that Catherine should turn up after al these years?”
“How do you mean strange?”
“I don’t know.” She shivers slightly. “I mean, she caused us al those problems. You nearly lost your job. I remember how angry you were.”
“She was hurting.”
“She was spiteful.”
She glances at the photograph of Catherine. It’s a shot of her graduation day as a nurse. She’s smiling fit to bust and clutching a diploma in her hand. “And now she’s back again. The police ask you to help identify her and then you get that strange letter from her…”
“A coincidence is just a couple of things happening simultaneously.”
She rol s her eyes. “Spoken like a true psychologist.”
It has been three days since I handed Ruiz the letter and I saw the look on his face that was a mixture of self-satisfaction and suspicion. He had picked up the single page and envelope by the corners and slipped each into a plastic ziplock bag.
I haven’t said anything to Julianne but I think the police are watching me. An unmarked police car was parked outside the office yesterday. I saw two detectives talking to the receptionist at the front desk. At lunchtime I went Christmas shopping in Tottenham Court Road and they were there again.
A part of me felt like walking up to them and introducing myself. I wanted them to know I had found them out. Then I contemplated whether that wasn’t their whole idea. They wanted me to see them.
I can’t be bothered with cat-and-mouse games. It is inconceivable that I could be a suspect. Why are they wasting their time and resources on me? Yet as skeptical as I am, I feel the same imperative to explore Catherine’s death. I want to empty drawers, peer under sofas and turn things upside down until I find the answers.
Bobby Moran intercepts me as I cross the lobby. He looks even more disheveled than normal, with mud on his overcoat and papers bulging from his pockets. I wonder if he’s been waiting for sleep or something bad to happen.
Blinking rapidly behind his glasses, he mumbles an apology.
“I have to see you.”
I glance over his head at the clock on the wal . “I have another patient…”
“Please?”
I should say no. I can’t have people just turning up. Meena wil be furious. She could run a perfectly good office if it weren’t for patients turning up unannounced or not keeping appointments. “That’s not the way to pack a suitcase,” she’d say and I’d agree with her, even if I don’t completely understand what she means.
Upstairs, I tel Bobby to sit down and set about rearranging my morning. He looks embarrassed to have caused such a fuss. He is different today— less grounded, living in the here and now.
He is dressed in his work clothes— a gray shirt and trousers. The word Nevaspring is sewn onto the breast pocket. I write a new page for notes, struggling to loop each letter, and then look up to see if he’s ready. That’s when I realize he’l never be entirely ready. Jock is right— there is something fragile and erratic about Bobby. His mind is ful of half-finished ideas, strange facts and snatches of conversation.
“Why did you want to see me?”
Bobby stares at a spot on the floor between his feet. “You asked me about what I dream.”
“Yes.”
“I think there’s something wrong with me. I keep having these thoughts.”
“What thoughts?”
“I hurt people in my dreams.”
“How do you hurt them?”
He looks up at me plaintively. “I try to stay awake… I don’t want to fal asleep. Arky keeps tel ing me to come to bed. She can’t understand why I’m watching TV at four in the morning, wrapped in a duvet on the sofa. It’s because of the dreams.”
“What about them?”
“Bad things happen in them— that doesn’t make me a bad person.”
He is perched on the edge of the chair, with his eyes flicking from side to side.
“There’s a girl in a red dress. She keeps turning up when I don’t expect to see her.”
“In your
“How do you mean strange?”
“I don’t know.” She shivers slightly. “I mean, she caused us al those problems. You nearly lost your job. I remember how angry you were.”
“She was hurting.”
“She was spiteful.”
She glances at the photograph of Catherine. It’s a shot of her graduation day as a nurse. She’s smiling fit to bust and clutching a diploma in her hand. “And now she’s back again. The police ask you to help identify her and then you get that strange letter from her…”
“A coincidence is just a couple of things happening simultaneously.”
She rol s her eyes. “Spoken like a true psychologist.”
It has been three days since I handed Ruiz the letter and I saw the look on his face that was a mixture of self-satisfaction and suspicion. He had picked up the single page and envelope by the corners and slipped each into a plastic ziplock bag.
I haven’t said anything to Julianne but I think the police are watching me. An unmarked police car was parked outside the office yesterday. I saw two detectives talking to the receptionist at the front desk. At lunchtime I went Christmas shopping in Tottenham Court Road and they were there again.
A part of me felt like walking up to them and introducing myself. I wanted them to know I had found them out. Then I contemplated whether that wasn’t their whole idea. They wanted me to see them.
I can’t be bothered with cat-and-mouse games. It is inconceivable that I could be a suspect. Why are they wasting their time and resources on me? Yet as skeptical as I am, I feel the same imperative to explore Catherine’s death. I want to empty drawers, peer under sofas and turn things upside down until I find the answers.
Bobby Moran intercepts me as I cross the lobby. He looks even more disheveled than normal, with mud on his overcoat and papers bulging from his pockets. I wonder if he’s been waiting for sleep or something bad to happen.
Blinking rapidly behind his glasses, he mumbles an apology.
“I have to see you.”
I glance over his head at the clock on the wal . “I have another patient…”
“Please?”
I should say no. I can’t have people just turning up. Meena wil be furious. She could run a perfectly good office if it weren’t for patients turning up unannounced or not keeping appointments. “That’s not the way to pack a suitcase,” she’d say and I’d agree with her, even if I don’t completely understand what she means.
Upstairs, I tel Bobby to sit down and set about rearranging my morning. He looks embarrassed to have caused such a fuss. He is different today— less grounded, living in the here and now.
He is dressed in his work clothes— a gray shirt and trousers. The word Nevaspring is sewn onto the breast pocket. I write a new page for notes, struggling to loop each letter, and then look up to see if he’s ready. That’s when I realize he’l never be entirely ready. Jock is right— there is something fragile and erratic about Bobby. His mind is ful of half-finished ideas, strange facts and snatches of conversation.
“Why did you want to see me?”
Bobby stares at a spot on the floor between his feet. “You asked me about what I dream.”
“Yes.”
“I think there’s something wrong with me. I keep having these thoughts.”
“What thoughts?”
“I hurt people in my dreams.”
“How do you hurt them?”
He looks up at me plaintively. “I try to stay awake… I don’t want to fal asleep. Arky keeps tel ing me to come to bed. She can’t understand why I’m watching TV at four in the morning, wrapped in a duvet on the sofa. It’s because of the dreams.”
“What about them?”
“Bad things happen in them— that doesn’t make me a bad person.”
He is perched on the edge of the chair, with his eyes flicking from side to side.
“There’s a girl in a red dress. She keeps turning up when I don’t expect to see her.”
“In your
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