‘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 behaviour. 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.’
‘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?’
