The Suspect

God’s-personal-physician-in-waiting had wanted Lucy to name her oldest boy after him. He liked the idea of a third generation Joseph. Lucy held firm and called him something else— Andy maybe, or Gary, or Freddy.

They’re always late. Eric is an air-traffic controller and the most absentminded person I have ever met. It’s frightening. He keeps forgetting where we live and has to phone up and ask for directions every time he visits. How on earth does he keep dozens of planes apart in the air? Whenever I book a flight out of Heathrow I feel like ringing up Lucy in advance and asking whether Eric is working.

My middle sister, Patricia, is in the kitchen with her new man, Simon, a criminal lawyer who works for one of those TV series that exposes miscarriages of justice. Patricia’s divorce has come through and she’s celebrating with champagne.

“I hardly think it warrants Bollinger,” says my father.

“Why ever not?” she says, taking a quick slurp before it bubbles over.

I decide to rescue Simon. Nobody deserves this sort of introduction to our family. We take our drinks into the sitting room and make small talk. Simon has a jolly round face and keeps slapping his stomach like a department store Santa. “Sorry to hear about the old Parkinson’s,” he says. “Terrible business.”

My heart sinks. “Who told you?”

“Patricia.”

“How did she know?”

Suddenly realizing his mistake, Simon starts apologizing. There have been some depressing moments in the past month, but none quite so depressing as standing in front of a complete stranger, who is drinking my scotch and feeling sorry for me.

Who else knows?

The doorbell rings. Eric, Lucy and the “ee” children come bustling in, with lots of vigorous handshakes and cheek kisses. Lucy takes one look at me and her bottom lip starts to tremble. She throws her arms around me and I feel her body shaking against my chest. “I’m really sorry, Joe. So, so sorry.”

My chin is resting on the top of her head. Eric puts his outstretched hand on my shoulder as if giving me a papal blessing. I don’t think I have ever been so embarrassed.

The rest of the afternoon stretches out before me like a four-hour sociology lecture. When I get tired of answering questions about my health, I retreat to the garden where Charlie is playing with the “ee” children. She is showing them where we buried the goldfish. I finally remember their names, Harry, Perry and Jenny.

Harry is only a toddler and looks like a miniature Michelin man in his padded jacket and woolen hat. I toss him in the air, making him giggle. The other children are grabbing my legs, pretending I’m a monster. I spy Julianne looking wistfully out the French doors. I know what she’s thinking.

After lunch we retire to the sitting room and Julianne organizes coffee and tea. Everyone says nice things about the tree and my mother’s fruitcake.

“Let’s play Who Am I?” says Charlie, whose mouth is speckled with crumbs. She doesn’t hear the collective groan. Instead, she hands out pens and paper, while breathlessly explaining the rules.

“You all have to think of someone famous. They don’t have to be real. It can be a cartoon character, or a movie star. It could even be Lassie…”

“That’s my choice gone.”

She scowls at me. “Don’t let anyone see the name you write. Then you stick the paper on someone else’s forehead. They have to guess who they are.”

The game turns out to be a scream. God’s-personal-physician-in-waiting can’t understand why everybody laughs so uproariously at the name on his forehead: Grumpy from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

I’m actually beginning to enjoy myself when the doorbell rings and Charlie dashes out to answer it. Lucy and Patricia start clearing the cups and plates.

“You don’t look like a policeman,” says Charlie.

“I’m a detective.”

“Does that mean you have a badge?”

“Do you want to see it?”

“Maybe I should.”

Ruiz is reaching into his inside jacket pocket when I reach the door.

“We’ve taught her to be careful,” I say apologetically.

“That’s very wise.” He smiles at Charlie and looks fifteen years younger. For a brief moment I think he might ruffle her hair, but people don’t do that so much nowadays.

Ruiz looks past me into the hall and apologizes for disturbing me.

“Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes,” he mumbles and then pats at his pockets as though he’s written a note to remind himself.

“Would you like to come in?”

“If that’s OK.”

I lead him to my study and offer to take his coat. Catherine’s notes are still open on my desk where I left them.

“Doing a little homework?”

“I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.”

“And had you?”

“No.”

“You could let me be the judge of that.”

“Not this time.” I close the notebooks and put them away.

Walking around my desk, he glances at my bookcases, studying the various photographs and my souvenir water pipe from Syria.

“Where has he been?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said that my murderer didn’t start with Catherine, so where has he been?”

“Practicing.”

“On whom?”

“I don’t know.”

Ruiz is now at the window, looking across the garden. He rolls his shoulders and the starched collar of his shirt presses under his ears. I want to ask him what he’s learned about Bobby, but he interrupts me.

“Is he going to kill again?”

I don’t want to answer. Hypothetical situations are perilous. He senses me pulling back and won’t let me escape. I have to say something.

“At the moment he is still thinking about Catherine and how she died. When those memories begin to fade, he may go looking for new experiences to feed his fantasies.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“His actions were relaxed and deliberate. He wasn’t out of control or consumed by anger or desire. He was calm, considered, almost euphoric in his planning.”

“Where are these other victims? Why haven’t we found them?”

“Maybe you haven’t established a link.”

Ruiz flinches and squares his shoulders. He resents the inference that he’s missed something important. At the same time he’s not going to jeopardize the investigation because of overweening pride. He wants to understand.

“You’re looking for clues in the method and symbolism, but these can only come from comparing crimes. Find another victim and you may find a pattern.”

Ruiz grinds his teeth as though wearing them down. What else can I give him?

“He knows the area. It took time to bury Catherine. He knew there were no houses overlooking that part of the canal. And he knew what time of night the towpath was deserted.”

“So he lives locally.”

“Or used to.”

Ruiz is seeing how the facts support the theory, trying them on for size. People are moving downstairs. A toilet flushes. A child cries in anger.