Shatter jo-3

by Michael Robotham

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who’s paying for his treatment?’

  ‘That’s confidential information.’

  ‘Who brought him in here?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Gideon Tyler?’

  ‘I don’t see how that could possibly concern the police.’

  Veronica Cray has heard enough. On her feet, she leans across the desk and pins Caplin with a glare that makes his eyes widen.

  ‘I don’t think you fully understand the gravity of this situation, doctor. Gideon Tyler is a suspect in a murder investigation. Patrick Fuller may be an accessory. Unless you can provide me with medical evidence that Mr Fuller is at risk of being psychologically harmed by a police interview, I’m going to ask you one last time to make him available or I’ll come back with a warrant for his arrest and for yours on charges of obstructing my investigation. Not even Mr Fowler will be able to help you then.’

  Dr Caplin stammers a reply, which is totally incomprehensible. All trace of smugness has disappeared. Veronica Cray is still talking.

  ‘Professor O’Loughlin is a mental health professional. He will be present during the interview. If at any stage Patrick Fuller becomes agitated or his condition worsens, then I’m sure the Professor will safeguard his welfare.’

  There is a pause. Dr Caplin picks up his phone.

  ‘Please inform Patrick Fuller that he has visitors.’

  The room is simply furnished with a single bed, a chair, a small TV on a plinth and a chest of drawers. Patrick is much smaller than I imagined from his photographs. The handsome, dark-haired soldier in dress uniform has been replaced by a pale rumpled imitation in a white vest, yellowing under his armpits, and jogging pants rolled below his hipbones which stick out like doorknobs from beneath his skin.

  Scar tissue from his surgery is puckered and hardened beneath his right armpit. Patrick has lost weight. His muscles have gone and his neck is so thin that his Adam’s apple looks like a cancerous lump bobbing as he swallows.

  I pull up a chair and sit opposite him, filling his vision. DI Cray seems happy to stay near the door. Fernwood makes her uncomfortable.

  ‘Hello, Patrick, my name’s Joe.’

  ‘How ya doing?’

  ‘I’m good. How are you?’

  ‘Getting better.’

  ‘That’s good. You like it here?’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘Have you seen Gideon Tyler?’

  The question doesn’t surprise him. He’s so heavily medicated his moods and movements have been flattened to a physical monotone.

  ‘Not since Friday.’

  ‘How often does he come and see you?’

  ‘Wednesdays and Fridays.’

  ‘Today’s Wednesday.’

  ‘Guess he’ll be along soon.’

  His long restless fingers pinch the skin on his wrist. I see the red pressure marks left behind.

  ‘How long have you known Gideon?’

  ‘Since I joined the Paras. He was a real hard case. He busted my balls all the time but that’s only cos I was lazy.’

  ‘He was an officer?’

  ‘A one-pip wonder: second Lieutenant.’

  ‘Gideon didn’t stay with the Paras.’

  ‘Nah, he joined the green slime.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The Army Intelligence Corp. We used to tell jokes about them.’

  ‘What sort of jokes?’

  ‘They’re not proper soldiers, you know. They spend all day sticking maps together and using coloured pencils.’

  ‘Is that what Gideon did?’

  ‘Never said.’

  ‘Surely he must have mentioned something.’

  ‘He’d have had to kill me if he told me.’ A smile. He looks at the nurse. ‘When can I get a brew? Something hot and wet.’

  ‘Soon,’ says the nurse.

  Patrick scratches the scarring beneath his armpit.

  ‘Did Gideon tell you why he came back to England?’ I ask.

  ‘Nope. He’s not much of a talker.’

  ‘His wife left him.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘Gideon said she was a skanky whore.’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘That’s good then.’

  ‘His daughter is also dead.’

  Patrick’s body flinches and he rolls his tongue into his cheek.

  ‘How does Gideon afford to pay the bills at a place like this?’

  Patrick shrugs. ‘He married money.’

  ‘But now she’s dead.’

