Ploughing Potter’s Field - Phil Lovesey

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passionately was a good deal greater than simply hitting my thirties, redundant and shit-scared. No – it was for far simpler, far darker reasons. The more I drank, the less I needed to answer the real questions gently swelling and beginning their way up from deep down inside. Questions I’d buried from childhood and adolescence. Questions which the redundancy had thrown up, and which I feared would never go away.

      Fancy duly put my name forward to Dr Neil Allen at HMP Oakwood High Security Mental Hospital, and after a short submission on my part detailing my willingness to compile relevant data regarding antisocial behaviour disorders, I was duly accepted and funded.

      ‘Game on!’ Fancy had beamed when telling me the good news. ‘A year from now and I’ll be calling the man “Doctor”.’

      Fancy rang late the following Thursday night.

      ‘He’s gone for it, Adrian.’

      ‘Rattigan?’ I answered nervously.

      ‘Wants to see you tomorrow afternoon.’

      ‘Shit! So soon?’

      ‘Told you he would. They all do.’

      ‘Jesus. Tomorrow?’

      ‘Don’t worry. Pop into the uni. on the way. See me before ten. I’ll give you all you need to know. And Adrian?’ His voice was deadly serious. ‘Remember, you get in, you do this, you get out. You’re the boss. It only becomes a game when you agree to play it.’

      ‘But there’s so much about him that …’

      ‘Shouldn’t concern you, Adrian.’

      I heard what he said, understood his warning, yet knew following the advice would be difficult, if nigh on impossible.

      I was an idealistic mature student with a head full of theories and expectations. Rattigan fascinated me for one reason alone. He claimed to have killed for no other motive than his own self-satisfaction. He’d had ‘fun’ dispensing slow death.

      Why couldn’t I heed all the warnings and simply accept this? What drove me to rationalize his monstrous act within my own understanding? Personal ambition? A desire to be recognized as a great forensic psychologist?

      Or something else entirely?

      It wasn’t that Rattigan held the answers, I did. But at the time, I was too scared to face the questions.

      

      To date, neuropsychological studies of offenders have been blighted by small samples, lack of controls and an emphasis on institutionalized populations. However, results from such studies indicate that both poor language skills and impairment of the regulative functions controlled by the frontal lobes are consistent factors in the analysis of sociopathic antibehavioural disorders.

      At present, it is almost impossible to gauge whether either factor is the result of developmental damage or neurological failure, and more work needs to be done in order to understand the complex correlation between the two.

      However, current thinking suggests that many forms of sociopathic and psychotic behaviours can possibly be explained by the ineffectiveness of the subject’s ‘inner voice’, or learned morality, to temper violent outbursts.

      Put simply – they appear to do what they want, to whom they like, as and when mood takes them.

      Dr Neil Allen

       (The Roots of Psychopathy)

       4

      Three-thirty, Oakwood High Security Mental Hospital, Cambridgeshire, RECREATION SIX.

      The same three players, Rattigan, Denton and myself.

      I reached into my briefcase, brought out some papers, two packs of Rothmans and a micro-cassette recorder.

      Then turned to Rattigan. ‘There’s one or two things I’m obliged to explain regarding your participation in the programme.’

      ‘Can’t wait.’ Rattigan was already unwrapping one of the blue and white boxes.

      I cleared my throat, anxious to get the script right. ‘Now that you’ve officially consented to my visits, I’ll be asking you a series of questions prepared by various agencies in order to gain a greater understanding of antisocial behavioural disorders. In addition to this, I’ll also be asking some questions I’ve formulated myself in order to help with my own studies in the field of forensic psychiatry.’

      ‘Blah, blah, fucking blah.’

      I placed the micro-cassette on the middle of the table. ‘Are you aware of what this is?’

      He looked at the black plastic box for a few seconds. ‘It’s a penguin, isn’t it? A tiny penguin with a lemon up its arse, watching Pinocchio in a large block of flats in West Croydon.’

      ‘Each meeting will be recorded for subsequent transcription and analysis on this tape recorder.’

      At which point Rattigan lit up. ‘Just shows how wrong you can be, eh?’

      I switched on the machine, relief flooding over me when I realized the damn thing was working properly. Next I reached for a green sheet of A4 headed ‘Analysis of Institutionalized Offenders – History, Profiling and Sociopathic Behaviour Traits’, and began working my way through the answer boxes.

      ‘Name?’

      ‘King of Sweden.’

      I put down Francis James Rattigan. ‘Age?’

      He exhaled violently. ‘You’ve got my details! Go to the fucking governor’s office and sort this shit out!’

      ‘Age?’ I repeated, unmoved.

      ‘Hundred and seven.’

      I put down the pen. ‘Frank.’

      ‘Adrian?’

      ‘Refusal to cooperate will be taken as reluctance to comply with the programme.’ I was surprisingly cool, amazed the corporate bullshit came so easily. I’d done what Fancy had told me to the last time, left Adrian Rawlings in Dr Allen’s office, waiting for collection.

      ‘F602 GPW.’

      The combination seemed familiar, but I hadn’t asked him for his number yet. ‘Age?’ I repeated, keeping up the show.

      ‘F602 GPW.’ His eyes scanned my face intently. ‘Yours, innit? Your motor. Dark-green Vauxhall Cavalier. GB sticker on the back. Go anywhere pleasant?’

      The penny dropped. I tried not to appear unnerved. ‘I don’t see that’s relevant, Frank.’

      ‘Bollocks, you’re crapping yourself. Can see it, can read faces, fear. Your fucking wheels. I got your wheels. How much longer before I get your phone, fat-boy? How much longer before I’m ringing your missus up while you’re hard at work in the nuthouse, eh?’

      ‘Age?’

      He smiled, then sighed. ‘Fifty-seven. Born twenty-eighth of March, nineteen-forty.’

      I filled in the form, inwardly cursing its designers. Rattigan was right, why the bloody hell wasn’t this done before the interviews took place? And how in God’s name had he got my numberplate? The pen shook slightly. I wanted answers to these ludicrous questions, but knew the cassette was recording my performance as well as his. For some reason I couldn’t bear to have Fancy listening to an actual recording of a balls-up. Stick to the script. Stick to the bloody script.

      ‘Offence?’

      ‘Whose?’

      ‘Yours,’ I replied, staring at the little box, awaiting his response.

      ‘I chopped up some tart who should’ve known better.’

      ‘Better?’

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