Shatter

by Michael Robotham

  “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 rolled 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. Bullets 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 all 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 bullet had hit him in the chest, but he was still screaming. The flames had reached his legs. We couldn’t get him out. We were pinned down. We were ordered to pull 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 tell 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 pill rolling 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.”

  “Actually 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 wall 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.

  Patrick constructed his entire alibi from a single scene. The picture helped him fill in the details that he couldn’t remember about last Friday. That’s why he was so sure it was a hot day and that he took his children to the beach.

  Patrick has a problem with his contextual memory. He retains snippets of autobiographical information, but cannot anchor them to a specific time or place. The memories drift loose. Images collide. That’s why he tells rambling stories and avoids eye contact. He sees mousetraps on the floor.

  Reality is under constant review in his head. When a question comes along that he feels he should be able to answer, he looks for clues and creates a new script to fit them. The photograph on the wall gave him a framework and he spun a story around it, ignoring anomalies such as the rain or the time of year.

  If Patrick were a patient, I’d make an appointment schedule and ask to see his medical records. I might even organize a brain scan, which would probably show a right hemisphere brain injury—some sort of hemorrhage. At the very least he is suffering from post-traumatic stress. That’s why he confabulates and invents, constructing fantastic stories to explain things that he can’t remember. He does it inadvertently. Automatically.

  “Patrick,” I say gently, “if you don’t remember what happened last Friday, just tell me. I won’t think you foolish. Everybody forgets things. A phone was found in your house that belonged to a woman who was at Leigh Woods.”

  He looks at me blankly. I know the memory is there. He just can’t access the information.

  “She was naked,” I say. “She was wearing a yellow raincoat and high-heeled shoes.”

  His eyes stop wandering and rest on mine. “Her shoes were red.”

  “Yes.”

  It’s as though the wheels of a slot machine have lined up inside his head. The scattered fragments of memory and emotion are falling into place.

  “You saw her?”

  He hesitates. This time it will be a genuine lie. I don’t give him the opportunity.

  “She was on the path.”

  He nods.

  “Was she with anyone?”

  He shakes his head.

  “What was she doing?”

  “Walking.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “No.”

  “Did you follow her?”

  He nods. “That’s all I did.”

  “How did you get her phone?”

  “I found it.”

  “Where?”

  “She left it in her car.”

  “So you took it?”

  “It was unlocked,” he mumbles, unable to think of an excuse. “I was worried about her. I thought she might be in trouble.”

  “Then why didn’t you call the police?”

  “I-I-I didn’t have a phone.”

  “You had hers.”

  His face is a riot of tics and grimaces. He is on his feet, pacing back and forth, no longer avoiding the mousetraps. He says something. I don’t catch it. I ask him to say it again.

  “The battery was flat. I had to buy a charger. It cost me ten quid.”

  He looks at me hopefully. “Do you think they’ll give me a refund?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I only used it a few times.”

  “Listen to me, Patrick. Focus on me. The woman in the park, did you talk to her?”

  His face is twisting again.

  “What did she say, Patrick? It’s important.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t shake your head, Patrick. What did she say?”

  He shrugs, looking around the room, trying to find another picture to help him.

  “I don’t want you to make it up, Patrick. If you don’t remember, just tell me. But it’s really important. Think hard.”

  “She asked about her daughter. She wanted to know if I’d seen her.”

  “Did she say why?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Is that all she said?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened then?”

  He shrugs. “She ran away.”

  “Did you follow her?”

  “No.”

  “Did she have a phone with her, Patrick? Was she talking to someone?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I couldn’t hear.”

  I carry on with the questioning, trying to build a framework of truths. Without warning, Patrick stops and gazes at the floor. Raising one foot, he steps over a “mousetrap.” I’ve lost him again. He’s somewhere else.

  “Maybe we should give him a break,” says the lawyer.

  Outside the interview room, I sit down with the detectives and explain why I think Patrick confabulates and invents stories.

  “So he’s brain damaged,” says Safari Roy, trying to paraphrase my clinical descriptions.

  “Doesn’t make him innocent,” adds Monk.

  “Is this a permanent condition?” asks Veronica Cray.

  “I don’t know. Patrick retains kernels of information but he can’t anchor them to a specific time or place. His memories drift loose. If you show
him a photograph and prove to him that he was in Leigh Woods, he will accept it. But that doesn’t mean he remembers being there.”

