“She hasn’t said more than a dozen words to me since— not all together in a sentence. Last night she told me that she saw your photograph on the news. I asked her questions that she answered. It was the first time in ages…”
“Who gave Sonia the tablet? Did they ever catch anyone?”
Lucas shakes his head. Claire gave them a description. She looked at mug shots and a police lineup.
“What did she say he looked like?”
“Tall, skinny, tanned… he had slicked-back hair.”
“How old?”
“Mid-thirties.”
He closes the toolbox and flips the metal catches, before glancing despondently at the house, not yet ready to go inside. Chores like the basketball hoop have become important because they keep him busy and out of the way.
“Sonia would never have taken a drug knowingly,” he says. “She wanted to go to the Olympics. She knew about banned substances and drug tests. Someone must have slipped it to her.”
“Do you remember Bobby Morgan?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Fourteen… fifteen years ago. He was only a kid.”
“Not since then?”
He shakes his head and then narrows his eyes as if something has just occurred to him. “Sonia knew someone called Bobby Morgan. It couldn’t have been the same person. He worked at the swimming center.”
“You never saw him?”
“No.” He sees the curtains moving in the living room. “I wouldn’t stick around if I were you,” he says. “She’ll call the police if she sees you.”
The toolbox is weighing down his right hand. He swaps it over and glances up at the basketball hoop. “Guess that’ll have to stay there a bit longer.”
I thank him and he hurries inside. The door shuts and the silence amplifies my steps as I walk away. I used to think Dutton was conceited and dogmatic, unwilling to listen or alter his point of view when it came to case conferences. He was the sort of autocratic, nitpicking public servant who is brilliant at making the trains run on time, but fails miserably when it comes to dealing with people. If only his staff could be as loyal as his Skoda— starting first time on cold mornings and reacting immediately to every turn of the steering wheel. Now he has been diminished, lessened, beaten down by circumstances.
The man who gave Sonia the tainted white tablet doesn’t sound like Bobby but eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable. Stress and shock can alter perceptions. Memory is flawed. Bobby is a chameleon, changing colors, camouflaging himself, moving backward and forward, but always blending in.
There is a poem that my mother used to recite to me— a politically incorrect piece of doggerel— called “Ten Little Indian Boys.” It started off with ten little Indian boys going out to dine, but one chokes himself and then there were nine. All nine little Indian boys stay up late, but one oversleeps and then there are eight…
Indian boys are stung by bees, eaten by fish, hugged by bears and chopped in half until only one remains, left alone. I feel like that last little Indian boy.
I understand what Bobby is doing now. He is trying to take away what each of us holds most dear— the love of a child, the closeness of a partner, the sense of belonging. He wants us to suffer as he suffered, to lose what we most love, to experience his loss.
Mel and Boyd had been soul mates. Anyone who knew them could see that. Jerzy and Esther Gorski had survived the Nazi gas chambers and settled in north London, where they raised their only child, Alison, who became a schoolteacher and moved to Liverpool. Firemen discovered Jerzy’s body at the bottom of the stairs. He was still alive, despite the burns. Esther suffocated in her sleep.
Catherine McBride, a favored granddaughter in a well-connected family— wayward, spoiled and smothered— had never lost the heart of her grandfather, who doted on her and forgave her indiscretions.
Rupert Erskine had no wife or children. Perhaps Bobby couldn’t discover what he held most dear or perhaps he knew all along. Erskine was a cantankerous old sod, about as likable as a carpet burn. We made excuses for him because it can’t have been easy looking after his wife for all those years. Bobby didn’t give him any latitude. He left him alive long enough— tied to a chair— to regret his limitations.
There might be other victims. I don’t have time to find them all. Elisa is my failure. I didn’t discover Bobby’s secret soon enough. Bobby has grown more sophisticated with each death, but I am to be the prize. He could have taken Julianne or Charlie from me, but instead he has chosen to take it all— my family, friends, career, reputation and finally my freedom. And he wants me to know that he’s responsible.
The whole point of analysis is to understand, not to take the essence of something and reduce it to something else. Bobby once accused me of playing God. He said people like me couldn’t resist putting our hands inside someone’s psyche and changing the way they view the world.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I’ve made mistakes and fallen into the trap of not thinking hard enough about cause and effect. And I know it isn’t good enough, in the wash-up, to make excuses and say, “I meant well.” I’ve used the same words. “With the best possible intentions…” and “with all the goodwill in the world…”
In one of my first cases in Liverpool I had to decide if a mentally handicapped twenty-year-old, with no family support and a lifetime of institutionalized care, could keep her unborn child.
I can still picture Sharon with her summer dress, stretched tightly over the swell of her pregnancy. She had taken great care, washing and brushing her hair. She knew how important the interview was for her future. Yet despite her efforts she had forgotten little things. Her socks were the same color, but different lengths. The zipper at the side of her dress was broken. A smudge of lipstick stained her cheek.
“Do you know why you’re here, Sharon?”
“Yes sir.”
“We have to decide whether you can look after your baby. It’s a very big responsibility.”
“I can. I can. I’ll be a good mother. I’m going to love my baby.”
“Do you know where babies come from?”
“It’s growing inside me. God put it there.” She spoke very reverentially and rubbed her tummy.
I couldn’t fault her logic. “Let’s play a ‘what if’ game. OK? I want you to imagine that you’re bathing your baby and the telephone rings. The baby is all slippery and wet. What do you do?”
“I… I… I… put my baby on the floor, wrapped in a towel.”
“While you are on the telephone, someone knocks on the front door. Do you answer it?”
She momentarily looked unsure. “It might be the fire brigade,” I added. “Or maybe it’s your social worker.”
“I’d answer the door,” she said, nodding her head forcefully.
“It turns out to be your neighbor. Some young boys have thrown a rock through her window. She has to go to work. She wants you to sit inside her flat and wait for the glaziers to come.”
“Those little shits— they’re always throwing rocks,” Sharon said, bunching her fists.
“Your neighbor has satellite TV: movie channels, cartoons, daytime soap operas. What are you going to watch while you’re waiting?”
“Cartoons.”
“Will you have a cup of tea?”
“Maybe.”
“Your neighbor has left you some money to pay the glazier. Fifty quid. The job is only going to cost £45, but she says you can keep the change.”
Her eyes lit up. “I can keep the money?”
“Yes. What are you going to buy?”
“Chocolate.”