Shatter

45

A siren is shrieking abuse at passers-by as the police car weaves between traffic, flashing its headlights like grief-maddened eyes. Old people and children turn and watch. Others carry on as if oblivious to the noise.

We cross Bristol, clearing the streets; down Temple Way, past Temple Meads Station, onto York and then Coronation Road. My heart is thudding. We had Patrick Fuller in custody. I convinced Veronica Cray to let the former soldier go.

Twenty minutes accelerate past me in a blur of speed and screaming sirens. We are standing on the pavement outside Fuller’s tower block. I recognise the grey concrete and streaks of rust below the window frames.

More police cars pull up around us, nose-first into the gutter. DI Cray is briefing her team. Nobody is looking at me. I’m surplus to requirements. Redundant stock.

Maureen Bracken’s blood has dried on my jacket. From a distance it looks like I’ve started to rust, like a tin man in search of a heart. I keep my nerve. My left thumb and forefinger are pill-rolling. I hold my walking stick in my left fist to keep it steady.

I follow the police upstairs. They don’t have a search warrant. Veronica Cray raises her fist and knocks.

The door opens. A young woman is framed by the darkness behind her. She is wearing a sparkling blue midriff top, jeans and open-toed sandals. A single roll of flesh bulges over the waistband of her jeans.

Mutton. Mutton dressed as mutton. A decade ago she might have been called pretty. Now she’s still dressing like a teenager, trying to relive her salad days.

It’s Fuller’s younger sister. She’s been staying at his flat. I catch snippets of her answers but not enough to understand what happened. Veronica Cray takes her inside, leaving me in the corridor. I try to slip past the constable on the door. Taking a step to the left, he bars my way.

The door is open. I can see DI Cray sitting in an armchair talking to Tyler’s sister. Roy is watching from the kitchen through a service hatch and Monk seems to be guarding the bedroom door.

The DI catches sight of me. She nods and the constable lets me pass.

‘This is Cheryl,’ she explains. ‘Her brother Patrick is apparently a patient at the Fernwood Clinic.’

I know the place. It’s a private mental hospital in Bristol.

‘When was he admitted?’ I ask.

‘Three weeks ago.’

‘Is he a full-time patient?’

‘Apparently so.’

Cheryl pulls a cigarette from a crumpled packet and straightens it between her fingertips. She sits with her knees together, perched on the edge of the sofa. Nervous.

‘Why is Patrick in Fernwood?’ I ask her.

‘Because the army fucked him up. He came home from Iraq hurt really bad. He almost died. They had to rebuild his triceps- make new ones out of other muscles stitched together. It took months before he could even lift his arm. Ever since then he’s been different, not the same, you know. He has nightmares.’

She lights the cigarette. Blows a missile of smoke.

‘The army didn’t give a shit. They kicked him out. They said he was “temperamentally unsuitable”- what the fuck does that mean?’

‘What do the doctors at Fernwood say?’

‘They say Pat’s suffering from post-traumatic stress. Stands to reason after what happened. The army boned him. Gave him a medal and told him to disappear.’

‘Do you know someone called Gideon Tyler?’

Cheryl hesitates. ‘He’s a friend of Pat’s. It was Gideon who got Pat into Fernwood.’

‘How do they know each other?’

‘They were in the army together.’

She stabs the cigarette into an ashtray and pulls out another.

‘Nine days ago. A Friday. The police arrested someone at this flat.’

‘Well, it weren’t Pat,’ she says.

‘Who else could it have been?’

Cheryl rolls her tongue over her teeth, smudging lipstick on the enamel. ‘Gideon, I guess.’ She sucks hard on her cigarette and blinks away the smoke. ‘He’s been keeping an eye on the flat since Pat went into Fernwood. Best to have someone looking after the place. Them little black shits from the estate would steal your middle name if you let ’em.’

‘Where do you live?’ I ask.

‘In Cardiff. I got a flat with my boyfriend, Gerry. I come down every couple of weeks to see Pat.’

Veronica Cray is thin-lipped, staring vexedly at the floor. ‘There was a dog here. A pit bull.’

‘Yeah, Capo,’ replies Cheryl. ‘He belongs to Pat. Gideon’s looking after him.’

‘Do you have a photograph of Patrick?’ I ask.

‘Sure. Somewhere.’

She stands and brushes her thighs where the tight denim has wrinkled. Teetering on high heels she squeezes past Monk, chest to chest, giving him a half-smile.

She begins opening drawers and wardrobe doors.

‘When were you last here?’ I ask.

‘Ten, twelve days ago.’ Ash falls from the cigarette in her mouth and smudges her jeans on the way down. ‘I came down to see Pat. Gideon was here, treating the place like he owned it.’

‘How so?’

‘He’s a weird fucker, you know. I reckon the army does it to ’em. Fucks ’em up. That Gideon’s got such a temper. All I did was use his poxy mobile phone. One call. And he went completely apeshit. One sodding call.’

‘You ordered a pizza,’ I say.

Cheryl looks at me as though I’ve stolen her last cigarette. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Lucky guess.’

DI Cray gives me a sidelong glance.

Cheryl has found a large photo album on a top shelf.

‘I told Gideon he should be in Fernwood with Patrick. I didn’t hang around. I rang Gerry and he came and picked me up. He wanted to punch Gideon’s lights out and probably could have done it, but I told him not to bother.’

She turns the album to face us, propping it open on her chest.

‘Here’s Pat. That was taken at his passing out parade. He looked dead handsome.’

