Michael Robotham - Shatter

‘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?’

‘August.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘It’s hot outside.’

‘You’re not dressed for a hot day.’

He looks at his clothes, almost surprised. I then notice his eyes lift and move slightly to focus on something behind me. I keep talking to him about the weather and turn my head far enough to see the wall at my back. A framed print is hanging beside the mirror- a beachside scene with children playing on the shingles and paddling. There is a Ferris wheel in the background and an ice-cream barrow.

Patrick constructed his entire alibi from a single scene. The picture helped him fill in the details that he couldn’t remember about last Friday. That’s why he was so sure it was a hot day and that he took his children to the beach.

Patrick has a problem with his contextual memory. He retains snippets of autobiographical information, but cannot anchor them to a specific time or place. The memories drift loose. Images collide. That’s why he tells rambling stories and avoids eye contact. He sees mousetraps on the floor.

Reality is under constant review in his head. When a question comes along that he feels he should be able to answer, he looks for clues and creates a new script to fit them. The photograph on the wall gave him a framework and he spun a story around it, ignoring anomalies such as the rain or the time of year.

If Patrick were a patient, I’d make an appointment schedule and ask to see his medical records. I might even organise a brain scan, which would probably show a right hemisphere brain injury- some sort of haemorrhage. At the very least he is suffering from post-traumatic stress. That’s why he confabulates and invents, constructing fantastic stories to explain things that he can’t remember. He does it inadvertently. Automatically.

‘Patrick,’ I say gently, ‘if you don’t remember what happened last Friday, just tell me. I won’t think you foolish. Everybody forgets things. A phone was found in your house that belonged to a woman who was at Leigh Woods.’

He looks at me blankly. I know the memory is there. He just can’t access the information.

‘She was naked,’ I say. ‘She was wearing a yellow raincoat and high heel shoes.’

His eyes stop wandering and rest on mine. ‘Her shoes were red.’

‘Yes.’

It’s as though the wheels of a fruit machine have lined up inside his head. The scattered fragments of memory and emotion are falling into place.

‘You saw her?’

He hesitates. This time it will be a genuine lie. I don’t give him the opportunity.

‘She was on the path.’

He nods.

‘Was she with anyone?’

He shakes his head.

‘What was she doing?’

‘Walking.’

‘Did you speak to her?’

‘No.’

Did you follow her?’

He nods. ‘That’s all I did.’

‘How did you get her phone?’

‘I found it.’

‘Where?’