A group of soldiers are standing and squatting at the edge of a basketball court, having finished a game. Patrick is dressed in camouflage trousers and no shirt; he crouches casually, a forearm on his knee, his muscled torso shiny with sweat.
Cheryl turns more pages. ‘There should be one of Gideon here, as well.’
She can’t find it. She goes back to the beginning and looks again.
‘That’s funny. It’s gone.’
She points to a vacant square on the page. ‘I’m sure it was here,’ she says.
Sometimes a gap in an album says as much as any photograph would. Gideon removed it. He doesn’t want his face known. It doesn’t matter. I remember him. I can remember his pale grey eyes and thin lips. And I remember him pacing the floor, stepping over invisible mousetraps, his face a mass of tics and grimaces. He confabulated. He invented fantastic stories. It was a consummate performance.
I have based a career on being able to tell when someone is lying or being deliberately vague or deceptive, but Gideon Tyler played me for a sucker. His lies were almost perfect because he managed to take charge of the conversation, to distract and divert. There were no momentary gaps while he conjured up something new or added one detail too many. Not even his unconscious physiological responses held any clues; his pupil dilation, pore size, muscle tone, skin flush and his breathing were in normal parameters.
I convinced Veronica Cray to let him go. I said he couldn’t possibly have made Christine Wheeler jump off the Clifton Suspension Bridge. I was wrong.
Veronica Cray is issuing instructions. Safari Roy scribbles notes, trying to keep up. She wants a list of Tyler’s friends, family, army buddies and ex-girlfriends.
‘Visit them. Put pressure on them. One of them must know where he is.’
She hasn’t said a word to me since we left Fuller’s flat. Disgrace is an odd feeling- a fluttering in my stomach. The public recriminations will come later but the private ones begin immediately. Attribution. Condemnation. Castigation.
The Fernwood Clinic is a Grade II listed building set in five acres of trees and gardens at the edge of Durdham Down. The main building was once a stately home and the access road a private driveway.
The medical director will talk to us in his office. His name is Dr Caplin and he welcomes us as if we’ve arrived for a hunting weekend at his private estate.
‘Isn’t it magnificent,’ he says, gazing across the gardens from large bay windows in his office. He offers us refreshments. Takes a seat.
‘I’ve heard about you, Professor O’Loughlin,’ he says. ‘Someone told me you’d moved into the area. I thought I might see your CV pass across my desk at some point.’
‘I’m no longer practicing as a clinical psychologist.’
‘A pity. We could use someone of your experience.’
I glance around his office. The decor is Laura Ashley meets Ikea with a touch of new technology. Dr Caplin’s tie almost perfectly matches the curtains.
I know a little about the Fernwood Clinic. It’s owned by a private company and specialises in looking after those wealthy enough to afford its daily fees, which are substantial.
‘What sort of problems are you treating?’
‘Mainly eating disorders and addictions but we do some general psychiatry.’
‘We’re interested in Patrick Fuller, a former soldier.’
Dr Caplin purses his lips. ‘We treat a large a number of military personnel, serving soldiers and veterans,’ he says. ‘The Ministry of Defence is one of our biggest referrers.’
‘Isn’t war a wonderful thing?’ mutters Veronica Cray.
Dr Caplin flinches and his hazel irises seem to fragment with anger.
‘We do important work here, detective. We help people. I’m not here to comment on our Government’s foreign policy or how it conducts its wars.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say. ‘I’m sure your work is vital. We’re only interested in Patrick Fuller.’
‘You intimated over the phone that Patrick had been the victim of identify theft.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sure you understand, Professor, that I can’t possibly discuss details of his treatment.’
‘I understand.’
‘So you won’t be seeking to see his records?’
‘Not unless he’s confessed to murder,’ says the DI.
The doctor’s smile has long gone. ‘I don’t understand. What is he supposed to have done?’
‘That’s what we’re seeking to establish,’ says the DI. ‘We wish to speak to Patrick Fuller and I expect your full co-operation.’
Dr Caplin pats his hair as though checking its dimensions.
‘I assure you, Detective Inspector, this hospital is a friend of the Avon amp; Somerset Police. I’m actually on very good terms with your Assistant Chief Constable, Mr Fowler.’
Of all the names to drop, he chooses this one. Veronica Cray doesn’t bat an eyelid.
‘Well, doctor, I’ll be sure to pass on your best wishes to the ACC. I’m sure he’ll appreciate your co-operation as much as I do.’
Dr Caplin nods, satisfied.
He takes a file from his desk. Opens it.
‘Patrick Fuller is suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and general anxiety. He’s preoccupied with suicide and plagued with guilt over the loss of comrades in Iraq. Patrick is sometimes disorientated and confused. He suffers mood swings, some of them quite violent.’
‘How violent?’ asks the DI.
‘He’s not a serious management risk and his behaviour has been exemplary. We’re making real progress.’
At three thousand pounds a week I should hope so.
‘Why didn’t the army psychiatrists pick it up?’ I ask.
‘Patrick wasn’t a military referral.’
‘But his problems are related to his military service?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s paying for his treatment?’
‘That’s confidential information.’
‘Who brought him in here?’
‘A friend.’
‘Gideon Tyler?’
‘I don’t see how that could possibly concern the police.’
Veronica Cray has heard enough. On her feet, she leans across the desk and pins Caplin with a glare that makes his eyes widen.
‘I don’t think you fully understand the gravity of this situation, doctor. Gideon Tyler is a suspect in a murder investigation. Patrick Fuller may be an accessory. Unless you can provide me with medical evidence that Mr Fuller is at risk of being psychologically harmed by a police interview, I’m going to ask you one last time to make him available or I’ll come back with a warrant for his arrest and for yours on charges of obstructing my investigation. Not even Mr Fowler will be able to help you then.’
Dr Caplin stammers a reply, which is totally incomprehensible. All trace of smugness has disappeared. Veronica Cray is still talking.
‘Professor O’Loughlin is a mental health professional. He will be present during the interview. If at any stage Patrick Fuller becomes agitated or his condition worsens, then I’m sure the Professor will safeguard his welfare.’
There is a pause. Dr Caplin picks up his phone.
‘Please inform Patrick Fuller that he has visitors.’
The room is simply furnished with a single bed, a chair, a small TV on a plinth and a chest of drawers. Patrick is much smaller than I imagined from his photographs. The handsome, dark-haired soldier in dress uniform has been replaced by a pale rumpled imitation in a white vest, yellowing under his armpits, and jogging pants rolled below his hipbones which stick out like doorknobs from beneath his skin.
Scar tissue from his surgery is puckered and hardened beneath his right armpit. Patrick has lost weight. His muscles have gone and his neck is so thin that his Adam’s apple looks like a cancerous lump bobbing as he swallows.
I pull up a chair and sit opposite him, filling his vision. DI Cray seems happy to stay near the door. Fernwood makes her uncomfortable.
‘Hello, Patrick, my name’s Joe.’
‘How ya doing?’
‘I’m good. How are you?’
‘Getting better.’