  “Which means he could still be our man.”

  “That’s very unlikely. You heard him. His head is crowded with snatches of conversations, images, his wife, his children, things that happened before he was injured. These things are bouncing around in his head without any sense or order. He can function. He can hold down a simple job. But whenever his memory fails him, he makes something up.”

  “So we won’t get a statement,” says the DI, dismissively. “We don’t need one. He admitted to being at the scene. He had her phone.”

  “He didn’t make her jump.”

  DI Cray cuts me off. “With all due respect, Professor, I know you’re good at what you do but you have no idea what this man is capable of.”

  “You can think I’m wrong, but that’s no reason to quit thinking. I’m giving my opinion. You’re making a mistake.”

  With an air of finality the DI straightens a stack of papers and begins issuing instructions. She wants the manager of the mobile phone shop and his assistant brought to the station.

  “Patrick locked her car,” I say.

  Veronica Cray stops in mid-sentence. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It just strikes me as an odd thing for a killer to do.”

  “Did you ask him why?”

  “He said he didn’t want anyone stealing it.”

  23

  Little Alice is riding her chestnut mare. Her hair is braided into a single plait that bounces up and down on her back as she rises and falls in the saddle, doing long slow circles of the enclosure.

  Three other students are mounted and have joined the class, all wearing jodhpurs, riding boots and riding helmets. The instructor, Mrs. Lehane, has big hips and messy blond hair. She reminds me of a CO’s wife I met in Germany, who was more intimidating than her husband.

  I can smell the horses. Never trust animals that are bigger than you are, that’s my motto. Horses may look intelligent and placid in photographs but in real life, up close, they ripple and snort. And those big, soft, wet eyes are hiding a secret. Come the revolution four legs will rule the world.

  A couple of the parents have stayed to watch their children ride. Others are chatting in the parking area. Alice has nobody to watch her except for me. Don’t worry, snowflake, I’m looking at you. Sit up straight. Trot, trot, trot…

  I punch the numbers on the mobile and hit the green button. A woman answers.

  “Is that Sylvia Furness?”

  “Yes.”

  “The mother of Alice?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  “I’m the good Samaritan who’s looking after your daughter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She had a fall from her horse. Twisted her knee quite badly. But it’s OK now, I’ve kissed it better.”

  There’s a sharp intake of breath. “Who are you? Where’s my daughter?”

  “She’s right here, Sylvia, lying on the bed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was muddy after her fall. Her jodhpurs were filthy. I popped them in the washing machine and gave Alice a bath. She has such lovely skin. What conditioner do you use on her hair? It’s very soft.”

  “I-I-I don’t know which one.”

  “And she has such a pretty birthmark on her neck. It’s shaped like an almond. I’m going to kiss it.”

  “No! Don’t touch her!”

  Pain and confusion strangle her words. Fear. Panic. She’s going through them all now. Emotional overload.

  “Where’s Mrs. Lehane?” she asks.

  “With the rest of the class.”

  “Let me speak to Alice.”

  “She can’t speak.”

  “Why?”

  “She has masking tape across her mouth. But don’t worry, Sylvia, she can hear you. Let me put the phone down next to her ear. You can tell her how much you love her.”

  A groan. “Please, let her go.”

  “But we’re having fun together. She’s such a sweet little thing. I’m looking after her. Little girls need looking after. Where’s Alice’s daddy?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Little girls need a father.”

  “He’s away on business.”

  “Why do you act like such a whore when he’s away?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Alice thinks you do.”

  “No.”

  “She’s growing up. Budding.”

  “Please, don’t touch her.”

  “She’s very brave. She didn’t cry at all when I cut her clothes off. Now she’s a little embarrassed about being naked but I told her not to worry. I couldn’t put her muddy clothes back on. You really should invest in a bra for her. I think she’s ready… I mean, she will be twelve in May.”

  She is begging me now, sobbing into the phone.

  “I know all about Alice. She likes Coldplay. Her horse is called Sally. She has a picture of her father on her bedside table. Her best friend’s name is Shelly. She likes a boy at school called Danny Green. She’s a little young to have a boyfriend but it won’t be long before she’s giving blow jobs in the back row at the cinema and spreading her legs all over town. I’m going to break her in.”

