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?’