Patrick Fuller is in a dress uniform, with dark brown hair shaved at the sides. Smiling at the camera with a slightly lopsided grin, he looks like he’s barely out of secondary school. More importantly, he’s not the man police arrested nine days ago; the one I interviewed at Trinity Road police station.

She points a bitten fingernail to another photograph. ‘That’s him again.’

A group of soldiers are standing and squatting at the edge of a basketball court, having finished a game. Patrick is dressed in camouflage trousers and no shirt; he crouches casually, a forearm on his knee, his muscled torso shiny with sweat.

Cheryl turns more pages. ‘There should be one of Gideon here, as well.’

She can’t find it. She goes back to the beginning and looks again.

‘That’s funny. It’s gone.’

She points to a vacant square on the page. ‘I’m sure it was here,’ she says.

Sometimes a gap in an album says as much as any photograph would. Gideon removed it. He doesn’t want his face known. It doesn’t matter. I remember him. I can remember his pale grey eyes and thin lips. And I remember him pacing the floor, stepping over invisible mousetraps, his face a mass of tics and grimaces. He confabulated. He invented fantastic stories. It was a consummate performance.

I have based a career on being able to tell when someone is lying or being deliberately vague or deceptive, but Gideon Tyler played me for a sucker. His lies were almost perfect because he managed to take charge of the conversation, to distract and divert. There were no momentary gaps while he conjured up something new or added one detail too many. Not even his unconscious physiological responses held any clues; his pupil dilation, pore size, muscle tone, skin flush and his breathing were in normal parameters.

I convinced Veronica Cray to let him go. I said he couldn’t possibly have made Christine Wheeler jump off the Clifton Suspension Bridge. I was wrong.

Veronica Cray is issuing instructions. Safari Roy scribbles notes, trying to keep up. She wants a list of Tyler’s friends, family, army buddies and ex-girlfriends.

‘Visit them. Put pressure on them. One of them must know where he is.’

She hasn’t said a word to me since we left Fuller’s flat. Disgrace is an odd feeling- a fluttering in my stomach. The public recriminations will come later but the private ones begin immediately. Attribution. Condemnation. Castigation.

The Fernwood Clinic is a Grade II listed building set in five acres of trees and gardens at the edge of Durdham Down. The main building was once a stately home and the access road a private driveway.

The medical director will talk to us in his office. His name is Dr Caplin and he welcomes us as if we’ve arrived for a hunting weekend at his private estate.

‘Isn’t it magnificent,’ he says, gazing across the gardens from large bay windows in his office. He offers us refreshments. Takes a seat.

‘I’ve heard about you, Professor O’Loughlin,’ he says. ‘Someone told me you’d moved into the area. I thought I might see your CV pass across my desk at some point.’

‘I’m no longer practicing as a clinical psychologist.’

‘A pity. We could use someone of your experience.’

I glance around his office. The decor is Laura Ashley meets Ikea with a touch of new technology. Dr Caplin’s tie almost perfectly matches the curtains.

I know a little about the Fernwood Clinic. It’s owned by a private company and specialises in looking after those wealthy enough to afford its daily fees, which are substantial.

‘What sort of problems are you treating?’

‘Mainly eating disorders and addictions but we do some general psychiatry.’

‘We’re interested in Patrick Fuller, a former soldier.’

Dr Caplin purses his lips. ‘We treat a large a number of military personnel, serving soldiers and veterans,’ he says. ‘The Ministry of Defence is one of our biggest referrers.’

‘Isn’t war a wonderful thing?’ mutters Veronica Cray.

Dr Caplin flinches and his hazel irises seem to fragment with anger.

‘We do important work here, detective. We help people. I’m not here to comment on our Government’s foreign policy or how it conducts its wars.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I say. ‘I’m sure your work is vital. We’re only interested in Patrick Fuller.’

‘You intimated over the phone that Patrick had been the victim of identify theft.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sure you understand, Professor, that I can’t possibly discuss details of his treatment.’

‘I understand.’

‘So you won’t be seeking to see his records?’

‘Not unless he’s confessed to murder,’ says the DI.

The doctor’s smile has long gone. ‘I don’t understand. What is he supposed to have done?’

‘That’s what we’re seeking to establish,’ says the DI. ‘We wish to speak to Patrick Fuller and I expect your full co-operation.’

Dr Caplin pats his hair as though checking its dimensions.

‘I assure you, Detective Inspector, this hospital is a friend of the Avon amp; Somerset Police. I’m actually on very good terms with your Assistant Chief Constable, Mr Fowler.’

Of all the names to drop, he chooses this one. Veronica Cray doesn’t bat an eyelid.

‘Well, doctor, I’ll be sure to pass on your best wishes to the ACC. I’m sure he’ll appreciate your co-operation as much as I do.’

Dr Caplin nods, satisfied.

He takes a file from his desk. Opens it.

‘Patrick Fuller is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and general anxiety. He’s preoccupied with suicide and plagued with guilt over the loss of comrades in Iraq. Patrick is sometimes disorientated and confused. He suffers mood swings, some of them quite violent.’

‘How violent?’ asks the DI.

‘He’s not a serious management risk and his behaviour has been exemplary. We’re making real progress.’

At three thousand pounds a week I should hope so.

‘Why didn’t the army psychiatrists pick it up?’ I ask.

‘Patrick wasn’t a military referral.’

‘But his problems are related to his military service?’

‘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 to 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.