Ploughing Potter’s Field

‘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?

RATTIGAN: Why have you got your cock out, Sergeant? I’m not going to suck it, and I know that’s what you want me to –

SHOT: Shut it, Frank! You’re doing yourself no favours. Don’t play games with us, pal.

RATTIGAN (calmly): All I’m asking is that Sergeant Williams puts his penis away.

SHOT (irritated): For the benefit of the tape, Sergeant Williams is fully dressed.

RATTIGAN: He’s playing with it!

WILLIAMS: I’ll start playing with you in a minute, you murdering bast – !

SHOT: OK, Sergeant, that’s enough! (Pause, during which Rattigan is clearly heard sniggering in the background.) Let’s recap a little, shall we? Eleven-twenty this morning, we get call from a Mrs Anne Lewis concerning her daughter. She’s worried, hasn’t been able to contact her all weekend. Apparently the phone’s not working. We decide to investigate. Upon arrival at her address, a uniformed officer gets no response from the front door, so checks round the back. He peers through a set of French windows and sees what he initially suspects is a bloodstained corpse lying on the sofa. It’s you. He calls for backup, which arrives, breaks into the premises, and discovers that you are very much alive. The same, however, could hardly be said of Miss Lewis. With me so far?

RATTIGAN: What more do you need to know? I mean, how fucking dense are you?

SHOT: You’re saying you killed her, are you?

RATTIGAN: You’ve got to be as thick as pigshit to think anything else, right?

SHOT: Just you? On your own, killed Helen Lewis?

RATTIGAN: And the team.

SHOT: Team?

RATTIGAN: Arsenal. Very good, those lads. Very professional. Lot of kicking went on, you see. Took nearly four hours just to get one leg off …

SHOT (sighs): OK. This interview suspended at … two-twelve, p.m. pending psychiatric investigation of the suspect.

There was a twelve-second pause on the tape, before the interview restarted with the same formal introductions. Four hours had elapsed. This time, Rattigan appeared more subdued, and another officer, DCI Moira, had joined the team.

MOIRA: Recognize this, Frank?

RATTIGAN: Envelope.

MOIRA: Want to know what’s in it?

RATTIGAN: Money.

MOIRA: Two out of two, clever boy. Now, before we go any further, would you tell me if you see any one of the officers present with his penis out?

RATTIGAN: You’re starving me!

SHOT: The money. Yours, is it?

RATTIGAN: Friend’s.

SHOT: Looking after it for someone, were you? Lot of loot, Frank. Nearly a grand in there.

WILLIAMS: What friend? Another one of your ‘mates’ from the Arsenal?