Ploughing Potter’s Field

PHIL LOVESEY

PLOUGHING POTTER’S FIELD

Since those times, it is only rarely that someone has talked to the angels of Heaven, but some have talked with spirits who are not in Heaven. It is with difficulty that these can be elevated. Yet the Lord does elevate them as much as possible, by a turning of love; which is affected by means of truths from the word.

Emanuel Swedenborg

(Heaven and Hell)

CLERK OF COURT: All rise. The court is now in session. The Crown versus Francis James Rattigan. Judge Richard Moorland presiding.

JUDGE MOORLAND: Francis James Rattigan, you have been found guilty by this court of the murder of Helen Julianne Lewis, and it is now my duty to pronounce sentence upon you.

Do you have anything to say before I do so?

RATTIGAN: We’re all flies.

JUDGE MOORLAND (sighing slightly): Much has been said in this court over the last thirteen days which I’m sure has both distressed and appalled all present. I myself freely admit to being utterly horrified by the nature of your crime upon an innocent, unsuspecting woman. Indeed, I would go further, and add that without wishing to reiterate any of the lurid details of what took place on those three days last September, your crimes are without doubt amongst the most brutal acts of unprovoked violence it has ever been my misfortune to sit in judgement upon.

RATTIGAN (smiling): Bzzzz … Bzzzzz …

JUDGE MOORLAND (to defence counsel): Mr Sharpe, will you inform your client that another outburst will have him placed in contempt?

SHARPE: Yes, Your Honour.

RATTIGAN (singing): Old Spanish eyes … Teardrops are falling from your Spanish eyes …

JUDGE MOORLAND: I propose to ignore your sorry little diversion, Mr Rattigan. Indeed much has been made by your counsel with regards to your enfeebled mind. I find myself extremely loath to admit that evidence submitted by both independent and the Crown’s own criminal psychiatrists forces me to uphold your plea of guilty via diminished responsibility. Though I’m sure, as I feel are many of us here today, that the legal definitions of ‘mad’ and ‘bad’ require some urgent reanalysis.

However, it’s my job to dispense the law, not examine its workings. I am fully convinced that the graphic nature of your crimes horrifically indicates your permanent danger to society, and although at times like these I wish I had recourse to more traditional measures, I am forced in this instance to sentence you to indefinite detention in one of Her Majesty’s secure mental institutions.

Take him down.

(Cheers from the public gallery, hurled insults, sobbing. Rattigan is surrounded by court officials. A scuffle breaks out.)

RATTIGAN (shouting above the din): Bitch done me down! Died too quick! Watched me die a thousand times!

Court Four, Old Bailey, London.

5th March, 1989.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Epigraph

Preface

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

Keep Reading

Afterword

About the Author

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

PREFACE

‘How d’it start? Christ’s sake, stupid or something? Me old man gave me mum one. Nine months later, I dropped out of her cunt. Never done biology?’

The anatomy lesson you’ve just read was given to me by Francis James Rattigan during one of a series of interviews I conducted with him as a research student in September/October 1997.

Frank Rattigan – the Beast of East 16, intended original subject of my doctorate thesis in forensic psychiatry. Crude, offensive, challenging Frank. Dubbed ‘Beast’ by the tabloids – their game, not his, a circulation-inspired pseudonym, good for a couple of weeks until the next psycho arrived to darken the blood-red front pages.

Can’t remember the name? The crime? Neither could I to begin with. Perhaps cynics might argue that there are too many Frank Rattigans around these days, too many ‘beasts’ loose on the streets. Today’s psycho – tomorrow’s chip-paper.

Then I was sent a thick brown file by Dr Neil Allen at Oakwood High Security Mental Hospital, prior to my meetings, stuffed with newspaper clippings, Rattigan’s previous criminal record, crime-scene photographs, police interviews and a vast battery of psychiatric reports. After a grim few days spent digesting its often unpalatable contents, ten-year-old memories of an East End slaughterhouse resurfaced, a girl turned to porridge by a man who could offer no motive, save that he did what he did ‘for fun’.

