* * * *
Morgan, the detective, watched the interview on the screen in my office, making sounds of dissent at regular intervals. When it was over, he asked, “Did you believe a word of that? The guy’s a fantasist. He should be a writer.”
“Some of it fits the facts,” I pointed out. “I believe there was a circus here last weekend. And I know for certain that the cable-laying in the High Street caused some problems after it was done.”
“The fact I’m concerned about is the killing of the old couple at twenty-nine, Steven Street, at the approximate time this Nathan was supposed to be on his way to the post.”
“You made that clear to me yesterday,” I said. “I put it to him today and he denies all knowledge of it.”
“He’s lying. His story’s full of holes. You notice he ducked your question about having a letter in his hand?”
“Popping round to the post is only a form of words.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning he’s going out. He needs space. He doesn’t mean it literally.”
“I’d put a different interpretation on it. It’s his way of glossing over a double murder.”
“That’s a big assumption, isn’t it?”
“He admitted walking up the left side of Steven Street.”
“Well, he would. It’s on his way to the High Street.”
“You seem to be taking his side.”
“I’m trying to hold on to the truth. In my work as a therapist, that’s essential.” I resisted the urge to point out that policemen should have a care for the truth as well.
“Are those his case notes on your desk?” Morgan said.
“Yes.”
“Any record of violence?”
“You heard him. He’s a softie.”
“Soft in the head. The murders seem to have been random and without motive. A sweet old couple who never caused anyone any grief. In a case like this, we examine all the options, but I’d stake my reputation this was done by a nutter.”
“That’s not a term I use, Inspector.”
“Call him what you like, we both know what I mean. A sane man doesn’t go round cutting people’s throats for no obvious reason. Nothing was taken. They had valuable antiques in the house and over two hundred pounds in cash.”
“Would that have made it more acceptable in your eyes, murder in the course of theft?”
“I’d know where he was coming from, wouldn’t I?”
“What about the crime scene? Doesn’t that give you any information?”
“It’s a bloody mess, that’s for sure. All the forensic tests are being carried out. The best hope is that the killer picked up some blood that matches the old couple’s DNA. He couldn’t avoid getting some on him. If we had the clothes Nathan was wearing that afternoon, we’d know for sure. He seems to have destroyed everything. He’s not so daft as he makes out.”
“The suit he borrowed?”
“Went out with the rubbish collection, he says. It didn’t fit, so it was useless to him, and the old man didn’t want it back.”
“Makes sense.”
“Certainly does. We’re assuming the killer stripped and took a shower at the house after the murders and then bundled his own clothes into a plastic sack and put on a suit from the old man’s wardrobe. Very likely helped himself to some clean shoes as well.”
“I’m no forensic expert, but if he did all that, surely he must have left some DNA traces about the house?”
“We hope so. Then we’ll have him, and I look forward to telling you about it.”
“What about the other suspect?”
There was a stunned silence. Morgan folded his arms and glared at me as if I was deliberately provoking him.
“Just in case,” I said, “you may find it helpful to watch the video of an interview I did later this morning with a man called Jon.”
* * * *
I knew Jon from many hours of psychotherapy. He sat hunched, as always, hands clasped, eyes downturned, a deeply repressed, passive personality.
“Jon,” my unseen voice said, “how long have you lived in that flat at the end of Steven Street?”
He sighed. “Three years. Maybe longer.”
“That must be about right. I’ve been seeing you for more than two years. And you still live alone?”
A nod.
“You manage pretty well, shopping and cooking, and so on. It’s an achievement just surviving in this modern world. But I expect there’s some time left over. What do you enjoy doing most?”
“Don’t know.”
“Watching television?”
“Not really.”
“You don’t have a computer?”
He shook his head.
“Do you get out of the house, apart from shopping and coming here?”
“I suppose.”
“You go for walks?”
He frowned as if straining to hear some distant sound.
“Just to get fresh air and exercise,” I said. “You live in a nice area. The gardens are full of flowers in Spring and Summer. I think you do get out quite a bit.”
“If you say so.”
“Then I dare say you’ve met some of your neighbours, the people along Steven Street, when they’re outside cleaning their cars, doing gardening, or walking the dog. Did you ever speak to the old couple at number twenty-nine?”
He started swaying back and forth in the chair. “I might have.”
“They have a little toy dog, a Chihuahua. They’re very attached to it, I understand.”
“Don’t like them,” Jon said, still swaying.
“Why’s that? Something they did?”
“Don’t know.”
“I think you do. Maybe they remind you of some people you knew once.”