  “No, please. She’s just a—”

  “Virgin, I know, I’ve checked.”

  Sylvia is hyperventilating.

  “Calm down,” I tell her. “Take a deep breath. Alice needs you to listen to me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to help me make her a woman.”

  “No. No.”

  “Listen to me, Sylvia. Don’t interrupt.”

  “Please, let her go.”

  “What did I tell you?”

  “Please.”

  I slam the phone into my fist. “You hear that, Sylvia. That’s the sound of my fist hitting Alice’s face. I’m going to hit her again, every time you interrupt me.”

  “No. Please. I’m sorry.”

  She falls silent.

  “That’s good, Sylvia. Much better. I’m going to let you say hello to Alice now. She can hear you. What do you want to say to her?”

  She sobs: “Baby, it’s Mummy. It’s OK. Don’t be scared. I’m going to help you. I’m… I’m…”

  “Tell her to relax.”

  “Just relax.”

  “Tell her to cooperate.”

  “Do as the man says.”

  “That’s very good, Sylvia. She’s much calmer. Now I can begin. You can help me. Which hole shall I fuck first?”

  She wails down the line. “Please, don’t touch her. Please no. Take her outside. Leave her in the street. I won’t call the police.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “She’s only a baby.”

  “In some countries they marry girls off when they’re her age. They also circumcise them and sew their cunts shut.”

  A groan rattles deep inside her.

  “Take me. You can have me.”

  “Why would I want you when I have little Alice? She’s young. You’re old. She’s clean. You’re a slut.”

  “Please take me.”

  “Can you hear her breathing? I am resting my head on her chest. Her heart is going, ‘Pitter patter, pitter patter.’ ”

  “Take me, please. I’ll do anything you want.”

  “Oh, be careful what you say, Sylvia. Will you really take her place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you… would you…?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do I know that I can trust you?”

  “You can. Please. Let her go.”

  A second mobile is cradled in my hand. I dial a new number. I can hear it ringing in the background. Sylvia covers the mouthpiece and answers her mobile, whispering urgently, “Help me! Please! Call the police. He has my daughter.”

  I pronounce each syllable: “Syl-vee-a. Guess
who this is?”

  She groans in despair.

  “Alice gave me your mobile number. It was a test. You failed. I can’t trust you anymore. Sylvia, I’m going to hang up now. You won’t see Alice again.”

  She wails. “No! No! No! I’m sorry. Please. It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  “I’m putting the phone next to Alice’s ear again. Tell her you’re sorry. I was going to rape her and send her back. Now you’ll never see her again.”

  “Please don’t hurt her.”

  “Oh, look at that! You’ve made her cry.”

  “Anything. I’ll do anything.”

  “I’m lying on top of her, Sylvia. Relax, little one. Don’t be frightened. It’s Mummy’s fault. She couldn’t be trusted.”

  “No, no, no, please…”

  “Open your thighs, little one. This is going to hurt. And when I’m finished I’m going to bury you so deep Mummy will never find you. The worms will. Your body will taste so sweet to those worms.”

  “Take me! Take me!” Sylvia screams. “Don’t touch her. Don’t hurt my baby.”

  “Say you’re sorry, Sylvia. And then say good-bye.”

  “No. Listen. I’ll do anything. Don’t hurt her. Take me instead.”

  “Are you worthy, Sylvia? You have to prove to me that you’re worthy of taking her place.”

  “How?”

  “Take off your clothes.”

  “What?”

  “Alice is naked. I want you to be naked. Take off your clothes. Oh, look! Alice is nodding her head. She wants you to help her.”

  “Can I talk to her again?”

  “OK. She’s listening.”

  “Baby, can you hear me? It’s OK. Don’t be scared. Mummy is going to come and get you. I promise. I love you.”

  “That was very touching, Sylvia. Are you naked, yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Walk to the window and open the curtains.”

  “Why?”

  “I can see everywhere, Sylvia. I can tell you all about your bedroom and your wardrobe, the clothes on the hangers, your shoes…”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m the man who’s going to fuck your daughter to death if you don’t do exactly as I say.”

  “I just want to know your name.”

  “No you don’t. You want to make a connection. You want to develop a bond between us because you think I’ll be less likely to hurt Alice. Don’t play mind games with me, Sylvia. I’m a professional. I’m a mindfuck expert. I do this for a living. I did it for my country.”