‘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
