Shatter (17 page)

A man in baggy trousers and a sweatshirt has hold of the dog’s col ar. He looks older than thirty-two, with pale eyes and wispy blonde hair combed straight back. Screaming accusations at the police, he tel s them to fuck off and leave him alone. The dog scrabbles on its hind legs, trying to wrench itself free. Guns are drawn. Someone or something is going to get shot.

I’m watching from the stairwel . Officers have retreated halfway along the corridor. Another group are twelve feet on the far side of the door.

Ful er can’t get away. Everyone should settle down.

‘Don’t let them shoot him,’ I say.

Veronica Cray looks at me derisively. ‘If I wanted to shoot him, I’d do it myself.’

‘Let me talk to him.’

‘Leave this to us.’

Ignoring her, I push through shoulders. Ful er is twelve feet away, stil screaming above the snarling and frothing of his dog.

‘Listen to me, Patrick,’ I shout. He hesitates, sizing me up. His face is working relentlessly, writhing in anger and accusation. ‘My name is Joe.’

‘Fuck off, Mr Joe.’

‘What seems to be the problem?’

‘No problem, if they leave me alone.’

I take another step and the dog lunges.

‘I’l let him go.’

‘I’m staying right here.’

I lean against the wal and look at the concrete floor which is stained with oily black discs of flattened chewing gum. Taking out my mobile, I slide it open and flick through the menu options, looking through old text messages. The pit bul feels less threatened when I don’t make eye contact. There is a lul that al ows everybody to take a deep breath.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see the guns stil raised.

‘They’re going to shoot you, Patrick, or shoot your dog.’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong. Tel them to go away.’

His accent is more educated than I expected. ‘They won’t do that. It’s gone too far.’

‘They broke my fucking door.’

‘OK, maybe they should have knocked first. We can talk about that later.’

The pit bul lunges again. Ful er wrenches it back. The animal hacks and coughs.

‘You ever watched those American real life crime shows, Patrick? The ones where TV helicopters and news crews film police car chases and people getting arrested.’

‘I don’t watch much TV.’

‘OK, but you know the shows I mean. Remember O.J. Simpson and the Ford Bronco? We al watched it: news helicopters beaming pictures around the world as O.J. drove along the freeway.

‘You know what always struck me as stupid about that scene. It’s the same with a lot of getaways. Guys keep trying to run with a string of police cars behind them and a chopper in the air and news crews filming the whole thing. Even when they crash the car, they jump out and leg it over barricades and wire fences and garden wal s. It’s ridiculous because they’re not going to get away— not with al those people chasing them. And the only thing they’re doing is making themselves look guilty as sin.’

‘O.J. wasn’t found guilty.’

‘You’re right. A dozen people on a jury couldn’t decide, but the rest of us did. O.J. looked guilty. He sounded guilty. Most people think he is.’

Patrick is watching me closely now. His features have stopped writhing. The dog has gone quiet.

‘You look like a pretty clever guy, Patrick. And I don’t think a clever guy like you would make that sort of mistake. You’d say: “Hey, officers, what’s al the fuss? Sure I’l answer your questions. Let me just cal my lawyer.”

There’s a hint of a smile. ‘I don’t know any lawyers.’

‘I can get you one.’

‘Can you get me Johnny Cochran?’

‘I’l get you his distant cousin, Frank.’

This earns a proper smile. I slip my phone back in my pocket.

‘I fought for this country,’ says Patrick. ‘I saw mates die. You know what that’s like?’

‘No.’

‘Tel me why I should put up with shit like this.’

‘It’s the system, Patrick.’

‘Fuck the system.’

‘Most of the time it works.’

‘Not for me.’

I straighten up and open my hands in a show of submission.

‘It’s up to you. If I walk back down the corridor, they’re going to shoot your dog or they’re going to shoot you. Alternatively, you go back to your flat, lock the dog in a bedroom and come on out, hands raised. Nobody gets hurt.’

He contemplates this for a few more moments and pul s hard on the col ar, wrenching the animal’s head around and pul ing it inside. A minute later he emerges. The police close in.

