Simon opens his briefcase and takes out a blue folder and a large legal notebook. I’m amazed at how he combines a Santa Claus physique with the demeanor of a lawyer.
“We need to make some decisions. They want to start the interviews as soon as possible. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
I feel myself blinking rapidly. What does he mean? Does he expect me to confess?
“I want you to get me out of here,” I say, a little too abruptly.
He begins by explaining that the Police and Criminal Evidence Act gives the police forty-eight hours in which to either charge a suspect or let them go, unless they’ve been granted leave by the courts.
“So I could be here for two days?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s ridiculous!”
“Did you know this girl?”
“Yes.”
“Did you arrange to meet her on the night she died?”
“No.”
Simon is making notes. He leans over the notebook, scribbling bullet points and underlining some words.
“This is one of those no-brainers,” he says. “All you have to do is provide an alibi for the thirteenth of November.”
“I can’t do that.”
Simon gives me the weary look of a schoolteacher who hasn’t received the answer he expects. Then he brushes a speck of fluff from his suit sleeve as if dismissing the problem. Standing abruptly, he knocks twice on the door to signal that he’s finished.
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I killed her?”
He looks bemused. “Save your plea for a jury and pray it never gets that far.”
The door closes after him but the room is still full of what he has left behind— disappointment, candor and the scent of aftershave. Five minutes later a woman police constable takes me along the corridor to the interrogation room. I have been in one before. Early in my career I sometimes acted as the responsible adult when juveniles were being interrogated.
A table and four chairs take up most of the room. In the far corner is a large tape recorder, which is time coded. There is nothing on the walls or the windowsill. The WPC stands immediately inside the door, trying not to look at me.
Ruiz arrives, along with a second detective, who is younger and taller, with a long face and crooked teeth. He wears a smart suit and has taken great care combing his hair because he wants his fringe to make a statement, as well as cover a bald spot.
Simon follows them into the interview room. He whispers in my ear, “If I touch your elbow I want you to be quiet.”
I nod agreement.
Ruiz sits down opposite me, without bothering to remove his jacket. He rubs the hand across the whiskers on his chin.
“This is the second formal interview of Professor Joseph Paul O’Loughlin, a suspect in the murder of Catherine Mary McBride,” he says for the benefit of the tape. “Present during the interview are Detective Inspector Vincent Ruiz, Detective Sergeant John Keebal and Dr. O’Loughlin’s legal representative, Simon Koch. The time is 8:14 a.m.”
The WPC checks that the recorder is working. She nods to Ruiz. He places both his hands on the table and links his fingers together. His eyes settle on me and he says nothing. I have to admit it is a very eloquent pause.
“Where were you on the evening of November thirteenth this year?”
“I don’t recall.”
“When I asked you that question several days ago you said you were at home.”
“I said normally I would have been home.”
Ruiz’s face twists in anger. “Mr. Koch, can you please instruct your client that his semantics are not helping anyone, including himself.”
Simon leans close, cups his hand to my ear and whispers, “Try not to piss him off.”
Ruiz continues. “Did you work that day?”
“Yes.”
“What time did you leave the office?”
“I had a doctor’s appointment at four o’clock.”
“What time did it finish?”
“Shortly before five.”
The questions go on like this, asking for specifics. Ruiz is trying to pin me down. He knows, as I do, that lying is a lot harder than telling the truth. The devil is in the detail. The more you weave into a story, the harder it is to maintain. It becomes like a straitjacket— binding you tighter, giving you less room to move.
Finally he asks about Catherine. Silence. I glance at Simon who says nothing. He hasn’t said a word since the interview began. Neither has the younger detective, sitting to the side of and slightly behind Ruiz.
“Did you know Catherine McBride?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you first meet her?”
I tell the whole story— about the self-mutilation and the counseling sessions, how she seemed to get better and how she eventually left the Marsden. It feels strange talking about a clinical case. My voice sounds vaguely strident, as though I’m trying too hard to convince them.
When I finish I open the palms of my hands to signal the end. I can see myself reflected in Ruiz’s eyes. He’s waiting for more.
“Why didn’t you tell the hospital authorities about Catherine?”
“I felt sorry for her. I thought it would be cruel to see a dedicated nurse lose her job. Who would that benefit?”
“That’s the only reason?”
“Yes.”
“Were you having an affair with Catherine McBride?”
“No.”
“Did you ever have sexual relations with her?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“Five years ago. I can’t remember the exact date.”
“Why did Catherine call your office on the evening she died?”
“I don’t know.”
“We have other telephone records which indicate that she called the number twice in the previous fortnight.”
“I can’t explain that.”
“She wrote a letter to you?”
I shrug.
“Your name was in her diary.”
I shake my head.
Ruiz slaps his open palm violently on the table. Everyone jumps, including Simon. “I require something more than a wink and a nod, Professor O’Loughlin. This interview is being taped. How did you know Catherine McBride was last seen wearing a red dress? This information was withheld from the media.”
“I told you. One of my patients mentioned a girl in a red dress with scars on her arms.”
“Oh, that’s right, he had a dream.” Ruiz’s voice is laced with sarcasm. He drops to a whisper. “You met Catherine that night.”
“No.”
“You lured her away from the Grand Union Hotel.”
“No.”
“You tortured and killed her.”
“No.”
“This is horseshit!” he explodes. “You have lied, denied and conspired to hinder this investigation. You have deliberately withheld information and have spent the last three weeks constructing an elaborate charade about a former patient in an effort to steer police away from you.”
“I have done no such thing!”
Simon touches my arm. He wants me to be quiet. I ignore him.
“I didn’t touch Catherine. I haven’t seen her.”
“I want to speak with my client,” says Simon, more insistently.
To hell with that! I’m done with being polite. “What possible reason would I have for killing Catherine?” I shout. “You have my name in a diary, a telephone call to my office and no motive. Do your job. Get some evidence before you come accusing me.”
The younger detective grins. I realize that something is wrong. Ruiz opens a thin green folder which lies on the table in front of him. From it he produces a photocopied piece of paper, which he slides across in front of me.
“This is a letter dated July fifteenth, 1997. It is addressed to the senior nursing administrator of the Royal Marsden Hospital. In this letter Catherine McBride makes an allegation that you sexually assaulted her in your office at the hospital. She says that you hypnotized her, fondled her breasts and interfered with her underwear— ”