I can look at these details and make assumptions. Psychology is about probabilities and prospects; the statistical bell curves that can help predict human behaviour.
People are frightened of Gideon or don’t want to talk about him or want to pretend that he doesn’t exist. He’s like one of the monsters that I ‘edit out’ of the bedtime stories I read to Emma because I don’t want to give her nightmares.
Beware the Jabberwock… the jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
There is a yell from outside in the forecourt. They want a dog handler. Descending the stairs, I use the rear door and side gate to reach the workshop area. A dog is going berserk behind a metal shuttered door.
‘I want to see it.’
‘We should wait for the handler,’ says Monk.
‘Just raise the door a few inches.’
I kneel down and put my head on the ground. Monk jemmies the roller door lock and raises it an inch and then another. The animal is hurling itself at the metal door, snarling furiously.
I catch a glimpse of its reflection in a mirror above a wash-basin, a fleeting image of tan fur and fangs.
My guts prickle. I recognise the dog. I’ve seen it before. It came rearing through the door of Patrick Fuller’s flat, snarling and thrashing at the police arrest party, wanting to rip out their throats. What’s the dog doing here?
45
A siren is shrieking abuse at passers-by as the police car weaves between traffic, flashing its headlights like grief-maddened eyes. Old people and children turn and watch. Others carry on as if oblivious to the noise.
We cross Bristol, clearing the streets; down Temple Way, past Temple Meads Station, onto York and then Coronation Road. My heart is thudding. We had Patrick Fuller in custody. I convinced Veronica Cray to let the former soldier go.
Twenty minutes accelerate past me in a blur of speed and screaming sirens. We are standing on the pavement outside Fuller’s tower block. I recognise the grey concrete and streaks of rust below the window frames.
More police cars pull up around us, nose-first into the gutter. DI Cray is briefing her team. Nobody is looking at me. I’m surplus to requirements. Redundant stock.
Maureen Bracken’s blood has dried on my jacket. From a distance it looks like I’ve started to rust, like a tin man in search of a heart. I keep my nerve. My left thumb and forefinger are pill-rolling. I hold my walking stick in my left fist to keep it steady.
I follow the police upstairs. They don’t have a search warrant. Veronica Cray raises her fist and knocks.
The door opens. A young woman is framed by the darkness behind her. She is wearing a sparkling blue midriff top, jeans and open-toed sandals. A single roll of flesh bulges over the waistband of her jeans.
Mutton. Mutton dressed as mutton. A decade ago she might have been called pretty. Now she’s still dressing like a teenager, trying to relive her salad days.
It’s Fuller’s younger sister. She’s been staying at his flat. I catch snippets of her answers but not enough to understand what happened. Veronica Cray takes her inside, leaving me in the corridor. I try to slip past the constable on the door. Taking a step to the left, he bars my way.
The door is open. I can see DI Cray sitting in an armchair talking to Tyler’s sister. Roy is watching from the kitchen through a service hatch and Monk seems to be guarding the bedroom door.
The DI catches sight of me. She nods and the constable lets me pass.
‘This is Cheryl,’ she explains. ‘Her brother Patrick is apparently a patient at the Fernwood Clinic.’
I know the place. It’s a private mental hospital in Bristol.
‘When was he admitted?’ I ask.
‘Three weeks ago.’
‘Is he a full-time patient?’
‘Apparently so.’
Cheryl pulls a cigarette from a crumpled packet and straightens it between her fingertips. She sits with her knees together, perched on the edge of the sofa. Nervous.
‘Why is Patrick in Fernwood?’ I ask her.
‘Because the army fucked him up. He came home from Iraq hurt really bad. He almost died. They had to rebuild his triceps- make new ones out of other muscles stitched together. It took months before he could even lift his arm. Ever since then he’s been different, not the same, you know. He has nightmares.’
She lights the cigarette. Blows a missile of smoke.
‘The army didn’t give a shit. They kicked him out. They said he was “temperamentally unsuitable”- what the fuck does that mean?’
‘What do the doctors at Fernwood say?’
‘They say Pat’s suffering from post-traumatic stress. Stands to reason after what happened. The army boned him. Gave him a medal and told him to disappear.’
‘Do you know someone called Gideon Tyler?’
Cheryl hesitates. ‘He’s a friend of Pat’s. It was Gideon who got Pat into Fernwood.’
‘How do they know each other?’
‘They were in the army together.’
She stabs the cigarette into an ashtray and pulls out another.
‘Nine days ago. A Friday. The police arrested someone at this flat.’
‘Well, it weren’t Pat,’ she says.
‘Who else could it have been?’
Cheryl rolls her tongue over her teeth, smudging lipstick on the enamel. ‘Gideon, I guess.’ She sucks hard on her cigarette and blinks away the smoke. ‘He’s been keeping an eye on the flat since Pat went into Fernwood. Best to have someone looking after the place. Them little black shits from the estate would steal your middle name if you let ’em.’
‘Where do you live?’ I ask.
‘In Cardiff. I got a flat with my boyfriend, Gerry. I come down every couple of weeks to see Pat.’
Veronica Cray is thin-lipped, staring vexedly at the floor. ‘There was a dog here. A pit bull.’
‘Yeah, Capo,’ replies Cheryl. ‘He belongs to Pat. Gideon’s looking after him.’
‘Do you have a photograph of Patrick?’ I ask.
‘Sure. Somewhere.’
She stands and brushes her thighs where the tight denim has wrinkled. Teetering on high heels she squeezes past Monk, chest to chest, giving him a half-smile.
She begins opening drawers and wardrobe doors.
‘When were you last here?’ I ask.
‘Ten, twelve days ago.’ Ash falls from the cigarette in her mouth and smudges her jeans on the way down. ‘I came down to see Pat. Gideon was here, treating the place like he owned it.’
‘How so?’
‘He’s a weird fucker, you know. I reckon the army does it to ’em. Fucks ’em up. That Gideon’s got such a temper. All I did was use his poxy mobile phone. One call. And he went completely apeshit. One sodding call.’
‘You ordered a pizza,’ I say.
Cheryl looks at me as though I’ve stolen her last cigarette. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Lucky guess.’
DI Cray gives me a sidelong glance.
Cheryl has found a large photo album on a top shelf.
‘I told Gideon he should be in Fernwood with Patrick. I didn’t hang around. I rang Gerry and he came and picked me up. He wanted to punch Gideon’s lights out and probably could have done it, but I told him not to bother.’
She turns the album to face us, propping it open on her chest.
‘Here’s Pat. That was taken at his passing out parade. He looked dead handsome.’
Patrick Fuller is in a dress uniform, with dark brown hair shaved at the sides. Smiling at the camera with a slightly lopsided grin, he looks like he’s barely out of secondary school. More importantly, he’s not the man police arrested nine days ago; the one I interviewed at Trinity Road police station.
She points a bitten fingernail to another photograph. ‘That’s him again.’