Within moments Patrick is forced to his knees, then his stomach, with his hands dragged behind his back. A dog handler has gone inside with a long pole and noose. The pit bul thrashes in the air as he brings it outside.

‘Not the dog,’ whispers Patrick. ‘Don’t hurt my dog.’

22

A police interrogation is a performance with three acts. The first introduces the characters; the second provides the conflict and the third the resolution.

This interrogation has been different. For the past hour Veronica Cray has been trying to make sense of Patrick Ful er’s rambling answers and bizarre rationalisations. He denies being in Leigh Woods. He denies seeing Christine Wheeler. He denies being discharged from the army. He seems ready to deny his own history. At the same time he can suddenly, inexplicably, become absorbed in a single fact and focus on it, ignoring everything else.

I watch from behind the one-way glass, feeling like a voyeur. The interview suite is new, refurbished in pastel colours with padded chairs and seaside prints on the wal s. Patrick stalks the four corners with his head down and hands at his sides as though he’s lost his bus fare. DI Cray asks him to sit down. He does but only for a moment. Each new question sets him in motion again.

He reaches for his back pocket, looking for something— a comb perhaps. It’s no longer there. Then he runs his fingers through his hair, combing it back. He has a scar on his left hand, an ‘x’ that stretches from the base of his thumb and smal est finger to either edge of his wrist.

A lawyer from Legal Services has been summoned to advise him. Middle-aged and business-like, she tucks her briefcase between her knees and sits with a large foolscap pad beneath her clasped hands. Patrick doesn’t seem impressed. He wanted a man.

‘Please instruct your client to sit down,’ demands Veronica Cray.

‘I’m trying,’ she says.

‘And tel him to stop pissing about.’

‘He is co-operating.’

‘That’s an interesting interpretation of it.’

The two women don’t like each other. Perhaps there’s a history. The DI produces a sealed plastic evidence bag.

‘I’m going to ask you again, Mr Ful er, have you seen this phone before?’

‘No.’

‘It was recovered from your flat.’

‘Then it must be mine.’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘Finders keepers.’

‘Are you saying you found it?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Where were you on Friday afternoon?’

‘I went to the beach.’

‘It was raining.’

He shakes his head.

‘Was anyone with you?’

‘My children.’

‘You were looking after your children.’

‘Jessica col ected shel s in her bucket and George made a sand-castle. George can’t swim but Jessica is learning. They paddled.’

‘How old are your children?’

‘Jessica is six and I think George is four.’

‘You don’t seem sure?’

‘Of course, I’m sure.’

The DI tries to pin him down on the details, asking what time he arrived at the beach, what time they left and who they might have seen. Ful er describes a typical outing on a summer’s day, buying ice-cream, sitting on the shingles and queuing for donkey rides.

It is a persuasive performance, yet impossible to believe. A dozen counties had flood warnings on Friday. There were gales along the Atlantic Coast and in the Severn.

Veronica Cray is becoming frustrated. It would be easier if Ful er said nothing at al — at least she could unpack the evidence logical y and build a wal of facts to hold him. Instead his excuses are constantly changing and forcing her to backtrack.

The phenomenon is not so strange to me. I have seen it in my consulting room— patients who construct elaborate conceits and fictions, unwil ing to be tied down.

The interview is suspended. There is silence in the anteroom. Monk and Roy exchange glances and lip-bitten smiles, taking perverse pleasure in seeing their boss fail. I doubt if it happens very often.

DI Cray hurls a clipboard against a wal . Papers flutter to the floor.

‘I don’t think he’s being consciously deceitful,’ I say. ‘He’s trying to be helpful.’

‘The guy is madder than a clown’s dick.’

‘It could be that he
can’t
remember.’

‘What a load of shite!’

I stand awkwardly before her. Monk studies the polished toes of his shoes. Safari Roy examines his thumbnail. Ful er has been taken downstairs to a holding cel .

A brain injury could explain his behaviour. He was wounded in Afghanistan. A roadside bomb. The only way to be certain is to get his medical records or to give him a psych evaluation.

‘Let me talk to him.’

There is a beat of silence. ‘What good is that to us?’

‘I’l tel you if he’s a legitimate suspect.’

