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’ll send you to jail. You can practice some of your skills firsthand when you’re two up in a cell 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 still haven’t moved. He’s just threatened me with withholding information. If I tell him about Catherine’s letter he’ll 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 telling him about the letter I begin explaining why I didn’t tell 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 call to Liverpool he’s talking on his mobile. That’s when I realize that he already knows about the call! 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 all 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 fill 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 rolling down a hill. 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 pulls 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
“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 small 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
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
