Phil Lovesey - Ploughing Potter’s Field

I well remembered Ashworth, the catalogue of damning allegations made by an inmate concerning visits by children to suspected paedophiles. ‘You say don’t make assumptions, Steve, yet you assume I’m a candidate for the suicide-watch, too?’

He laughed, stubbed out the cigar. ‘Good God, no. It’s simply that I know you far better than Allen does. And if it looks like the pressure’s getting to you, I’m duty-bound to inform the old sod.’ He passed the file over. ‘This is yours. Inside you’ll find a transcript of every interview, together with an assessment of your performance. You can copy all the material inside for use in your thesis should you wish, but you must ensure you return the file for updating at every interview.’

‘Right. Thanks.’

‘Hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken a peek. Seems you’re still keen Rattigan tells you more about the girl.’ He leant forward. ‘Just don’t pin your hopes on anything.’

‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

‘With good reason. Besides, what if he tells you something astonishing? Could you ever trust him to tell the truth?’

‘He’s sitting on something, Steve. I’m sure he is. He keeps letting things slip.’

‘Maybe he’s doing that deliberately. I suspect you’re legitimate sport as far as he’s concerned. “Fun”, even.’ He stood, made for the door, putting on his overcoat. ‘You still got that Aretha Franklin tape in the car?’

‘Yes?’

‘Grand. Shake a leg. We’re going for a drive. The good Dr Allen’s arranged a little surprise for you and Aretha’s just the dame to serenade us on our journey.’

‘Bingo!’ Fancy exclaimed. ‘We’re here.’

Twenty minutes later we drew up in front of the Essex Police Headquarters, just five hundred yards from Chelmsford Prison, me still none the wiser as to what the hell we were doing there.

Throughout the journey, Fancy had playfully resisted all my questions, until I grew tired of asking. I contented myself with following his occasional directions, trying desperately to ignore his tuneless warblings.

We parked before a huge complex of grey concrete buildings and playing fields. Stepping from the car, I noticed the tired rows of nearby semidetatched houses, looking as if they clung to the place for the security offered by the Essex home of law enforcement.

A group of young recruits struggled to complete the required number of press-ups barked at them by a muscular intructor, and I found myself cringing at the effects institionalized buildings and their occupants had on me. Just like Oakwood, everything had been seemingly designed for the single purpose of intimidation, the faceless architects responsible having no ethical dilemma over form versus function. Likewise the inhabitants themselves, uniformed, regulated, cracked, all empathy syphoned off by the real brains of the machine – ancient laws and flawed systems laid down by our long-dead forefathers. Difficult to believe these men were all cooing babies once.

Fancy spoke as we neared the entrance. ‘DI Russell’s your man. He knows you’re coming.’ He stopped. ‘I’ll maybe catch you for a drink later in the week, eh?’

‘You’re not coming in?’

‘I’m not invited, dear chap.’

‘You’re going to wait out here, then?’

‘Heavens, no. I’ll ring a cab, pop back to the uni. Thanks for the ride. That Aretha’s a gem, isn’t she?’

‘Steve, what’s going on?’

‘You’re here to learn a little more about Rattigan. Allen’s been in touch with the Met; they’ve rushed the stuff up here for your delectation.’

‘What stuff?’

‘The original file you were given was just a taster. Now Allen feels the time’s right for you to know a little more about the kind of man you’re dealing with. A sort of unexpurgated version.’ He looked me straight in the eye. ‘You’re going to find out what he did to that girl. Word for word.’

‘This DI Russell’s going to tell me, is he?’

‘No,’ Fancy replied. ‘Rattigan is.’

I waited ten minutes in reception before I met with DI Russell. Six-two, wiry, regulation haircut, black shoes, grey trousers, white shirt, brown tie, no jacket – introduced himself as Dave, before taking me up to the second floor into a small side office.

Next he brought in a tape recorder and a box of cassettes. ‘Had this sent up from the Met. All the tackle they have on your man Rattigan. Gave it a listen myself last night. Quite a headcase.’

‘He has his moments.’

‘I’m sure he does, sir.’

‘Excuse me,’ I asked a little nervously. ‘Don’t get me wrong but is this normal?’

‘Normal, sir?’ He had a practised way of saying ‘sir’ which ironed all the respect out of the word. I imagined he perfected the technique interviewing suspects. His cold professionalism chilled me.

‘I feel like I’ve been thrown in at the deep-end, rather,’ I said, miserably failing to befriend him with a smile. ‘These tapes, who asked you to get them for me?’

‘Shrink up at Oakwood,’ he confirmed.

‘Dr Allen?’

‘That’s the one. He rang my guv’nors, who put a call through to the boys at the Met. They fished it out and sent it over. Saves you a trip to Scotland Yard, doesn’t it?’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’

‘Pleasure, sir. That answer your question?’

I nodded. ‘Here I was thinking I was a special case.’

‘’Fraid not. Done this sort of thing before for you’ – he savoured the word – ‘students. Part of the data-gathering programme we’re all involved with, constabularies, prisons, judiciary. Lets us have a little peek into these people’s brains, or what’s left of them. Supposed to save us a lot of time when we’re messing around with offender profiling.’ Then he smiled. ‘I think it’s a load of old cobblers myself, but if it keeps the guv’nors happy, then I’m a happy bunny too. I’ll leave you with it. I’m in room nine if you need me.’

He left, barking orders at some poor recruit loitering in the corridor outside. I stared at the small black machine on the desk in front of me, and the box of cassettes, each carefully labelled and dated. Here they were, then, the initial interview tapes taken during Rattigan’s detention immediately after his arrest for the murder of Helen Lewis.

I cleared my throat, before rubbing both sweating palms along the seams of my trousers. Did I really want to hear it, any of it? After all, I’d studied the file, night after night, read the grim criminal history of the man, from petty offender to institutionalized tramp. Knew as much as I needed to know, surely, about that final explosion of unrestrained violence on an innocent young woman. However …

Taking a notepad and pen from my briefcase, I slotted in the first tape and pressed the button marked ‘play’.

A man’s voice, procedural, contained. Introduced himself as DI Shot from Bethnal Green nick, then announced – for the benefit of the tape – that he’s there with his colleague, DS Williams, to interview Frank Rattigan in connection with the murder of Helen Lewis, on the 14th September, 1988.

Enough. I turned the machine off. It was all too real. I suddenly couldn’t bear to hear his voice, his whines, his sickness.

I sat breathless in the tiny room, staring at the tape recorder, wishing I could run, but knowing I had to stay, had to endure it …

Play …

SHOT: Care to tell us, then, Frank? Care to tell us what the bloody hell happened in there?

RATTIGAN: You don’t know?

WILLIAMS: We want to hear it from you.

RATTIGAN: Hear what?

WILLIAMS: For God’s sake! We pick you up in Helen Lewis’s house, and there’s bits of her all over the shop! You topped the poor cow, didn’t you?