On the last page of the dossier was a photograph, the Beast himself, face set in a challenging sneer, eyes seeming to dare me to unlock the depravity which lurked inside. But the longer I looked, the more I became aware of something hiding behind the bravado – a sadness born out of the insanity which led him to his present incarceration. And as I immersed myself deeper into his enigma, I determined that there were answers to his crime, had to be, must be. I hardly dared to think that I, a humble student of the criminal mind, might find them; but the bait was down, I’d taken it, and ironically was hooked many years ago by a past which I’d refused to ever really acknowledge.

But what benefits does hindsight ever really bring? Looking back, I see myself as incredibly naive, suddenly excited by the chance of putting textbook theories into practice. I was finally being allowed into the real world, absolutely confident I had the necessary mettle to make it. I, Adrian Rawlings, imminent Doctor of Forensic Psychiatry, would ‘solve’ Rattigan. I would find the missing motive which had baffled the experts for so long.

Perhaps my desire to succeed was born from the ashes of failure, the ruins of redundancy. Maybe forensic psychiatry became a way of reinventing myself, a chance to analyse others without ever having to look too deeply at myself. But Rattigan changed all that, as surely as holding a mirror to my face.

Parts of this journal take the form of transcripted recordings made with Rattigan over two months during my initial thesis research. I’ve concentrated on passages which I feel are relevant – to Frank and myself. In reality, over seven hours of taped conversations exist. You may wish to hear them in their entirety. But I doubt it. His voice … corrodes.

It’s almost impossible to really ‘like’ a person like Frank. His personality forbids it, couldn’t cope with the affection. But perhaps somewhere in the recesses of our lost humanity, there lurks an untapped reservoir of empathy, made stagnant by the greed of the last hundred years. And sometimes, as I found to my cost, the only way to truthfully understand the motives of another, however distasteful, is to look into that dark pool and recognize a little of their madness in ourselves.

We simply have to be honest.

Adrian Rawlings.

December 1997.

1

Disinfectant. Pine Fresh. Dettol maybe

Floor polish, rubber soles squeaking on its brilliant, unyielding surface, heralding my anxious arrival.

And music, piped from God knows where.

I half laughed nervously. ‘Sounds like a cheap supermarket.’

Dr Allen frowned. ‘To you, perhaps. But to us it’s a vital part of the regime. Acts like a clock. Covers of the Hollywood greats from nine till ten. Sounds of the sixties till lunch. Pastoral classical from one till three. Then a bit of New Age synthesizer to simmer things down before supper and medication.’

‘The same every day?’

‘Its purpose isn’t to entertain, Mr Rawlings.’ He walked two steps in front, as if keen to be rid of the awkward student following sheepishly behind.

‘Dr Allen,’ I tried. ‘I really would like to say once again how grateful I am that –’

‘I know.’ He stopped, turned, clearly irritated that his time was wasted talking to a nonentity like me. ‘Just don’t make too much of it. We’ve had a lot of research students in Oakwood over the years. It doesn’t always work out.’

A scream somewhere close by. I tried to appear casual, unaffected, though sensed Allen saw through the sham, caught the apprehension in my eyes, felt my fear.

‘Much of this, of course,’ he said, ‘depends on Rattigan. Don’t think that just because all the papers have been stamped that that’s the last of it.’

Another scream. Much louder, closer. A woman? A white-coated orderly ran from one end of the corridor to a door somewhere behind. Then, after a moment – just the Muzak once more.

I tried hard to concentrate on the tall, thin, bespectacled doctor. ‘Rattigan decides how far it goes. He doesn’t like the look of you – it’s off. That simple. Anytime he wants to end it, he can. He deals, Mr Rawlings, you play.’ Allen held out a hand. ‘We’ll be in touch. My staff will inform me of your progress. And give my regards to Dr Clancy at the university, will you?’

He didn’t wait for my reply, which was just as well, I had none, throat parched from fear and excitement. I tried my best to steady what fading nerve I had, standing before a stencilled door emblazoned RECREATION SIX. This was recreation? For whom? I felt myself falter, suddenly wanting to be back home, normalized, basking in the silence of an emptied house echoing to the pandemonium of the family breakfast.

But there was no time for second thoughts. This was the moment I’d waited for. Planned for. My meeting with the Beast, the man I’d done little else but read about, speculate over during the previous six weeks, the man who killed for fun.