‘He’s already a suspect. He had Christine Wheeler’s phone.’

‘I want to treat Ful er like a patient. No recordings. No videos. Off the record.’

Anger ripples across Veronica Cray’s shoulders. Monk and Roy give me a pitying look, as though I’m a condemned man. The DI begins listing reasons why I’m not al owed in the interview suite. If Patrick Ful er is charged with murder, he could use my interview as a loophole and try to escape prosecution because due process wasn’t fol owed.

‘What if we cal it a psychological evaluation?’

‘Ful er would have to agree.’

‘I’l talk to his lawyer.’

Ful er’s Legal Aid solicitor listens to my arguments and we agree on the rules of engagement. Nothing her client says can be used against him unless he agrees to be interviewed on the record.

Patrick is brought upstairs again. I watch from the darkness of the observation room as he walks careful y across the interview suite, turns and retraces his steps, trying to put his feet on exactly the same squares of carpet. He hesitates. He has forgotten how many steps it is to get back to where he started. Closing his eyes, he tries to picture his steps. Then he moves again.

I open the door and startle him. For a moment I am too much to fathom. Then he remembers me. His concern is replaced by a series of smal covert grimaces, as though he’s fine-tuning his facial muscles until he’s happy with the face he shows the world.

The Legal Aid solicitor fol ows me into the room and takes a seat in the corner.

‘Hel o, Patrick.’

‘My dog.’

‘Your dog is being looked after.’

‘What did you see on the floor a minute ago?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You didn’t want to step on something.’

‘The mousetraps.’

‘Who put the mousetraps on the floor?’

He looks at me hopeful y. ‘You can see them?’

‘How many can
you
see?’

He points, counting. ‘Twelve, thirteen…’

‘I’m a psychologist, Patrick. Have you ever talked to someone like me before?’

He nods.

‘After you were wounded?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have nightmares?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘What are your nightmares about?’

‘Blood.’ He takes a seat and stands again almost immediately.

‘Blood?’

‘First I see Leon’s body, lying on top of me. His eyes have rol ed back in his head. There’s blood everywhere. I know he’s dead. I have to push him off me. Spike is trapped underneath the chassis of the troop carrier, pinned by his legs. No way we can lift it off him. Bul ets are bouncing off the metal like raindrops and we’re scrambling for cover.

‘Spike is screaming his head off because his legs are crushed and the carrier is on fire. And we al know that when the flames reach the arsenal the whole thing’s going to blow.’

Patrick is breathing in rapid, truncated gasps and his forehead is beaded with sweat.

‘Is that what happened in real life, Patrick?’

He doesn’t answer.

‘Where is Spike now?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Did he die in the contact?’

Patrick nods.

‘How did he die?’

‘He was shot.’

‘Who shot him?’

He whispers. ‘I did.’

His lawyer wants to intervene. I raise my hand slightly, wanting just a moment more.

‘Why did you shoot Spike?’

‘A bul et had hit him in the chest, but he was stil screaming. The flames had reached his legs. We couldn’t get him out. We were pinned down. We were ordered to pul back. He screamed out to me. He was begging… dying.’

Patrick’s facial muscles are twisting in anguish. He covers his face with his hands and peers at me through the splayed fingers.

‘It’s OK,’ I tel him. ‘Just relax.’ I pour him a cup of water.

He reaches forward and needs two hands to raise the cup to his lips. His eyes are watching me as he drinks. Then he notices my left hand. My thumb and forefinger are pil rol ing again.

It’s a detail he seems to register and store away.

‘I’m going to ask you some questions, Patrick. It’s not a test, but I just need you to concentrate.’

He nods.

‘What day is today?’

‘Friday.’

‘What is the date?’

‘The sixteenth.’

‘Actual y it’s the fifth. What month?’

‘August.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘It’s hot outside.’

‘You’re not dressed for a hot day.’

He looks at his clothes, almost surprised. I then notice his eyes lift and move slightly to focus on something behind me. I keep talking to him about the weather and turn my head far enough to see the wal at my back. A framed print is hanging beside the mirror— a beachside scene with children playing on the shingles and paddling. There is a Ferris wheel in the background and an ice-cream barrow.