Suspect (3 page)

Dressed in a gray jogging suit, trainers and a basebal cap over her short-cropped dark hair, she looks twenty-seven, not thirty-seven. Instead of growing old graceful y together, she’s discovered the secret of eternal youth and I take two tries to get off the sofa.

Monday is yoga, Tuesday is Pilates, Thursday and Saturday are circuit training. In between she runs the house, raises a child, teaches Spanish lessons and stil finds time to try to save the world. She even made childbirth look easy, although I would never tel her that unless I developed a death wish.

We have been married for sixteen years and when people ask me why I became a psychologist, I say, “Because of Julianne. I wanted to
know
what she was real y thinking.” It didn’t work. I stil have no idea.

I walk to work every weekday morning across Regent’s Park. At this time of year, when the temperature drops, I wear nonslip shoes, a woolen scarf and a permanent frown. Forget about global warming. As I get older the world gets colder. That’s a fact.

Today I’m not going to the office. Instead I walk past the boating lake and cross York Bridge, turning right along Euston Road toward Baker Street. The sun is like a pale yel ow bal trying to pierce the grayness. A soft rain drifts down and clings to the leaves, as joggers slip past me, with their heads down and trainers leaving patterns on the wet asphalt. It’s early December and the gardeners are supposed to be planting bulbs for the spring. Their wheelbarrows are fil ing with water, while they smoke cigarettes and play cards in the toolshed.

Langton Hal is a squat redbrick building with white-trimmed windows and black downspouts. Apart from a light over the front steps, the building looks deserted. Pushing through the double doors, I cross a narrow foyer and enter the main hal . Plastic chairs are arranged in rough lines. A table to one side has a hot-water urn, beside rows of cups and saucers.

About forty women have turned up. They range in age from teens to late thirties. Most are wearing overcoats, beneath which some are doubtless dressed for work, in high heels, short skirts, hot pants and stockings. The air is a technicolor stink of perfume and tobacco.

Onstage Elisa Velasco is already speaking. A wisp of a thing with green eyes and fair hair, she has the sort of accent that makes northern women sound feisty and no-nonsense.

Dressed in a knee-length pencil skirt and a tight cashmere sweater, she looks like a World War I pinup girl.

Behind her, projected onto a white screen, is an image of Mary Magdalene painted by the Italian artist Artemisia Gentileschi. The initials PAPT are printed in the bottom corner and in smal er letters: PROSTITUTES ARE PEOPLE TOO.

Elisa spies me and looks relieved. I try to slip along the side of the hal without interrupting her, but she taps the microphone and people turn.

“Now let me introduce the man you have
really
come to hear. Fresh from the front pages I’d like you to welcome Professor Joseph O’Loughlin.” There are one or two ironic handclaps. It’s a tough audience. Soup gurgles in my stomach as I climb the steps at the side of the stage and walk into the circle of brightness. My left arm is trembling and I grasp the back of a chair to keep my hands steady.

I clear my throat and look at a point above their heads.

“Prostitutes account for the largest number of unsolved kil ings in this country. Forty-eight have been murdered in the past seven years. At least five are raped every day in London. A dozen more are assaulted, robbed or abducted. They aren’t attacked because they’re attractive, or asking for it, but because they’re accessible and vulnerable. They are easier to acquire and more anonymous than almost anyone else in society…”

Now I lower my eyes and connect with their faces, relieved to have their attention. A woman at the front has a purple satin col ar on her coat and bright lemon-colored gloves. Her legs are crossed and the coat has fal en open to reveal a creamy thigh. The thin black straps of her shoes crisscross up her calves.

“Sadly, you can’t always pick and choose your customers. They come in al shapes and sizes, some drunk, some nasty— ”

“Some fat,” yel s a bottle blond.

“And smel y,” echoes a teenager wearing dark glasses.

I let the laughter subside. Most of these women don’t trust me. I don’t blame them. There are risks in al their relationships, whether with pimps, customers or a psychologist. They have learned not to trust men.

I wish I could make the danger more real for them. Maybe I should have brought photographs. One recent victim was found with her womb lying on the bed beside her. On the other hand these women don’t
need
to be told. The danger is ever present.

“I haven’t come here to lecture you. I hope to make you a little safer. When you’re working the streets at night how many friends or family know where you are? If you disappeared how long would it take for someone to report you missing?”

I let the question drift across them like a floating cobweb from the rafters. My voice has grown hoarse and sounds too harsh. I let go of the chair and begin walking to the front of the stage. My left leg refuses to swing and I half stumble, before correcting. They glance at each other— wondering what to make of me.

“Stay off the streets and if you can’t then take precautions. Operate a buddy system. Make sure someone is taking down the plate number when you get into a car. Only work in wel -lit areas and organize safe houses where you can take clients rather than using their cars…”

Four men have entered the hal and taken up positions near the doors. They’re clearly policemen in plain clothes. As the women realize I hear mutters of disbelief and resignation.

Several of them glare angrily at me as though it’s my doing.

“Everybody stay calm. I’l sort this out.” I careful y swing down from the stage. I want to intercept Elisa before she reaches them.

The man in charge is easy to spot. He has a ruddy pockmarked face, a punch-worn nose and crooked teeth. His crumpled gray overcoat is like a culinary road map of stains and spil s.

He’s wearing a rugby tie, with a silver-plate tiepin of the Tower of Pisa.

I like him. He isn’t into clothes. Men who take too much care with their presentation can look ambitious but also vain. When he talks he looks into the distance as if trying to see what’s coming. I’ve seen the same look on farmers who never seem comfortable focusing on anything too close, particularly faces. His smile is apologetic.

