Michael Robotham - Shatter

‘She left it in her car.’

‘So you took it?’

‘It was unlocked,’ he mumbles, unable to think of an excuse. ‘I was worried about her. I thought she might be in trouble.’

‘Then why didn’t you call the police.’

‘I–I-I didn’t have a phone.’

‘You had hers.’

His face is a riot of tics and grimaces. He is on his feet, pacing back and forth, no longer avoiding the mousetraps. He says something. I don’t catch it. I ask him to say it again.

‘The battery was flat. I had to buy a charger. It cost me ten quid.’

He looks at me hopefully. ‘Do you think they’ll give me a refund?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I only used it a few times.’

‘Listen to me, Patrick. Focus on me. The woman in the park, did you talk to her?’

His face is twisting again.

‘What did she say, Patrick? It’s important.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Don’t shake your head, Patrick. What did she say?’

He shrugs, looking around the room, trying to find another picture to help him.

‘I don’t want you to make it up, Patrick. If you don’t remember, just tell me. But it’s really important. Think hard.’

‘She asked about her daughter. She wanted to know if I’d seen her.’

‘Did she say why?’

He shakes his head.

‘Is that all she said?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What happened then?’

He shrugs. ‘She ran away.’

‘Did you follow her?’

‘No.’

‘Did she have a phone with her, Patrick? Was she talking to someone?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know. I couldn’t hear.’

I carry on with the questioning, trying to build a framework of truths. Without warning, Patrick stops and gazes at the floor. Raising one foot, he steps over a ‘mousetrap’. I’ve lost him again. He’s somewhere else.

‘Maybe we should give him a break,’ says the lawyer.

Outside the interview room, I sit down with the detectives and explain why I think Patrick confabulates and invents stories.

‘So he’s brain damaged,’ says Safari Roy, trying to paraphrase my clinical descriptions.

‘Doesn’t make him innocent,’ adds Monk.

‘Is this a permanent condition?’ asks Veronica Cray.

‘I don’t know. Patrick retains kernels of information but he can’t anchor them to a specific time or place. His memories drift loose. If you show him a photograph and prove to him that he was in Leigh Woods, he will accept it. But that doesn’t mean he remembers being there.’

‘Which means he could still be our man.’

‘That’s very unlikely. You heard him. His head is crowded with snatches of conversations, images, his wife, his children, things that happened before he was injured. These things are bouncing around in his head without any sense or order. He can function. He can hold down a simple job. But whenever his memory fails him, he makes something up.’

‘So we won’t get a statement,’ says the DI, dismissively. ‘We don’t need one. He admitted to being at the scene. He had her phone.’

‘He didn’t make her jump.’

DI Cray cuts me off. ‘With all due respect, Professor, I know you’re good at what you do but you have no idea what this man is capable of.’

‘You can think I’m wrong, but that’s no reason to quit thinking. I’m giving my opinion. You’re making a mistake.’

With an air of finality the DI straightens a stack of papers and begins issuing instructions. She wants the manager of the mobile phone shop and his assistant brought to the station.

‘Patrick locked her car,’ I say.

Veronica Cray stops in mid-sentence. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘It just strikes me as an odd thing for a killer to do.’

‘Did you ask him why?’

‘He said he didn’t want anyone stealing it.’

Little Alice is riding her chestnut mare. Her hair is braided into a single plait that bounces up and down on her back as she rises and falls in the saddle, doing long slow circles of the enclosure.

Three other students are mounted and have joined the class, all wearing jodhpurs, riding boots and riding helmets. The instructor, Mrs Lehane, has big hips and messy blonde hair. She reminds me of a CO’s wife I met in Germany, who was more intimidating than her husband.

I can smell the horses. Never trust animals that are bigger than you are, that’s my motto. Horses may look intelligent and placid in photographs but in real life, up close, they ripple and snort. And those big, soft, wet eyes are hiding a secret. Come the revolution four legs will rule the world.

A couple of the parents have stayed to watch their children ride. Others are chatting in the parking area. Alice has nobody to watch her except for me. Don’t worry, snowflake, I’m looking at you. Sit up straight. Trot, trot, trot…

I punch the numbers on the mobile and hit the green button. A woman answers.

‘Is that Sylvia Furness?’

‘Yes.’

‘The mother of Alice?’

‘Yes. Who’s calling?’

‘I’m the good Samaritan who’s looking after your daughter.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She had a fall from her horse. Twisted her knee quite badly. But it’s OK now, I’ve kissed it better.’

There’s a sharp intake of breath. ‘Who are you? Where’s my daughter?’

‘She’s right here, Sylvia, lying on the bed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She was muddy after her fall. Her jodhpurs were filthy. I popped them in the washing machine and gave Alice a bath. She has such lovely skin. What conditioner do you use on her hair? It’s very soft.’

‘I–I-I don’t know which one.’

‘And she has such a pretty birthmark on her neck. It’s shaped like an almond. I’m going to kiss it.’

‘No! Don’t touch her!’

Pain and confusion strangle her words. Fear. Panic. She’s going through them all now. Emotional overload.

‘Where’s Mrs Lehane?’ she asks.

‘With the rest of the class.’

‘Let me speak to Alice.’

‘She can’t speak.’

‘Why?’

‘She has masking tape across her mouth. But don’t worry, Sylvia, she can hear you. Let me put the phone down next to her ear. You can tell her how much you love her.’

A groan. ‘Please, let her go.’

‘But we’re having fun together. She’s such a sweet little thing. I’m looking after her. Little girls need looking after. Where’s Alice’s daddy?’

‘He’s not here.’

‘Little girls need a father.’

‘He’s away on business.’

‘Why do you act like such a whore when he’s away?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Alice thinks you do.’

‘No.’

‘She’s growing up. Budding.’

‘Please, don’t touch her.’

‘She’s very brave. She didn’t cry at all when I cut her clothes off. Now she’s a little embarrassed about being naked but I told her not to worry. I couldn’t put her muddy clothes back on. You really should invest in a bra for her. I think she’s ready… I mean, she will be twelve in May.’

She is begging me now, sobbing into the phone.

‘I know all about Alice. She likes Coldplay. Her horse is called Sally. She has a picture of her father on her bedside table. Her best friend’s name is Shelly. She likes a boy at school called Danny Green. She’s a little young to have a boyfriend but it won’t be long before she’s giving blowjobs in the back row at the cinema and spreading her legs all over town. I’m going to break her in.’

‘No, please. She’s just a-.’

‘Virgin, I know, I’ve checked.’

Sylvia is hyperventilating.

‘Calm down,’ I tell her. ‘Take a deep breath. Alice needs you to listen to me.’