Shatter - v4, page 28
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 décor 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 & 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 questions— just 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.
46
The bus door hisses open. Students pile forward, pushing between shoulders. Some of them are carrying papier mâché 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.”‘
