I glance at the grey concrete tower blocks, which are like islands against a brightening sky.
The DI is still talking.
‘Four months ago Fuller lost his licence for DUI after testing positive for cocaine. Wife walked out on him around that time, taking their two kids.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘Does he know Christine Wheeler?’
‘Unknown.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘We arrest him.’
The tower block has internal stairs and a lift serving all floors. The service entrance smells of disembowelled bin bags, cat piss and wet newspapers. Patrick Fuller lives on the fourth floor.
I watch as a dozen officers in body armour climb the stairs. Four more use the lift. Their movements are choreographed by months of training yet it still seems overblown and unnecessary when considering the suspect has no history of violence.
Maybe this is the future- a legacy of 9/11 and the London train bombings. Police no longer knock on doors and politely ask suspects to accompany them to the station. Instead they dress up in body armour and break the doors down with battering rams. Privacy and personal freedom are less important than public safety. I understand the arguments but I miss the old days.
The lead officer has reached the flat and presses his ear against the door. He turns and nods. Veronica Cray nods back. A battering ram swings in a short arc. The door disappears. The arrest party suddenly stops. A snarling pit bull terrier lunges at the closest officer, who rocks back and stumbles. All fangs and fury, the pit bull hurls itself at his throat but is held back.
A man in baggy trousers and a sweatshirt has hold of the dog’s collar. He looks older than thirty-two, with pale eyes and wispy blonde hair combed straight back. Screaming accusations at the police, he tells them to fuck off and leave him alone. The dog scrabbles on its hind legs, trying to wrench itself free. Guns are drawn. Someone or something is going to get shot.
I’m watching from the stairwell. Officers have retreated halfway along the corridor. Another group are twelve feet on the far side of the door.
Fuller can’t get away. Everyone should settle down.
‘Don’t let them shoot him,’ I say.
Veronica Cray looks at me derisively. ‘If I wanted to shoot him, I’d do it myself.’
‘Let me talk to him.’
‘Leave this to us.’
Ignoring her, I push through shoulders. Fuller is twelve feet away, still screaming above the snarling and frothing of his dog.
‘Listen to me, Patrick,’ I shout. He hesitates, sizing me up. His face is working relentlessly, writhing in anger and accusation. ‘My name is Joe.’
‘Fuck off, Mr Joe.’
‘What seems to be the problem?’
‘No problem, if they leave me alone.’
I take another step and the dog lunges.
‘I’ll let him go.’
‘I’m staying right here.’
I lean against the wall and look at the concrete floor which is stained with oily black discs of flattened chewing gum. Taking out my mobile, I slide it open and flick through the menu options, looking through old text messages. The pit bull feels less threatened when I don’t make eye contact. There is a lull that allows everybody to take a deep breath.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see the guns still raised.
‘They’re going to shoot you, Patrick, or shoot your dog.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong. Tell them to go away.’
His accent is more educated than I expected. ‘They won’t do that. It’s gone too far.’
‘They broke my fucking door.’
‘OK, maybe they should have knocked first. We can talk about that later.’
The pit bull lunges again. Fuller wrenches it back. The animal hacks and coughs.
‘You ever watched those American real life crime shows, Patrick? The ones where TV helicopters and news crews film police car chases and people getting arrested.’
‘I don’t watch much TV.’
‘OK, but you know the shows I mean. Remember O.J. Simpson and the Ford Bronco? We all watched it: news helicopters beaming pictures around the world as O.J. drove along the freeway.
‘You know what always struck me as stupid about that scene. It’s the same with a lot of getaways. Guys keep trying to run with a string of police cars behind them and a chopper in the air and news crews filming the whole thing. Even when they crash the car, they jump out and leg it over barricades and wire fences and garden walls. It’s ridiculous because they’re not going to get away- not with all those people chasing them. And the only thing they’re doing is making themselves look guilty as sin.’
‘O.J. wasn’t found guilty.’
‘You’re right. A dozen people on a jury couldn’t decide, but the rest of us did. O.J. looked guilty. He sounded guilty. Most people think he is.’
Patrick is watching me closely now. His features have stopped writhing. The dog has gone quiet.
‘You look like a pretty clever guy, Patrick. And I don’t think a clever guy like you would make that sort of mistake. You’d say: “Hey, officers, what’s all the fuss? Sure I’ll answer your questions. Let me just call my lawyer.”
There’s a hint of a smile. ‘I don’t know any lawyers.’
‘I can get you one.’
‘Can you get me Johnny Cochran?’
‘I’ll get you his distant cousin, Frank.’
This earns a proper smile. I slip my phone back in my pocket.
‘I fought for this country,’ says Patrick. ‘I saw mates die. You know what that’s like?’
‘No.’
‘Tell me why I should put up with shit like this.’
‘It’s the system, Patrick.’
‘Fuck the system.’
‘Most of the time it works.’
‘Not for me.’
I straighten up and open my hands in a show of submission.
‘It’s up to you. If I walk back down the corridor, they’re going to shoot your dog or they’re going to shoot you. Alternatively, you go back to your flat, lock the dog in a bedroom and come on out, hands raised. Nobody gets hurt.’
He contemplates this for a few more moments and pulls hard on the collar, wrenching the animal’s head around and pulling it inside. A minute later he emerges. The police close in.
Within moments Patrick is forced to his knees, then his stomach, with his hands dragged behind his back. A dog handler has gone inside with a long pole and noose. The pit bull thrashes in the air as he brings it outside.
‘Not the dog,’ whispers Patrick. ‘Don’t hurt my dog.’
22
A police interrogation is a performance with three acts. The first introduces the characters; the second provides the conflict and the third the resolution.
This interrogation has been different. For the past hour Veronica Cray has been trying to make sense of Patrick Fuller’s rambling answers and bizarre rationalisations. He denies being in Leigh Woods. He denies seeing Christine Wheeler. He denies being discharged from the army. He seems ready to deny his own history. At the same time he can suddenly, inexplicably, become absorbed in a single fact and focus on it, ignoring everything else.
I watch from behind the one-way glass, feeling like a voyeur. The interview suite is new, refurbished in pastel colours with padded chairs and seaside prints on the walls. Patrick stalks the four corners with his head down and hands at his sides as though he’s lost his bus fare. DI Cray asks him to sit down. He does but only for a moment. Each new question sets him in motion again.
He reaches for his back pocket, looking for something- a comb perhaps. It’s no longer there. Then he runs his fingers through his hair, combing it back. He has a scar on his left hand, an ‘x’ that stretches from the base of his thumb and smallest finger to either edge of his wrist.
A lawyer from Legal Services has been summoned to advise him. Middle-aged and business-like, she tucks her briefcase between her knees and sits with a large foolscap pad beneath her clasped hands. Patrick doesn’t seem impressed. He wanted a man.