The Burden of Doubt Read Online Free PDF Page A

head. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, sir.’
    ‘Where is she now – in the mortuary?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Who will perform the autopsy?’
    ‘Dr Tanya Blake.’
    ‘Ah, yes. I know her work. She’s a competent young doctor.’ He stared out of the window, realizing that all that had been private between him and Moira would soon be out in the open, in the police files, in the press. In the public domain. ‘I’d like to be quiet for a few moments,’ he said to the solemn-faced detective. ‘But when we get to the station I shall be happy to answer any of the questions you need to ask me.’
    A strange calm had settled over him. He closed his eyes and allowed an image of Moira to fill his mind: Moira alive, Moira strong and decisive and capable. He almost wished he could feel more, but his emotional system seemed to have shut down. He guessed the police would think him a cold fish. Many others thought that, and over the years he had become weary of trying to make other people understand him.
     
    Grief attacks the body and can shrink people both physically and mentally. When Swift and Laura Ferguson entered the interview-room where Professor Rajesh Patel was waiting, they saw a man with hunched shoulders, staring blankly at the wall, an untouched styrofoam beaker of tea sitting on the table in front of him. As Swift and Laura entered the room he placed his hands on the table as though preparing to stand up. The sleeve of his thick sweater caught the beaker and it toppled it on to its side, sending a wave of tan-coloured liquid rolling over the desk top. Patel reached for the beaker and righted it, looking in dismay at the spilled tea.
    Laura offered reassurance. ‘Don’t worry, Professor Patel,’ she said, guessing that Patel was nervous about what was coming. ‘Shall we get you another cup of tea?’
    Patel stared at her, then shook his head.
    Swift sat down opposite the bereaved man, suspecting that Patel was not troubled by nerves about the forthcoming interrogation, rather desperately grappling with the shock of coming up against the sudden death of a loved one. He recalled his own responses to the news of his wife Kate’s death in a rail crash. The disbelief, the denial, the panic of wondering how life was to be gone through without her. He knew, too, that time did not necessarily heal, that for a while it simply rubbed at the wound. And that for some people, going on feeling the pain was the only way to keep the person alive in the memory.
    Watching the mask of dignity and stoicism of Patel’s face, he had the strong impression that the man was deeply and genuinely affected by his wife’s death. Which did not, of course, rule out his having killed her.
    ‘Professor Patel,’ Swift said gently, ‘we believe you’re a professor at the Leeds Medical school. Is that correct?’
    Patel raised his head a little. ‘That is correct. I divide my time between administration, research and some teaching.’
    ‘Were you in your office at the university this morning?’
    ‘No, I went to a conference in Sheffield.’ He levelled with Swift’s steady gaze. ‘But I expect you already know that. I would presume you’ve been making enquiries about me – and my whereabouts.’
    ‘Yes, we have. We know that you registered at the conference, but it appears that you left quite soon after that. We asked the conference staff to locate you on several occasions, but without any success.’
    ‘No, they wouldn’t have,’ Patel agreed, showing no signs of discomfiture. ‘Did you telephone to tell me … about Moira?’
    Swift nodded. ‘We also rang your mobile, but it was switched off.’
    ‘Yes.’ Patel spread his fingers and stared down at them.
    ‘Professor Patel,’ Swift prompted, ‘what time did you leave the conference?’
    ‘Around a quarter to ten.’
    ‘And where did you go?’
    ‘I drove north up the M1, then took the M62 going west.’
    ‘And where then?’
    ‘I drove to the village of Ingleton. I