  He looks at me sheepishly. ‘Haven’t we been over this.’

  ‘Did Gideon come to see you last Monday?’

  ‘When was Monday?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What about the Monday before?’

  ‘Can’t remember that far back. Might have been when he took me out for a meal. We went to the pub. Don’t remember which one. You should check the visitor’s book. Time in. Time out.’

  Patrick pinches the skin on his wrists again. It’s a trigger mechanism designed to stop his mind from wandering, helping him stay on message.

  ‘Why are you so interested in Gideon?’ he asks.

  ‘We’d like to speak to him.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ he takes a mobile from the pocket of his track pants. ‘I’ll call him.’

  ‘That’s OK. Just give me his number.’

  Patrick is punching the buttons. ‘You got all these questionsjust ask him.’

  I glance at Veronica Cray. She shakes her head.

  ‘Hang up,’ I tell Patrick, urgently.

  It’s too late. He hands me the mobile.

  Someone answers: ‘Hey, hey, how’s my favourite loony?’

  There’s a pause. I should terminate the call. I don’t.

  ‘It’s not Patrick,’ I say.

  There is another silence. ‘How did you get his phone?’

  ‘He gave it to me.’

  There is another pause. Silence. Gideon’s mind is working overtime. Then I hear him laugh. I can picture him smiling.

  ‘Hello, Professor, you found me.’

  DI Cray is running her finger across her neck. She wants me to hang up. Tyler knows he’s been identified. Nobody is tracing the signal.

  ‘How is Patrick?’ asks Gideon.

  ‘Getting better, he says. It must be expensive keeping him here.’

  ‘Friends look after each other. It’s a matter of honour.’

  ‘Why did you pretend to be him?’

  ‘The police came bursting through the door. Nobody stopped and asked me who I was. You all assumed I was Patrick.’

  ‘And you maintained the lie.’

  ‘I had some fun.’

  Patrick is sitting on the bed, listening and smiling secretively. I stand and walk past the nurse into a corridor. Veronica Cray follows me, whispering harshly in my ear.

  Gideon is still talking. He calls me Mr Joe.

  ‘Why are you still looking for your wife?’ I ask.

  ‘She took something that belongs to me.’

  ‘What did she take?’

  ‘Ask her.’

  ‘I would, but she’s dead. She drowned.’

  ‘If you say so, Mr Joe.’

  ‘You don’t believe it.’

  ‘I know her better than you do.’

  It’s a rasping statement, laced with hatred.

  ‘What were you doing with Christine Wheeler’s mobile?’

  ‘I found it.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence- finding a phone that belonged to your wife’s oldest friend.’

  ‘Truth is stranger than fiction.’

  ‘Did you tell her to jump from the bridge?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘What about Sylvia Furness?’

  ‘Name rings a bell. Is she a TV weathergirl?’

  ‘You made her handcuff herself t
o a tree and she died of exposure.’

  ‘Good luck proving that.’

  ‘Maureen Bracken is alive. She’s going to give us your name. The police are going to find you, Gideon.’

  He chuckles. ‘You’re full of shit, Mr Joe. So far you’ve mentioned a suicide, a death due to exposure and a police shooting. Nothing to do with me. You don’t have a single solid, first-hand piece of evidence that links me to any of this.’

  ‘We have Maureen Bracken.’

  ‘Never met the woman. Ask her.’

  ‘I did. She says she met you once.’

  ‘She’s lying.’

  The words are sucked through his teeth as though he’s nibbling on a tiny seed.

  ‘Help me understand something, Gideon. Do you hate women?’

  ‘Are we talking intellectually, physically or as a sub-species?’

  ‘You’re a misogynist.’

  ‘I knew there’d be a word for it.’

  He’s teasing me now. He thinks he’s cleverer than I am. So far he’s right. I can hear a school bell in the background. Children are jostling and shouting.

  ‘Maybe we could meet,’ I say.

  ‘Sure. We could do lunch some time.’

  ‘How about now?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m busy.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m waiting for a bus.’

