‘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 Johnny 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 rationalisations. 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 colours 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 co-operating.’
‘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 sand-castle. 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?’
