Just gone ten. Dozens of people are standing on the footpath - residents, neighbours and passers-by - wearing dressing gowns, anoraks and woollen hats. A blue flashing light seems to strobe across their faces.
Four police cars are parked outside the row of terraces, alongside two ambulances and a scene-of-crime van. I’m standing in wet clothes beside one of the squad cars, unwilling to sit inside because it makes me look like a suspect. The detectives told me to wait. A police constable has been assigned to watch me. He is standing less than twenty feet away with his back to the onlookers and his eyes trained on me.
‘Why you all wet, petal?’ asks a voice. It belongs to a short black woman wearing the dark green uniform of a paramedic. She has a nametag pinned to her chest, ‘Yvonne’.
‘I found her in the bath,’ I say in a daze.
Yvonne raises an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone finding me in the bath.’
She laughs and her whole body shakes. ‘She’s white, right? You don’t live in a place like this unless you’re white or you’re trying to act white. Know what I’m saying?’
‘Not really.’
Yvonne tilts her wide shiny face up at me. ‘Are you OK, petal? You want to sit down? I can get you a blanket. How about some oxygen?’ She motions to the ambulance.
‘I’m OK.’
‘Suit yourself.’ She blows her nose on a tissue and glances at the onlookers. ‘You know what they’re thinking?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘They’re wondering what’s happening to the world. That’s what they always say when the TV camera is shoved in their faces. “You just don’t expect it, do you? Not where you live. This is a nice neighbourhood. It makes you wonder what the world is coming to, blah, blah, blah. . . .” Isn’t that what they say?’
‘Yes.’
The front door opens and two paramedics appear wheeling a collapsible metal trolley. Annie is strapped to the frame with an IV in her arm, the bag held above her head.
‘That’s my ride,’ says Yvonne. ‘You take care now.’
The trolley slides into the ambulance and the doors close on Annie Robinson. I can smell her on my hands - the sweet-as-sugar school counsellor, with her bright red lipstick and her liquid brown eyes. Annie told me that nobody ever thought she was beautiful back in her schooldays but she’d blossomed into marriage and then become a pretty divorcée.
I wish Ruiz were here . . . or Ronnie Cray. I left my mobile in my car. It’s just down the street. I can call them. Someone has to pick up Charlie.
The sandy-haired constable intercepts me before I reach the Volvo.
‘What are you doing, sir?’
‘I’m just getting my phone.’
‘You were told not to move, sir.’
‘I just need to make a call.’
‘Step back to the police car, sir.’
One hand on his belt, he looks at me with cold indifference.
I adopt a voice that says I’m glad to co-operate in any way I can. I’ll write a letter of commendation telling his superiors about his conscientiousness, if he’ll just let me get my phone.
Unfortunately, my left arm swings of its own initiative. It looks like a Nazi salute and I have to grab it with my right hand.
‘Did you threaten me, sir?’
‘No.’
‘Are you mocking me?’
‘No, of course not, I have Parkinson’s disease.’
The tremors are seguing into jerkiness. My medication is wearing off. Using every bit of my concentration, I make a vain attempt to establish a single constant physical pose.
‘I’m Professor Joseph O’Loughlin. I have to call my daughter. I’m supposed to pick her up . . . My phone is in my jacket . . . on the front seat. You can get it for me. Here are the keys.’
‘Don’t approach me, sir. Put your hands down.’
‘They’re just car keys.’
The crowd are now focused on us. My apparent innocence has been transformed into suspicion and guilt.
‘Just take my keys, get my phone and let me talk to my daughter.’
‘Take a step back, sir.’
He’s not going to listen. I try to take a step back, but my neurotransmitters are losing their juice. Instead of retreating, I lurch forwards. In a heartbeat an extendable baton lengthens in the officer’s fist. He swings it once. I can hear it whistle through the air. It strikes me across my outstretched arm and my car keys fall.
The pain takes a moment to register. Then it feels as though bones are broken. In almost the same breath, my legs lose contact with the earth and I’m forced to my knees and then on to my chest. His full weight is pressed into my back, forcing my face into the cement.
‘Just relax, sir, and you won’t get hurt.’
With one cheek pressed to the cement, I can see the police cars and forensic vans and the watching crowd. Sideways. The spectators are wondering if I’m the one - the prime suspect. They want to be able to tell their friends tomorrow that they saw me get arrested, how they looked into my eyes and they knew I was guilty.
Louis Preston is talking to one of his techs. I shout his name. He turns and blinks.
‘Louis, it’s me, Joe O‘Loughlin.’
The constable tells me to be quiet.
‘I know Dr Preston,’ I mutter. ‘He’s the pathologist.’
This time he comes towards us, dressed in his blue overalls. Tilting his head, he looks down at me.
‘What are you doing, Professor?’
‘I’m being sat on.’
‘I can see that.’
Preston looks at the officer. ‘Why are you sitting on Professor O‘Loughlin?’
‘He tried to escape.’
‘Escape to where exactly?’
The constable takes a moment to recognise the sarcasm.
‘Let him up, Officer. He’s not going to run away.’
I get to my feet, but my legs suddenly lock and I pitch forwards. Mr Parkinson is assuming control. The pills are in my coat . . . with my phone.
Preston grabs hold of my forearm. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Annie Robinson is a friend of mine. I called this in.’
‘When did you see her last?’
‘Yesterday. Lunchtime.’
Preston looks back towards the terrace. ‘I have work to do.’
‘Just get my pills for me and my phone. They’re in my coat.’ I motion towards the car.
Preston takes my keys. When he reaches the Volvo, he snaps on a rubber glove and makes a point of opening the rear door, reaching over the seat to get my coat. The inference is clear.
He brings the bottle to me, but not my mobile.
Taking two pills, I swallow them dry and watch as the two detectives head our way. One has a haircut where the sides of his head are buzzed almost bald.
Preston peels off the glove. ‘Be extra careful, Professor, these guys aren’t your friends.’