  Air brakes sound in the silence. A diesel engine knocks and trembles.

  ‘I have to go, Professor. It’s been nice talking to you. Give my best to Patrick.’

  He hangs up. I hit redial. The mobile is turned off.

  I look at DI Cray and shake my head. She swings her right boot at a wastepaper bin, which thuds into the opposite wall and bounces off again. The large dent in the side of the bin makes it rock unevenly on the carpeted floor.

  46

  The bus door hisses open. Students pile forward, pushing between shoulders. Some of them are carrying papier mache masks and hollowed-out pumpkins. Halloween is two weeks away.

  There she is; dressed in a tartan skirt, black tights and bottle green jumper. She finds a seat halfway down the bus and drops her school bag beside her. Strands of hair have escaped from her ponytail.

  I swing past her on my crutches. She doesn’t look up. All the seats are taken. I stare at one of the schoolboys, rocking back on forth on my metal sticks. He moves. I sit down.

  The older boys have commandeered the back seats, yelling out the windows at their mates. The ringleader has a mouthful of braces and bum fluff on his chin. He’s watching the girl. She’s picking at her fingernails.

  The bus has started moving- stopping, dropping and picking up. The kid with the braces makes his way forward, moving past me. He leans over her seat and snatches her schoolbag. She tries to grab it back but he kicks it along the floor. She asks nicely. He laughs. She tells him to grow up.

  I move behind him. My hand seems to clap him gently on the neck. It’s a friendly looking gesture- fatherly- but my fingers have closed on either side of his spine. His eyeballs are bulging and his thick-soled shoes are balancing on their toes.

  His mates have come down the bus. One of them tells me to let him go.

  I give him a stare. They go quiet. The bus driver, a mud-coloured Sikh in a turban, is looking in the rear mirror.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he shouts.

  ‘I think this kid is sick,’ I say. ‘He needs some fresh air.’

  ‘You want me to stop?’

  ‘He’ll get a later bus.’ I look at the boy. ‘Won’t you?’ I move my hand. His head nods up and down.

  The bus pulls up. I guide the boy to the back door.

  ‘Where’s his bag?’

  Somebody passes it forward.

  I let him go. He drops onto a seat at the bus shelter. The door closes with a hiss. We pull away.

  The girl is looking at me uncertainly. Her schoolbag is on her lap now, beneath her folded arms.

  I take a seat in front of her, resting my crutches on the metal rail.

  ‘Do you know if this bus goes past Bradford Road?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  I open a bottle of water. ‘I can never read those maps they put up in the shelters.’

  Still she doesn’t answer.

  ‘Isn’t it amazing how we buy water in plastic bottles. When I was a kid you would have died of thirst looking for bottled water. My old man says it’s a disgrace. Soon they’ll be charging us for clean air.’

  No response.

  ‘I guess you’re not supposed to talk to strangers.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s OK. It’s good advice. It’s cold today, don’t you think? Especially for a Friday.’

  She takes the bait. ‘It’s not Friday. It’s Wednesday.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I take another sip of water.

  ‘What difference does the day make?’ she asks.

  ‘Well you see the days of the week each have a different character. Saturdays are busy. Sundays are slow. Fridays are supposed to be full of promise. Mondays… well we all hate Mondays.’

  She smiles and looks away. For a brief moment we are complicit. I enter her mind. She enters mine.

  ‘The guy with the braces- he a friend of yours?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He gives you problems?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘You try to avoid him but he finds you?’

  ‘We catch the same bus.’

  She’s beginning to get the hang of this conversation.

  ‘You got brothers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You know how to knee someone? That’s what you do- knee him right in the you-know-where.’

  She blushes. Sweet.

  ‘Want to hear a joke?’ I say.

  She doesn’t answer.

  ‘A woman gets on a bus with her baby and the bus driver says, “That’s the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen.” The woman is furious but pays the fare and sits down. Another passenger says, “You can’t let him get away with saying that. You go back and tell him off. Here, I’ll hold the monkey for you.”‘

  I get a proper laugh this time. It’s the sweetest thing you ever heard. She’s a peach, a sweet, sweet peach.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  She doesn’t answer.

