Did you say anything to her?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“The door of the cab was open. She pushed him inside. The kid was thrashing his legs. She gets in after him and turns back to get the door. Her face is like a mask… blank… you know.

She swings her arm back and bang! She elbows him right in the face. He crumples backward…”

Bobby pauses and then seems about to continue. He stops himself. The silence grows. I let it fil his head— working its way into the corners.

“I dragged her out of the cab. I had hold of her hair. I drove her face into the side window. She fel down and tried to rol away, but I kept kicking her.”

“Did you think you were punishing her?”

“Yes.”

“Did she deserve it?”

“Yes!”

He’s staring directly at me— his face as white as wax. At that moment I have an image of a child in a lonely corner of a playground, overweight, freakishly tal , the owner of nicknames like Jel yass and Lardbucket; a child for whom the world is a vast and empty place. A child seeking to be invisible, but who is condemned to stand out.

“I found a dead bird today,” Bobby says, absentmindedly. “Its neck was broken. Maybe it was hit by a car.”

“It’s possible.”

“I moved it off the path. Its body was stil warm. Do you ever think about dying?”

“I think everyone does.”

“Some people deserve to die.”

“And who should be the judge of that?”

He laughs bitterly. “Not people like you.”

The session overruns but Meena has already gone home to her cats. Most of the nearby offices are locked up and in darkness. Cleaners are moving through the corridors, emptying wastebaskets and chipping paint off the baseboards with their carts.

Bobby has also gone. Even so, when I stare at the darkened square of the window, I can picture his face, soaked in sweat and spotted with the blood of that poor woman.

I should have seen this coming. He is
my
patient,
my
responsibility. I know I can’t hold his hand and make him come to see me, but that’s no consolation.

Bobby was close to crying when he described being charged, but he felt more sorry for himself than for the woman he attacked.

I struggle to care about some of my patients. They spend ninety quid and gaze at their navels or whine about things they should be tel ing their partners instead of me. Bobby is different. I don’t know why.

At times he seems total y incapacitated by awkwardness, yet he can startle me with his confidence and intel ect. He laughs at the wrong places, explodes unexpectedly and has eyes as pale and cold as blue glass.