Another shriek of laughter echoes across the bar. Two men have joined the hen party. One of them has his arm around her mum’s waist and a pint glass in his other hand. He whispers something in her ear. She nods her head.
“I wish I could go home,” says Alice, looking miserable.
“I’d take you if I could,” I say, “but your mum wouldn’t allow it.”
Alice nods. “I’m not even supposed to talk to strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger. I know all about you. I know you like Coldplay and you have a horse called Sally and you live in Bath.”
She laughs. “How do you know where I live? I didn’t tell you that.”
“Yes you did.”
She shakes her head adamantly.
“Well, your mother must have mentioned it.”
“Do you know her?”
“Maybe.”
Her lemonade is finished. I offer to buy her another one but she refuses. The wet cold from the open doorway makes her shiver.
“I must go, Alice. It’s been nice meeting you.”
She nods.
I smile but my eyes are focused on the dance floor where her mother is clinging to her new male friend who bends her backwards and nuzzles her neck. I bet she smells like overripe fruit. She’ll bruise easily. She’ll break quickly. I can taste the juice already.
21
The phone is ringing in my sleep. Julianne reaches across me and lifts the handset from its cradle.
“Do you know what time it is?” she says angrily. “It’s not even five o’clock. You’ve woken the whole house.”
I manage to pry the handset from her fingers. Veronica Cray is on the line.
“Rise and shine, Professor, I’m sending a car.”
“What’s wrong?”
“We have a development.”
Julianne has rolled over, pulling the duvet resolutely under her chin. She pretends to be asleep. I begin dressing and struggle to button my shirt and tie my shoes. Eventually, she sits up, tugging at the front panels of my shirt and drawing me closer. I can smell the soft sourness of her sleepy breath.
“Don’t wear your corduroy trousers.”
“What’s wrong with corduroy?”
“We don’t have enough time for me to tell you what’s wrong with corduroy. Trust me on this one.”
She unscrews my pill bottles and fetches me a glass of water. I feel decrepit and grateful. Melancholy.
“I thought it would be different,” she whispers, more to herself than to me.
“What do you mean?”
“When we moved out of London—I thought things would be different. No detectives or police cars or you thinking about terrible crimes.”
“They need my help.”
“You want to help them.”
“We’ll talk later,” I say, bending to kiss her. She turns her cheek and pulls the bedclothes around her.
Monk and Safari Roy are waiting for me outside. Monk opens the car door for me and Roy guns the car around the turning circle outside the church, spraying gravel and mud across the grass. God knows what the neighbors will think.
Monk is so tall his knees seem to concertina against the dashboard. The radio chatters. Neither detective seems ready to tell me where we’re going.
Half an hour later we pull up in the shadow of Bristol City football ground, where three brutally ugly tower blocks rise above Victorian terraces, prefabricated factories and a car yard. A police bus is parked on the corner. A dozen officers are sitting inside, some of them wearing body armor. Veronica Cray raises her head from a car bonnet where a map has been spread across the cooling metal. Oliver Rabb is alongside her, bending low, as if embarrassed by his height or her lack of it.
“Sorry if I caused any marital disharmony,” the DI says, disingenuously.
“That’s OK.”
“Oliver here has been a busy boy.” She indicates a reference point on the map. “At 19:00 hours last night Christine Wheeler’s mobile began pinging a tower about four hundred yards from here. It’s the same phone she left home with on Friday afternoon but it hasn’t transmitted since the signal went dead in Leigh Woods and she began using a second mobile.”
“Someone made a call?” I ask.
“Ordered a pizza. It was delivered to the flat belonging to Patrick Fuller—an ex-soldier. He was discharged from the army for being ‘temperamentally unsuitable.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
She shrugs. “Your area, not mine. Fuller was wounded by a roadside bomb in southern Afghanistan a year or so back. Two of his platoon died. A nurse at a military hospital in Germany accused him of feeling her up. The army discharged him.”
I glance at the gray concrete tower blocks, which are like islands against a brightening sky.
The DI is still talking.
“Four months ago Fuller lost his license for DUI after testing positive for cocaine. Wife walked out on him around that time, taking their two kids.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Does he know Christine Wheeler?”
“Unknown.”
“So what happens now?”
“We arrest him.”
The tower block has internal stairs and a lift serving all floors. The service entrance smells of disemboweled bin bags, cat piss and wet newspapers. Patrick Fuller lives on the fourth floor.
I watch as a dozen officers in body armor climb the stairs. Four more use the lift. Their movements are choreographed by months of training yet it still seems overblown and unnecessary when considering the suspect has no history of violence.
Maybe this is the future—a legacy of 9/11 and the London train bombings. Police no longer knock on doors and politely ask suspects to accompany them to the station. Instead they dress up in body armor and break the doors down with battering rams. Privacy and personal freedom are less important than public safety. I understand the arguments but I miss the old days.
The lead officer has reached the flat and presses his ear against the door. He turns and nods. Veronica Cray nods back. A battering ram swings in a short arc. The door disappears. The arrest party suddenly stops. A snarling pit bull terrier lunges at the closest officer, who rocks back and stumbles. All fangs and fury, the pit bull hurls itself at his throat but is held back.
A man in baggy trousers and a sweatshirt has hold of the dog’s collar. He looks older than thirty-two, with pale eyes and wispy blond hair combed straight back. Screaming accusations at the police, he tells 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 stairwell. Officers have retreated halfway along the corridor. Another group are twelve feet on the far side of the door.
Fuller 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. Fuller is twelve feet away, still 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’ll let him go.”
“I’m staying right here.”
I lean against the wall 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 bull feels less threatened when I don’t make eye contact. There is a lull that allows everybody to take a deep
breath.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see the guns still raised.
“They’re going to shoot you, Patrick, or shoot your dog.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong. Tell 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 bull lunges again. Fuller 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 all 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 walls. It’s ridiculous because they’re not going to get away—not with all 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 all the fuss? Sure I’ll answer your questions. Let me just call my lawyer.’ ”
There’s a hint of a smile. “I don’t know any lawyers.”
“I can get you one.”
“Can you get me Johnnie Cochran?”
“I’ll 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.”
“Tell 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 pulls hard on the collar, wrenching the animal’s head around and pulling 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 bull 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 Fuller’s rambling answers and bizarre rationalizations. 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 colors with padded chairs and seaside prints on the walls. 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 smallest 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 tell him to stop pissing about.”
“He is cooperating.”
“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. Fuller, 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 collected shells in her bucket and George made a sandcastle. 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. Fuller 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 Fuller said nothing at all—at least she could unpack the evidence logically and build a wall 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, unwilling 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 wall. 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. Fuller has been taken downstairs to a holding cell.
A brain injury could explain his behavior. 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’ll tell you if he’s a legitimate suspect.”
“He’s already a suspect. He had Christine Wheeler’s phone.”
“I want to treat Fuller 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 allowed in the interview suite. If Patrick Fuller is charged with murder, he could use my interview as a loophole and try to escape prosecution because due process wasn’t followed.
“What if we call it a psychological evaluation?”
“Fuller would have to agree.”
“I’ll talk to his lawyer.”
Fuller’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 carefully 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 small 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 follows me into the room and takes a seat in the corner.
“Hello, 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 hopefully. “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.”
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