Suspect (36 page)

I walk from room to room, looking for evidence of forced entry. The front door was locked from the outside. He must have taken a set of keys.

On the kitchen bench is a mug with a spoon ful of coffee granules coagulated like dark toffee in the base. The kettle is lying on its side and one of the dining chairs has toppled over. A kitchen drawer is open. It contains neatly folded tea towels, a smal toolbox, light fuses and a rol of black trash liners. The kitchen trash can is empty, with a fresh bag inside.

Elisa’s coat is hanging on the edge of the door. Her car keys are on the table, next to her purse, two unopened letters and her mobile phone. The battery is dead. Where is her scarf?

Retracing my steps, I find the scarf on the floor behind the chair. A single knot is pul ed tight in the center, forming a silken garrotte.

Elisa is far too careful to open the door to a stranger. Either she knew her kil er or he was already inside. Where? How? The patio doors are made of reinforced glass and lead to a smal brick courtyard. A sensor triggers the security lights.

The downstairs office is cluttered but tidy. Nothing obvious appears to have been taken, such as the DVD player or Elisa’s laptop.

Upstairs in the second bedroom I check the windows again. Elisa’s clothes are hanging undisturbed on racks. Her jewelry box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, is in the bottom drawer of the vanity. Anyone looking would have found it soon enough.

In the bathroom the toilet seat is down. The bathmat is hanging on a drying rail, over a large blue towel. A new tube of toothpaste sits in a souvenir mug from the House of Commons. I stand on the lever of the pedal wastebasket and the lid swings open. Empty.

I’m about to move on when I notice a dusting of dark powder on the white tiles beneath the sink. I run my finger over the surface, col ecting a fine gray residue, which smel s of roses and lavender.

Elisa had a painted ceramic bowl of potpourri on the windowsil . Perhaps she accidental y broke it. She would have swept up the debris in a dustpan and emptied it into the wastebasket. Then she might have emptied the wastebasket downstairs, but there’s nothing in the kitchen trash can.

Looking closely at the window, I see splinters of bare wood at the edges where paint chips have been lost. The window had been painted shut and forced open. Levering my fingers under the base, I manage to do the same, gritting my teeth as the swol en wood screeches inside the frame.

Peering outside, I see the sewage pipes running down the outside wal and the flat roof of the laundry ten feet below. Wisteria has grown over the brick wal on the right side of the courtyard, making it easy to climb. The pipes would give someone a foothold to reach the window.

Projecting the scene against my closed lids, I see someone standing on the pipes, jimmying the window. He hasn’t come to steal or vandalize. He knocks over the potpourri as he squeezes through the opening and then has to clean up. He doesn’t want it to look like a break-in. Then he waits.

The cupboard beneath the stairs has a sliding bolt. It’s a storeroom for mops and brooms— big enough for someone to hide in, crouched down, staring through the gap where the hinges join the door.

Elisa arrives home. She picks up her mail from the floor and carries on to the kitchen. She drapes her coat over the door and tosses her things on the table. Then she fil s the kettle and spoons coffee into a mug. One mug. He attacks her from behind— wrapping the scarf around her neck, making sure the knot compresses her windpipe. When she loses consciousness he drags her into the living room, leaving faint tracks against the grain of the rug.

He tapes her hands and feet, careful y cutting the tape and col ecting any scraps that fal on the floor. Then he puts the plastic trash liner over her head. At some point she regains consciousness and sees only darkness. By then she is dying.

A jolt of rage forces my eyes open. I see my reflection in the bathroom mirror— a despairing face ful of confusion and fear. Dropping to my knees, I vomit into the toilet, bashing my chin against the seat. Then I stumble out the door and into the main bedroom. The curtains are closed and the bedclothes are crumpled and unkempt. My eyes are drawn to a wastebasket.

Half a dozen crumpled white tissues lie inside it. Memories swim to the surface— Elisa’s weight on my thighs; our bodies together; brushing her cervix each time I moved.

Suddenly, I scrabble in the wastebasket col ecting tissues. My eyes are drawn around the room. Did I touch that lamp? What about the toothbrush or the door, the windowsil , the banister… ?

This is madness. I can’t sterilize a crime scene. There wil be traces of me al over this house. She brushed my hair. I slept in her bed. I used her bathroom. I drank wine from a wineglass, coffee from a coffee mug. I touched light switches, CD cases, dining chairs. We screwed on her sofa for God’s sake!

The phone rings. My heart almost leaps out of my chest. I can’t risk answering it. Nobody can know I’m here. I wait, listening to the ring and half expecting Elisa to suddenly stir and say,

“Can someone please get that? It could be important.”

The noise stops. I breathe again. What am I going to do? Cal the police? No! I have to get out. At the same time, I can’t leave her here. I have to tel someone.

My mobile starts to ring. I fumble through my jacket pockets and need both hands to hold it steady. I don’t recognize the number.

“Is that Professor Joseph O’Loughlin?”

“Who wants to know?”

“This is the Metropolitan Police. Someone has cal ed us about an intruder at an address in Ladbroke Grove. The informant gave this mobile as a contact number. Is that correct?” My throat closes and I can hardly get the vowels out. I mumble something about being nowhere near that address.
No, no, that’s not good enough!

“I’m sorry. I can’t hear you,” I mumble. “You’l have to cal back.” I turn off the phone and stare at the blank screen in horror. I can’t hear myself thinking over the roar in my head. The volume has been steadily building, until now it rattles inside my skul like a freight train entering a tunnel.

I have to get out. Run! Taking the stairs two at a time, I trip toward the bottom and fal . Run! Scooping up Elisa’s car keys I think only of fresh air, a place far away and the mercy of sleep.

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 pul into a muddy farm road and fal asleep. Images of Elisa sweep into my head like the headlights that periodical y brush across hedgerows. I see her blue lips and her bloody wrists; eyes that fol ow me stil .

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 kil 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 ful of grit and my body stiff with cold. I fumble for the handle and rol 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 fal ing 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 ful blast and cal 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 al 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 yel 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 kil ed her. The police are going to think I did it.”

“Why?”

“I found her body. My fingerprints and God knows what else are al 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. Tel them what happened.”

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

“Wel , talk to Simon. Please, Joe.”

Tearful y, 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 fol ow him along the hal way 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 ral y. 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 wil 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 al 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 fil s 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 Cornwal . 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 wil be fine.”

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

He fol ows 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 tel me that none of this would have happened if I’d become a doctor.

He sits at the table, watching me eat, occasional y 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, occasional y 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 fel owships.

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.”