He was silent, but the rocking became more agitated. Momentarily his chin lifted from his chest and his face was visible. Fear was written large there.
“Could this old couple have brought to mind those foster parents you told me about in a previous session, when we discussed your childhood, the people who locked you in the cupboard under the stairs?”
He moaned a little.
“They had a small dog, didn’t they?”
He covered his eyes and said, “Don’t.”
“All right,” I said. “We’ll talk about something else.”
* * * *
“You’ll get thrown out of the union, showing me that,” Morgan said. “Isn’t there such a thing as patient confidentiality?”
“In the first place, I don’t belong to a union,” I said, “and in the second, I’m trying to act in the best interests of all concerned.”
“Thinking he could kill again, are you?”
“Who are we talking about here?” I asked.
“The second man. Jon. He seems to have a thing about old people. He’s obviously very depressed.”
“That’s his usual state. It doesn’t make him a killer. I wanted you to look at the interview before you jump to a conclusion about Nathan, the other man.”
“Nathan isn’t depressed, that’s for sure.”
“Agreed. He has a more buoyant personality than Jon. Did you notice the body language? Nathan sits forward, makes eye contact, while Jon looks down all the time. You don’t see much of his face.”
“That stuff about the foster parents locking him in the cupboard. Is that true?”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure of it. I’d be confident of anything Jon tells me. He doesn’t give out much, but you can rely on him. With Nathan I’m never sure. He has a fertile imagination and he wants to communicate. He’s trying all the time to make his experiences interesting.”
“Falling into the pond, you mean? Did you believe that?”
“It’s not impossible. It would explain the change of clothes.”
“I was sure he was talking bollocks, but now that you’ve shown me this other man I’m less confident. I’d like to question Jon myself.”
“That won’t be possible,
” I said.
He reddened. “It’s a bit bloody late to put up the shutters. I’ve got my job to do and no one’s going to stand in my way.”
“Before you get heavy with me, Inspector, let me run a section of the second interview again. I’m going to turn off the sound and I want you to look closely at Jon. There’s a moment when he sways back and the light catches his face.”
I rewound the tape and let it play again, fast-forwarding until I found the piece I wanted, the moment I’d mentioned the old couple and Jon had started his swaying, a sure indicator of stress. “There.” I used the freeze-frame function.
Jon’s face was not quite in focus, but there was enough to make him recognisable.
“Christ Almighty,” Morgan said. “It’s the same guy. It’s Nathan.”
I let the discovery sink in.
“Am I right?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Then what the hell is going on?”
“This may be hard for you to accept. Nathan and Jon are two distinct identities contained in the same individual, a condition we know as Dissociative Identity Disorder. It used to be known as Multiple Personality Disorder, but we’ve moved on in our understanding. These so-called personalities are fragments of the same identity rather than self-contained characters. Jon is the primary identity, passive and repressed. Nathan is an alter ego, extrovert, cheerful and inventive.”
“I’ve heard of this,” Morgan said. “It’s like being possessed by different people. I saw a film once.”
“Exactly. Fertile material for Hollywood, but no entertainment at all if you happen to suffer with it. The disturbance is real and frightening. A subject can take on any number of personality states, each with its own self-image and identity. The identities act as if they have no connection with each other. My job is to deconstruct them and ultimately unite them into one individual. Jon and Nathan will become Jonathan.”
“Neat.”
“It may sound neat, but it’s a long process.”
“It’s neat for me,” he said. “I wasn’t sure which of the two guys is the killer. Now I know there’s only one of them, I’ve got him, whatever he calls himself.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” I said.
He shot me a foul look.
“The therapy requires me to find points of contact between the alter-personalities. When you came to me with this double murder, I could see how disturbing it would be for Jon. He carries most of the guilt. But this investigation of yours could be a helpful disturbance. It goes right back to the trauma that I think was the trigger for this condition, his ill-treatment at the hands of foster parents who happened to own a dog they pampered and preferred to the child.”
“My heart bleeds,” Morgan said, “but I have a job to do and two people are dead.”
“So you tell me. Jon thinks he may have murdered them, but he didn’t.”
“Come off it,” he said.
“Listen, please. Nathan’s story was true. He really did have that experience with the balloon and the little dog and falling in the pond. For him - as the more positive of the identities - it was one more entertaining experience to relate. But for Jon, who experienced it also, it was disturbing, raising memories of the couple who fostered him and abused him. He felt quite differently, murderous even.”
“Hold on,” Morgan said. “Are you trying to tell me the murders never happened?”