  ‘Oh right, I forgot, you’re not supposed to talk to strangers. I guess I’ll have to call you Snowflake.’

  She stares out the window.

  ‘Well, this is my stop,’ I say, pulling myself up. A crutch topples into the aisle. She bends and picks it up for me.

  ‘What happened to your leg?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why do you need the crutches?’

  ‘Gets me a seat on the bus.’

  Again she laughs.

  ‘It’s been nice talking to you, Snowflake.’

  47

  Maureen Bracken has tubes flowing into her and tubes flowing out. It has been two days since the shooting and a day since she woke, pale and relieved, with only a vague idea of what happened. Every few hours a nurse gives her morphine and she floats into sleep again.

  She is under police guard at the Bristol Royal Infirmary- a landmark building in a city with precious few landmarks. Inside the front entrance at a welcome desk there are volunteers wearing blue and white sashes. They look like geriatric beauty queens who missed their pageant by forty years.

  I mention Maureen Bracken’s name. The smiles disappear. A police officer is summoned from upstairs. Ruiz and I wait in the foyer, glancing through magazines at the hospital shop.

  Bruno’s voice booms from an opening lift.

  ‘Thank God, a friendly face. Come to cheer the old girl up?’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Looking better. I had no idea a bullet could make such a mess. Horrible. Missed all the important bits, that’s the main thing.’

  He looks genuinely relieved. We spend the next few minutes tradi
ng cliches about what the world’s coming to.

  ‘I’m just off to get some decent food,’ he says. ‘Can’t have her eating hospital swill. Full of super-bugs.’

  ‘It’s not as bad as you think,’ I say.

  ‘No, it’s worse,’ says Ruiz.

  ‘Do you think they’ll mind?’ asks Bruno

  ‘I’m sure they won’t.’

  He waves goodbye and disappears through the automatic doors.

  A detective emerges from the lift. Italian-looking with a crew cut and a pistol slung low in a holster beneath his jacket. I recognise him from briefings at Trinity Road.

  He escorts us upstairs where a second officer is guarding the corridor outside Maureen Bracken’s room in a secure wing of the hospital. The detectives use metal detecting wands to screen visitors and medical personnel.

  The door opens. Maureen looks up from a magazine and smiles nervously. Her shoulder is bandaged and her arm held in a sling across her chest. Tubes appear and disappear beneath the bandages and bedding.

  She’s wearing make-up- for Bruno’s sake, I suspect. And the normally featureless room has been transformed by dozens of cards, painting and drawings. A banner is draped above her bed, fringed in gold and silver. It announces: GET WELL SOON and is signed by her hundreds of students.

  ‘You’re a very popular teacher,’ I say.

  ‘They all want to come and see me,’ she laughs. ‘Only in school hours of course, so they can get out of classes.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Better.’ She sits up a little higher. I adjust a pillow behind her back. Ruiz has stayed outside in the corridor, swapping off-colour jokes about nurses with the detectives.

  ‘You just missed Bruno,’ says Maureen.

  ‘I saw him downstairs.’

  ‘He’s gone to buy me lunch from Mario’s. I had this craving for pasta and a rocket and parmesan salad. It’s like being pregnant again and having Bruno spoil me, but don’t tell him I said that.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  She looks at her hands. ‘I’m sorry I tried to shoot you.’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  Her voice cracks momentarily. ‘It was horrible… the things he said about Jackson. I really believed him, you know. I really thought he was going to do it.’

  Maureen recounts again what happened. Every parent knows what it’s like to lose sight of a child in a supermarket or a playground or in a busy street. Two minutes becomes a lifetime. Two hours and you’re capable of almost anything. It was worse for Maureen. She listened to her son screaming and imagined his pain and death. The caller told her that she would never see Jackson again, never find his body; never know the truth.