Ploughing Potter’s Field

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?

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?

RATTIGAN: What’s he talking about? Dickhead!

MOIRA: He wants to know … we all want to know, how a shabby dosser like you ended up with all that cash in your coat pocket.

RATTIGAN: Seems fair.

SHOT: Well?

RATTIGAN: Someone gave it me.

SHOT: Helen Lewis? That what you’re saying, is it, Frank? She give it you, did she? Eventually?

RATTIGAN (laughing): She gave me nothing. But I really gave it to that bitch, didn’t I? Didn’t I, eh? Really gave it to her.

MOIRA: What do you know about her, Frank?

RATTIGAN: I know how her insides work. How they used to.

MOIRA: Why her?

RATTIGAN: Feed me.

MOIRA: Why her!

RATTIGAN (suddenly animated): She was there, right. I’d had a look at her gaff, thought I might pile in there and squat it out for a week or so. Looked like the place was unoccupied. Next I know, the fuckin’ front door’s opening, and the bitch just calmly walks in. No alternative, really. Just went to work on her.

MOIRA: She was an air hostess. Did you know that?

RATTIGAN (angrily): You think I fucking care! You think I give a shit about the stupid tart?

SHOT: What we’re saying, Frank, is that Helen Lewis had a good job. Few bob in the bank. Nice house. You break in, and next we know she’s dead, and you’re found with nearly a grand in cash.

WILLIAMS: You tortured her, didn’t you? Tortured the poor girl so’s she’d tell you where her money was, right? What happened first, Frank? Good-looking girl, she was. Fucked her, did you? Fancied a quickie before you started hunting for the cash?

MOIRA: How long were you in the house?

RATTIGAN: Three days.

MOIRA: During which time you killed her, right?

RATTIGAN: She killed me years ago.

MOIRA: You knew her, then, did you, from years ago? You sought her out?

RATTIGAN: Christ’s sake! You arseholes are so stupid. You don’t get it, do you? I didn’t have to find the bitch. She’s always been around. Smiling at me. Know what I’m saying? (Pause) I mean, it’s no good, is it, eh? To smile like that, and then … do nothing.

SHOT: I don’t know, Frank. Maybe you can tell us what you mean. I’m confused. What makes a smile useless? I don’t have a problem with a pretty woman smiling.

RATTIGAN: It was the first thing that went, you know, her fucking smile. (Laughs) They say, don’t they, ‘Just wipe that smile off your face’? I did the next best thing, didn’t I? Couldn’t be doing with all those screams. Found them, have you, the lips?

SHOT: Not really our job, Frank. We’re looking for something else. The reason. Your motive. You going to tell us?

RATTIGAN (laughs again): What, and end all the fun? Just when we’re all getting on so fucking famously? But from where I am, you clever boys seem to have it all worked out, don’t you? The money, isn’t it? Bit of rape, then I kill her for the cash. Sounds very plausible to me. Highly likely. Hurrah for the police! Trebles all round!

Moira suspends interview.

8

The tape rolled on, turning slowly in the black machine on the cigarette-burnt table. Outside, suburban birds tried their best to divorce me from the tinny voices, a natural melody of harmless song inadequately competing with Rattigan’s sickening confession. But there was no comfort to be had from their happy twittering. Birds go on, regardless. Birds sing before every execution.

I began to see Allen’s purpose in sending me there a little more clearly. I had the benefit of a better insight, now. Rattigan had told me everything, and it chilled me to the bone. A significant part of me wanted nothing more to do with the Beast of East 16, leave him and his mind and motives be – as if I’d opened an abandoned manhole cover and found it clogged with all the shit from humanity.

However, another equally significant part urged me on, directed me down into the stinking mess of the man with dark, whispered promises of what lay waiting there. Truth was, the more I knew about the man the less it all made sense; the more I felt there was to discover. About him. And perhaps myself into the bargain.

I hated myself, but was honest enough to admit I was hooked. Addicted – as surely as I’d been to the booze.

Here’s a condensed version of what I heard that morning, taken from my own notes written at the time.

There are seven interviews in all, taken over a period of three days after Rattigan’s arrest. As each is terminated and another begins, new pieces fall into the puzzle as the investigation gathers momentum. A total of six officers and three psychiatrists take part at various times, each determined to make some sense of Helen Lewis’s apparently needless death.

And always the repeated question: ‘Why?’

And Rattigan’s ‘answer’: “Cause she was there. Pretty as a picture.’

… Police at Bethnal Green (headed by DCI Moira) quickly establish the previous movements of Frank Rattigan prior to the attack. An address found on the suspect’s clothes links him to Welland Farm, Suffolk, where further enquiries reveal he was working (cash in hand) as a fruit-picker during the week before the murder.

Two other pickers are tracked down and interviewed, when, in exchange for anonymity from the DHSS, they not only confirm Rattigan’s whereabouts, but go on to add that whilst picking plums, a green Jaguar XJS drew into the farmyard. The driver seemed anxious to speak to Rattigan in particular. The farmer, a Mr Bob Jenkins, verifies the incident, but cannot say whether the Jaguar’s driver sought out Rattigan specifically. It was Friday the 9th September, 1988.

In response to this, Rattigan would only say that the driver was lost and needed directions. He had no idea who the man was, and only sought to offer what help he could in the circumstances. However, both pickers were under the impression that the driver knew Rattigan personally. The suspect and the driver spent several minutes in conversation among the farm’s outbuildings, before the driver left the scene.

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