“They happened in the mind of Jon, and they are as real to him as if he cut those old people’s throats himself. But I promise you the old couple are alive and well. I went to Steven Street at lunchtime and spoke to them. They confirmed what Nathan told me.”
“I don’t get this. I’m thinking you’re nuts as well.”
“But it’s important that you do get it,” I told him. “There’s a third identity at work here. It acts as a kind of conscience, vengeful, controlling, and ready to condemn. It, too, is convinced the murders took place and have to be investigated. Recognizing this is the first step towards integration. Do me a favour and have another look at Jon’s face. It’s still on the screen.”
He gave an impatient sigh and glanced at the image.
“Now look at this, Inspector.”
I handed him a mirror.
<
* * * *
THE UNINVITED
Christopher Fowler
The elaborate silvered gates stood wide apart, ready to accept guests. You couldn’t arrive on foot, of course; there was nowhere to walk, except in the drive or through the sprinkler-wet grass, and it would have looked foolish climbing towards the house in the headlights of arriving cars.
Inside, the first thing I saw was an avenue of rustling palms, their slender trunks wound with twinkling blue and white lights, like giant candy sticks. Two robotically handsome valets in gold and crimson jackets were parking the cars, mostly sparkling black Mercedes, Daimlers, Volvos. The staircase was flanked by six teenaged waitresses in tiny red Santa outfits tentatively dispensing delicate flutes of champagne. A floodlit house, oblong, low and very white, was arranged on two levels between banked bottle-green lawns. I could hear muted laughter, murmuring, a delicate presence of guests. I saw silhouettes passing before the rippled phosphorescence of a pool with translucent globes pacing its perimeter. There was no sign of our host, but on the patio a butler, chef, bartenders and waiters were arranged behind banks of lurid, fleshy lobster tails and carrot batons.
There was a muffled beat in the air, the music designed to create ambience without being recognizable, Beatles’ songs rescored for a jazz trio. It was the end of the sixties, the age of Aquarius. Smokey Robinson and Dionne Warwick were in the charts, but there were no black people there that night except me.
In Los Angeles, parties aren’t about letting your hair down and having fun. They’re for networking, appraising, bargaining, being seen and ticked from a list. There were two kinds of guest roaming the house that night, ones who would have been noticed by their absence, and others who had been invited merely to fill up dead space. It goes without saying that I was in the latter group. Only Sidney Poitier would have made it into the former.
It was the home of Cary Dell, a slow-witted middleweight studio executive at MGM, and I remember seeing plenty of almost-familiar faces; Jacqueline Bisset, Victoria Vetri, Ralph Meeker, a couple of casting directors, some black-suited agents lurking together in a corner, fish-eyeing everyone else. The important people were seated in a semi-circular sunken lounge, lost among oversized purple cushions. The area was so exclusive that it might as well have had velvet ropes around it. Everyone else worked hard at keeping the conversation balloon-light and airborne, but couldn’t resist glancing over to the pit to see what was going on at the real centre of the party.
There was another kind of guest there that night. Dell had invited some beautiful young girls. No one unsavoury, they weren’t call-girls, just absurdly perfect, with slender waists and basalt eyes. They stood together tapping frosted pink nails on the sides of their martini glasses, flicking their hair, looking about, waiting for someone to talk to them.
Parties like this took place all over the Hollywood hills; the old school still arrived in tuxedos and floor-length gowns, but studios had lately rediscovered the youth movie, and were shamelessly courting the same anti-establishment students they had ridiculed five years earlier. I had made a couple of very bad exploitation flicks, usually cast as the kind of comic sidekick whose only purpose was his amusing blackness. Back in those days I believed in visibility at any cost, and always took the work.
I had a feeling I’d been added to the guest list by Dell’s secretary in order to make up numbers and provide him with a sheen of coolness, because I wore fringed brown leather trousers and had my hair in an Afro, and hadn’t entirely lost my Harlem jive. He sure hadn’t invited me for my conversation; we’d barely spoken more than two words to each other. If we had, Dell would have realized I came from a middle-class family in New Jersey, and I might not h
ave got the work.
I remember it was a cool night toward the end of November. The wind had dropped, and there were scents of patchouli and hashish in the air. The party was loosening up a little, the music rising in volume and tempo. Some of the beautiful girls were desultorily dancing together on a circular white rug in the lounge. I had been to a few of these parties and they always followed the same form, peaking at ten-thirty, with the guests calling for their cars soon after. People drank and drove more in those days, of course, but nobody of any importance stayed late because the studios began work at 4 a.m.
Best British Crime 6 - [Anthology] Page 60