My legs felt suddenly too light for the weight of my body. What the hell do I do now? Knock? Simply walk in? What would he look like in the flesh? What waited to greet me behind the door?

Ever the polite PhD-student-come-to-visit-an-insane-psychopath, I steadied myself, counted to ten silently, then opted to knock. Twice.

A voice answered. His? ‘Come in,’ it calmly instructed. Couldn’t have been Rattigan’s voice, surely? A beast would howl, wouldn’t it?

The door opened.

‘Adrian Rawlings?’

I nodded, watching as the big, bearded orderly waffled efficiently into a walkie-talkie confirming my visitor’s-pass details with some unseen agent deep within the hospital. The Muzak changed to the theme from Lawrence of Arabia, in any other circumstances an old favourite of mine. Here it seemed tarnished, almost obscene.

He introduced himself as Warder-Orderly Denton. There were stains on his tunic and the black boots he wore smelt strongly of polish. I tried to act as casually as possible, avoiding the urge to peer over his shoulder at the other seated figure beyond.

Finally, the checks were complete. I was ushered inside.

Which is where I met my first surprise. It was just an ordinary sunny room, bland, institutional, innocuous. Not a prison bar nor wall-mounted restraining ring in sight. Just a room, rather like any of the uni.’s study rooms in the humanities building. It didn’t seem possible. I wasn’t naive enough to expect a medieval dungeon, but I’d imagined something a little more correctional. It seemed incredible that this room also held the Beast.

Next, I found myself taking a ridiculous interest in the grey lino tiling as Denton settled into a plastic bucket seat by the wall. I simply couldn’t face looking at him, felt I still wasn’t ready for an eyeball-to-eyeball encounter. But I knew he was there, caught another glimpse of the figure slumped disinterestedly behind a large table, watching, waiting for me to make the first move.

I gave it as long as I dared, then looked up, met his amused gaze, stared into the blue-grey eyes. And … there he was – Frank Rattigan – the Beast of East 16, alive, well. Full-colour flesh-vivid, not a ten-by-eight black-and-white. My second surprise of the morning. Gone was the arrogance I’d imagined to mask some telling sadness, replaced instead by a mid-fifties man, squat, puffy face and lips, balding ginger hair, clean-shaven, waiting for me to sit opposite and begin.

Silence all around. Just the three of us, alone in the room. I sat, making a show of taking items from my briefcase, placing them on the bare tabletop.

He was so close that I caught his breath on my face. Then, the moment came. I could delay no longer. I remembered my tutor Dr Stephen Clancy’s advice – stick to the script, be in charge – and I tried to ignore my bone-dry throat and finally begin my first brush with the real world of forensic psychiatry.

‘Have you been told why I’m here?’

Rattigan smiled. A normal-looking smile from a normal-looking man. ‘Have you been told why I am?’

I nodded, acknowledging the quip. ‘My name’s Adrian Rawlings. I’m a postgraduate student currently undergoing work on my docorate thesis. My university has connections with this institution. Dr Allen passed a copy of your file to my tutor, Dr Stephen Clancy, for me to read. So yes, I’m well aware why you’re here, Mr Rattigan.’ I was pleased with the way it was going, but wondered why no one else appeared to hear the beating of my heart as acutely as I did.

Then suddenly, ‘You’re a pedantic little twat, aren’t you? A “yes” or “no” answer would’ve sufficed.’

I silently counted to three before continuing, hoping the pause would stop me from running from the room. A trickle of sweat ran down my back.

‘Good reading, was it?’ The Beast goaded.

‘Sorry?’

‘My file?’ Rattigan licked his lips, leant forward, brought himself closer. ‘You married, Mr Adrian-fucking-Rawlings? Show it her, did you?’ His voice dropped to an obscene whisper. ‘Get her going, did it, Frank’s naughty behaviour?’

‘I’m here to ask you some questions. If you agree …’

‘I’ll get some fags and a few shitty privileges from these tossers.’ Rattigan sat back, jerking his head at Denton. The cold eyes quickly resettled on mine. ‘I know the fucking score. Been done a dozen times in here. Arrogant little pricks like you come to pick our brains to try and figure us out. Only I’m a little bit smarter than the average defective they’ve got banged up in here. And the way it’s been painted to me, I’m the paymaster. I don’t like the look of you and it’s over. You have to find yourself another sicko to play with. So you’d better keep Frankie sweet, or I ain’t gonna come out and play.’

