“The red dress.”
“Perhaps.”
“Could he have known her?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Motivation?”
“Revenge. Control. Sexual gratification.”
“I take my pick?”
“No, it’s all three.”
Ruiz stiffens slightly. Clearing his throat he takes out his marbled notebook.
“So who am I looking for?”
“Someone in his thirties or forties. He lives alone, somewhere private, but surrounded by people who come and go— a boarding house perhaps or a trailer park.
“He may have a wife or a girlfriend. He is of above average intelligence. He is physically strong, but mentally even stronger. He hasn’t been consumed by sexual desire or anger to the point of losing control. He can keep his emotions in check. He is forensically aware. He doesn’t want to be caught.
“This is someone who has managed to successfully separate areas of his life and isolate them completely from each other. His friends, family and colleagues have no inkling of what goes on inside his head.
“I think he has sadomasochistic interests. It’s not the sort of thing that springs out of nowhere. Someone must have introduced him to it— although probably only a mild version. His mind has taken it to a level that far outstrips any harmless fun. His self-assurance is what amazes me. There were no signs of anxiety or first-time nerves…”
I stop talking. My mouth has gone slack and sour. I take a sip of water. Ruiz is gazing at me dully, sitting up straighter and occasionally writing notes. My voice rises above the noise again.
“A person doesn’t suddenly become a fully fledged sadist overnight— not one this skillful. Organizations like the KGB spend years training their interrogators to be this good. The degree of control and sophistication were remarkable. These things come from experience. I don’t think he started here.”
Ruiz turns and stares out of the window, making up his mind. He doesn’t believe me.
“This is bullshit!” he rumbles.
“Why?”
“None of it sounds like your Bobby Moran.”
He’s right. It doesn’t make sense. Bobby is too young to have this degree of familiarity with sadism. He is too erratic and changeable. I seriously doubt that he has the mental skills and malevolence to dominate and control a person like Catherine so completely— the physical size, yes, but not the psychological strength. Then again, Bobby has constantly surprised me and I have only scratched the surface of his psyche. He has held details back from me or dropped them like a trail of bread crumbs on a fairy-tale journey.
Fairy tales? That’s what it sounds like to Ruiz. He’s on his feet threading his way to the bar. People hurriedly step out of his way. He has an aura like a flashing light that warns people to give him space.
I’m already beginning to regret this. I should have stayed out of it. Sometimes I wish I could turn my mind off instead of always looking and analyzing. I wish I could just focus on a tiny square of the world, instead of watching how people communicate and the clothes they wear, what they put in their shopping carts, the cars they drive, the pets they choose, the magazines they read and the TV shows they watch. I wish I could stop looking.
Ruiz is back again with another pint and a whiskey chaser. He rolls the liquid fire around in his mouth as if washing away a bad taste.
“You really think this guy did it?”
“I don’t know.”
He wraps his fingers around the pint glass and leans back.
“You want me to look at him?”
“That’s up to you.”
Ruiz exhales with a rustle of dissatisfaction. He still doesn’t trust me.
“Do you know why Catherine came down to London?” I ask.
“According to her flatmate she had a job interview. We found no correspondence— she probably had it with her.”
“What about phone records?”
“Nothing from her home number. She had a mobile, but that’s missing.”
He delivers the facts without comment or embellishment. Catherine’s history matches with the scant details she gave to me during our sessions. Her parents had divorced when she was twelve. She hooked up with a bad crowd, sniffing aerosols and doing drugs. At fifteen she spent six weeks in a private psychiatric hospital in West Sussex. Her family kept it quiet for obvious reasons.
Becoming a nurse had seemed to be the turning point. Although she still had problems, she managed to cope.
“What happened after she left the Marsden?” I ask.
“She moved back to Liverpool and got engaged to a merchant seaman. It didn’t work out.”
“Is he a suspect?”
“No. He’s in Bahrain.”
“Any other suspects?”
Ruiz smiles wryly. “All volunteers are welcome.” Finishing his drink, he gets to his feet. “I have to go.”
“What happens next?”
“I get my people digging up everything they can on this Bobby Moran. If I can link him to Catherine I’ll ask him very politely to help me with my inquiries.”
“And you won’t mention my name?”
He looks at me contemptuously. “Don’t worry, Professor, your interests are paramount in my concerns.”
17
My mother has a pretty face with a neat upturned nose and straight hair that she has worn in the same uniform style— pinned back with silver clips and tucked behind her ears— for as long as I can remember. Sadly, I inherited my father’s tangle of hair. If it grows half an inch too long it becomes completely unruly and I look like I’ve been electrocuted.
Everything about my mother denotes her standing as a doctor’s wife, right down to her box-pleated skirts, unpatterned blouses and low-heeled shoes. A creature of habit, she even carries a handbag when taking the dog for a walk.
She can arrange a dinner party for twelve in the time it takes to boil an egg. She also does garden parties, school fetes, church jamborees, charity fund-raisers, bridge tournaments, rummage sales, walkathons, christenings, weddings and funerals. Yet for all this ability, she has managed to get through life without balancing a checkbook, making an investment decision or proffering a political opinion in public. She leaves such matters to my father.
Every time I contemplate my mother’s life I am appalled by the waste and unfulfilled promise. At eighteen she won a mathematics scholarship to Cardiff University. At twenty-five she wrote a thesis that had American universities hammering at her door. What did she do? She married my father and settled for a life of cultivating convention and making endless compromises.
I like to imagine her doing a Shirley Valentine and running off with a Greek waiter, or writing a steamy romantic novel. One day she is going to suddenly toss aside her prudence, self-discipline and correctness. She will go dancing barefoot in daisy fields and trekking through the Himalayas. These are nice thoughts. They’re certainly better than imagining her growing old listening to my father rant at the TV screen or read aloud the letters he’s written to newspapers.
That’s what he’s doing now— writing a letter. He only reads
My mother is in the kitchen with Julianne discussing tomorrow’s menu. At some stage in the previous