“Sorry to gate-crash your convention,” he says wryly, addressing Elisa.

“Wel fuck off then!” She says it with a sweet voice and a poisonous smile.

“It’s lovely to make your acquaintance, Miss, or should I say
Madam
?”

I step between them. “How can we help you?”

“Who are you?” He looks me up and down.

“Professor Joseph O’Loughlin.”

“No shit! Hey, fel as, it’s that guy from the ledge. The one who talked down that kid.” His voice rumbles hoarsely. “I never seen anyone more terrified.” His laugh is like a marble dropped down a drain. Another thought occurs to him. “You’re that expert on hookers, aren’t you? You wrote a book or something.”

“A research paper.”

He shrugs ambivalently and motions to his men, who separate and move down the aisles.

Clearing his throat, he addresses the room.

“My name is Detective Inspector Vincent Ruiz of the Metropolitan Police. Three days ago the body of a young woman was found in Kensal Green, West London. We estimate she died about two weeks ago. At this stage we have been unable to identify her but we have reason to believe that she may have been a prostitute. You are al going to be shown an artist’s impression of the young woman. If any of you recognize her I would appreciate if you could make yourself known to us. We’re after a name, an address, an associate, a friend— anyone who might have known her.”

Blinking rapidly, I hear myself ask, “Where was she found?”

“In a shal ow grave beside the Grand Union Canal.”

The hal seems cavernous and echoing. Drawings are passed from hand to hand. The noise level rises. A languid wrist is thrust toward me. The sketch looks like one of those charcoal drawings you see tourists posing for in Covent Garden. She’s young with short hair and large eyes. That describes a dozen women in the hal .

Five minutes later the detectives return, shaking their heads at Ruiz. The detective inspector grunts and wipes his misshapen nose on a handkerchief.

“You know this is an il egal gathering,” he says, glancing at the tea urn. “It’s an offense to al ow prostitutes to assemble and consume refreshments.”

“The tea is for me,” I say.

He laughs dismissively. “You must drink a lot of tea. Either that or you take me for an idiot.” He’s chal enging me.

“I know what you are,” I bristle.

“Wel ? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“You’re a country boy who found himself in the big city. You grew up on a farm, milking cows and col ecting eggs. You played rugby until some sort of injury ended your career, but you stil wonder if you could have gone al the way. Since then it’s been a struggle to keep the weight off. You’re divorced or widowed, which explains why your shirt needs a decent iron and your suit needs dry-cleaning. You like a beer after work and a curry after that. You’re trying to give up smoking, which is why you keep fumbling in your pockets for chewing gum. You think gyms are for wankers, unless they have a boxing ring and punch bags. And the last time you took a holiday you went to Italy because someone told you it was wonderful, but you ended up hating the food, the people and the wine.”

I’m surprised by how cold and indifferent I sound. It’s as though I’ve been infected by the prejudices swirling around me.

“Very impressive. Is that your party trick?”

“No,” I mumble, suddenly embarrassed. I want to apologize but don’t know where to start.

Ruiz fumbles in his pockets and then stops himself. “Tel me something, Professor. If you can work out al that just by looking at me, how much can a dead body tel you?”

“What do you mean?”

“My murder victim. How much could you tel me about her if I showed you her body?”

I’m not sure if he’s being serious. In theory it might be possible, but I deal in people’s minds; I read their mannerisms and body language; I look at the clothes they wear and the way they interact; I listen for changes in their voices and their eye movements. A dead body can’t tel me any of this. A dead body turns my stomach.

“Don’t worry she won’t bite. I’l see you at Westminster Mortuary at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.” He roughly tucks the address in the inside pocket of my jacket. “We can have breakfast afterward,” he adds, chuckling to himself.

Before I can respond, he turns to leave, flanked by detectives. Then at the last possible moment, just before he reaches the door, he stops and spins back toward me.

“You were wrong about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Italy. I fel in love with it.”

3

Outside on the pavement, when the last of the police cars have disappeared, Elisa kisses me on the cheek.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know. I just like kissing you.”

She laughs and tousles my hair. Then she makes a fuss about getting a brush from her bag and fixing it up again. She stands in front of me and pushes my head down slightly as she tries to straighten my curls. From here I can see down her sweater to the swoop of her lace-covered breasts and the dark val ey in between.

“People are going to start talking,” she teases.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” The statement is too abrupt. Her eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly.

She lights a cigarette and then guil otines the flame with the lid of her lighter. For a fleeting moment I see the light reflect off the golden specks in her green eyes. No matter how Elisa styles her hair it always appears sleep-tousled and wild. She cocks her head to one side and looks at me intently.

“I saw you on the news. You were very brave.”

“I was terrified.”

“Is he going to be OK— the boy on the roof?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to be OK?”

The question surprises me, but I don’t know how to respond. I fol ow her back into the hal and help her stack the chairs. She unplugs the overhead projector and hands me a box of pamphlets. The same painting of Mary Magdalene is printed on the front fold.

Elisa puts her chin on my shoulder. “Mary Magdalene is the patron saint of prostitutes.”

“I thought she was a redeemed sinner.”

Annoyed, she corrects me. “The Gnostic Gospels cal her a visionary. She’s also been cal ed the Apostle of Apostles because she brought them the news of the Resurrection.”

“And you believe al that?”

“Jesus disappears for three days and the first person to see him alive is a whore. I’d say that was pretty typical!” She doesn’t laugh. It isn’t meant to be funny.

I fol ow her back onto the front steps, where she turns and locks the door.

“I have my car. I can give you a lift to your office,” she says, fumbling for her keys. We turn the corner and I see her red Volkswagen Beetle on a parking meter.