I looked briefly across to Denton, who offered no support whatsoever. ‘You are empowered to terminate the arrangement whenever you chcose. As am I.’

Rattigan smiled again, but this time his bloated lips parted to form a hideously darker, more sinister crack. ‘What you got to understand, son,’ he said softly. ‘Is that I don’t get many choices in this shitbin. I’m enjoying this. I could let you dangle for some time, couldn’t I? You think we’re getting on all right, do you? Going well, is it?’

I cursed myself for having no quick answer, feeling so easily exposed. To my right, Denton suppressed a yawn.

Rattigan sensed my hesitation, leapt on it. ‘Never answered my first question. Very rude, that.’

I was hopelessly unprepared for the speed of his attack. ‘I’m not sure I …?’

The voice rose. ‘I said are you fucking married? Hitched up?’

‘I don’t see what …?’

‘… that has to do with anything? Jesus Christ! How old are you?’

‘Thirty-nine.’

He paused to laugh. At me. I felt stung by it.

‘It was rhetorical, you cunt!’ He laughed some more. Then stopped suddenly, milked a heavy silence. ‘We have to develop a little trust, Adrian. A little rapport. I know what you want from me. The same shit all the shrinks want from me.’ He tapped the side of his fat head. ‘What goes on in here, right? What made me do what I did to the fly-girl. Now I ain’t going to give that away lightly, am I?’ For the second time his voice dropped to an acidic whisper. ‘They think I’m low risk. Pump me full of shit to keep me sweet. But they’re not there in the middle of the night. That’s when my mind begins to wander, Adrian. That’s when I want to go over stuff, know what I mean?’ A long pause. ‘No – I guess you don’t. But you want to. That’s why you’re here.’

I finally found my tongue. ‘Maybe. But …’

‘Maybe – good word that. Like “maybe” I’d like to know more about your missus. Maybe I’d enjoy spending some time imagining all sorts with her.’ He sat back suddenly. ‘She goes for all that puppy fat, does she?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘They’ve got a gym in here. You look like you could use it. Too soft. Too easy. How much do you weigh?’

‘Is it important?’

‘Close on thirteen stone: am I right?’

‘More or less.’ I hadn’t bothered weighing myself in years, but I knew he was damn close. Unnervingly close.

‘Height? About five-ten, yeah?’

Bang on the money. I attempted an unconcerned smile.

‘Know how I know?’ Rattigan asked. ‘Because it’s in me. Takes me about five seconds to suss any fucker, strengths, weaknesses. I look at you now, fat-boy, and I know all I need to know.’ He closed both eyes, exhaled, then suddenly blinked them open again. ‘Got any kids? Love kids, me.’

Denton moved slightly. ‘Less of the pantomime, Frank.’

‘Or what? Another month strapped to the fucking trolley?’ Rattigan turned quickly back to me. ‘A little trust, fat-boy, a little gesture is all I ask.’

‘The cigarettes you’ll receive,’ I replied, struggling to prevent myself from cursing back. ‘The privileges, they’re the only gestures I can give. You’re right. If you don’t like me, you can end this, but that privilege is mine, too. You abuse me too often, and I’ll inform Dr Allen.’

He aped at pretending to be scared, then instantly switched to concern. ‘My life story for a few packs of fags. Bit fucking tacky, ain’t it?’

‘I don’t make the rules.’

‘What you here for, then?’

‘It’s part of my thesis. Work experience, they call it. With your permission, we’ll meet once a fortnight when I’ll ask you an assigned series of questions before asking some of my own. None of which you are obliged to answer if you don’t wish to.’ That felt better, building into a rhythm after the early derailing. I almost felt back in charge – for a moment.

‘So what’s her name, your missus?’

‘I’m not allowed to tell you anything about my private life.’

‘Yet you want to know everything about mine?’

