Free Suspect by Michael Robotham Page B

people to like who they real y are.
    For someone like Catherine having a man real y listen and care about her problems was enormously attractive, but sometimes it can be mistaken for something more intimate.
    Her kiss came as a total surprise. We were in my office at the Marsden. I pushed her away too suddenly. She stumbled backward and tripped, landing on the floor. She thought it was part of a game. “You can hurt me if you want to,” she said.
    “I don’t want to hurt you.”
    “I’ve been a bad, bad girl.”
    “You don’t understand.”
    “Yes, I do.” She was unzipping her skirt.
    “Catherine, you’re making a mistake. You’ve misread the signs.”
    The harshness in my voice final y brought her around. She stood beside my desk, with her skirt at her ankles and her blouse undone. Panty hose hid the scars on her thighs.
    It was embarrassing for both of us— but more so for her. She ran out with mascara leaking down her cheeks and her skirt clutched around her waist.
    She quit her job and left the Marsden, but the ramifications of that day have plagued me ever since. Hel hath no fury like a woman scorned.

    8

    Saturday mornings and soggy sports fields seem to go together like acne and adolescence. That’s how I remember the winters of my childhood— standing ankle-deep in mud, freezing my bol ocks off, playing for the school’s Second XV.
    God’s-personal-physician-in-waiting had a bel ow that rose above the howling wind. “Don’t just stand there like a cold bottle of piss,” he’d shout. “Cal yourself a winger! I’ve seen continents drift faster than you.”
    Thank goodness Charlie is a girl. She looks real y cute in her soccer gear, with her hair pul ed back and knee-length shorts. I don’t know how I managed to become coach. My knowledge of the game could fit on the back of a coaster, which is probably why the Tigers haven’t won a game al season.
    You’re not supposed to count the score at this age, or keep a league table. It’s al about having fun and getting every child involved. Tel that to the parents.
    Today we’re playing the Highgate Lions and each time they score the Tigers trudge back to halfway, debating who gets to kick off.
    “It isn’t our strongest side,” I say apologetical y to the opposition coach. Under my breath I’m praying, “Just one goal, Tigers. Just give us one goal. Then we’l show them a real celebration.”
    The range of abilities is a wonder to behold. Take Dominic— the kid standing at ful back with his hand down his shorts holding his scrotum. Ten minutes into the game he trots to the sideline and asks me which way we’re running. I have to stop myself slapping my forehead.
    Teamwork is a complete mystery, particularly to the boys who see only the bal flashing into the back of the net and the personal glory of dancing around the corner post.
    At halftime we’re down four nil. The kids are sucking on quarters of orange. I tel them how wel they’re playing. “This team is undefeated,” I say, lying through my teeth. “But you guys are holding them.”
    I put Douglas, our strongest kicker, in goal for the second half. Andrew, our leading goal-scorer, is ful back.
    “But I’m a striker,” he whines.
    “Dominic is playing up front.”
    They al look at Dominic, who giggles and shoves his hand down his pants.
    “Forget about dribbling, or passing, or scoring goals,” I say. “Just go out there and try to kick the bal as hard as you can.” As the game restarts I have a posse of parents bending my ear about my positional changes. They think I’ve lost the plot. But there’s a method to my madness. Soccer at this level is al about momentum. Once the bal is moving forward the whole game moves in that direction. That’s why I want my strongest kickers at the back.
    For the first few minutes nothing changes. The Tigers may as wel be chasing shadows. Then the bal fal s to Douglas and he hoofs it upfield. Dominic tries to run out of the way, fal s