‘I want a doctorate.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll find it all out anyway.’ Another nod towards Denton. ‘See that cunt over there? Mr fucking charm himself? Bent as a fucking coathanger, he is. He’ll tell me all I need to know. Quick poke around the guv’nor’s office, and I’ll have the lot.’

I glance at the bored warder-orderly whose eyes remained firmly fixed at his feet.

Rattigan continued. ‘Names of your kids, ages, schools they go to, boyfriends, girlfriends, I’ll know the bloody lot. Phone numbers an’ all. Maybe give you a bell from time to time. Quick chat to the wife while you’re fucking around studenting. That’s the way it’s going to be, Adrian. That’s what you’re starting with me. I’m going to crawl into your soul and …’

‘Shut it, Rattigan,’ Denton ordered, checking his watch and rising from the chair. ‘Playtime’s over. Let’s get you back to the unit.’ He turned to me. ‘Mr Rawlings, if you’d like to make your way back to Dr Allen’s office now, thank you.’

Dumbly, I complied, beginning to repack my briefcase, eyes doing their best to ignore the grinning, leering face before me.

‘So,’ Rattigan asked innocently. ‘I think that went very well, don’t you?’

‘As I understand it, the decision’s yours.’

‘I like you. Gonna tie you in knots.’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’

‘Listen to the fighting talk, I love all that.’ Rattigan stood. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Ask me any damn thing you like, and I’ll give you the God’s honest truth.’

An unprofessional impulse overwhelmed me. The session had apparently ended. Now wasn’t the time to pursue anything, except a quick exit. But something in me had to ask, had to start somewhere. ‘Why Helen Lewis? Did you know her?’

The Beast waved an admonishing finger. ‘We all know Helen Lewis,’ he replied slowly. ‘Even you, fat-boy. Trouble is, you ain’t done for yours. But I have for mine. And that bitch ain’t never gonna …’ He paused, frowned slightly.

‘What?’

‘Make sure they’re Rothmans.’

2

‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘I felt like he was unpicking me.’

‘He probably was.’

‘Any chance you could open the window?’

Two hours after my first encounter with Rattigan, Dr Stephen ‘Fancy’ Clancy sat in his college room pulling heavily on a slim panatella cigar. I had the beginnings of a headache, made worse by the exhaled fumes swirling within the confines of the chaotic little boxroom which laughably passed as his office.

I remembered vividly as a psychology undergrad, a mature student, thirty-two, clutching a photocopy of the Essex University humanities building floorplan, walking the humming corridors, searching for his room, buzzing with clichéd expectations of its high ceiling mounted on elegantly windowed walls groaning with dust-laden volumes offering valuable historical insights into the hidden workings of the mind. I expected a pickled brain in a bell jar at least.

But Fancy’s ‘office’ was a toilet, even by his own admission. Blind always down, desklamp permanently burning – his attempt, he explained jovially when we first shook hands, to, ‘Tardis my hutch into a tolerable space.’

He’d smiled, and I’d responded. I liked him. Still do. I began a friendship with my tutor that often included him coming over to my place for supper, or Jemimah and I visiting him and his wife Sheila in their Tudor house in Roxwell. In retrospect, I believe that the minimal differences in our ages helped forge the friendship – although at times, his devotion to the long lunch put it under certain strains. He drank – I didn’t. Not any more.

‘Sounds as if you found the trip out to Oakwood heavy going,’ the tall, permanently tanned tutor surmised. ‘From what you’re saying, Rattigan appears ready to go, and you’re the odds-on favourite stalling at the first fence.’

‘He frightened me. Really. I felt exposed.’

‘Good.’

‘Good?’

‘Adrian, he’s a convicted killer. You aren’t up there to become best buddies with the man.’

‘I just thought …’ But I was tired, the words failed me.

‘You thought you’d walk in there, and he’d spiritedly comply with your every wish, utterly in awe of your academic prowess.’

‘He called me a pedantic little twat. I felt like punching him.’

Fancy suppressed a smile. ‘He’s simply having some fun with you. Don’t get so involved. He wants to see you again, so the job’s done. He called you a few names, so what? Christ’s sake, Adrian, you’re a bloody good student. You have a keen interest in the malfunctioning mind. You wanted to meet him the moment you read the file. Positively salivating at the prospect this time yesterday.’