Struggles of Psycho

by Rhyam O'Bryam

  ‘“Fuck you, Amy!” Mike raised his hand to strike again and I felt myself flinch. This made him roar with laughter. “All these years you ruled me. You broke my heart. You stole my dignity. You’re an evil bitch, Amy. But you are nothing to me now. You are weak and pathetic. You’ve no power over me and unless you tell me where Ivy is, I’m going to…” He took a step closer and as he did so, something in his expression changed.

  ‘“What are you going to do, Mike?” I asked softly.

  ‘He leered at me and brazenly looked at my chest. “I’m going to drag you upstairs, tie you face down on your bed and fuck your arse.”

  ‘Ah, here we go again.’ McCarthy looked at me, disgusted, as if to say I should stop Amy Philips from speaking like this.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s relevant?’ Amy Philips asked McCarthy, face set hard. For some reason, our suspect always tried to draw me into her thinking, to share herself with me. McCarthy, however, she just pushed away. ‘He was threatening to kidnap me in my own home, torture me and anally rape me.’

  ‘Go on.’ I let out a deep breath. It was early in the day, yet already I felt tired.

  ‘I began laughing, really deep strong laughter, coming uncontrollably. I couldn’t help myself. This sudden transformation in Mike was farcical. From worm to dragon. You see, I’ve skipped parts of the story, including parts where – excuse me, Sergeant, if your prudishness makes this hard to hear – Mike and I had a BDSM relationship in which I was his mistress.

  ‘So this threat of his was a twist on the fact that more than once he’d been tied up, spreadeagled, a vibrator in his arse, pleading for his mistress to be kind to him and bring him off. Or sleeping in a dog basket, having been worn out with doggy tasks.

  ‘Purple now and near apoplectic, Mike had tears in his feverish eyes. He swung at me again but this time I was ready and ducked away, moving over to put the sofa between us still holding the knitting needle.

  ‘“I’m sorry, Mike,” I said, my laughter coming under control at last. “It’s just the masterful Mike Patterson doesn’t really work for me.”

  ‘“You don’t understand, Amy.” He stood opposite me, just the low sofa between us. “You broke me. I could do anything now, I no longer care. I could strangle you. Suffocate you with one of those cushions.”

  ‘“If anything happens to me, Mike, as you know, my extensive collection of photographs of you in shameful positions goes live.”

  ‘“I really don’t care anymore. I’m a long way past that point. You can’t blackmail me anymore.”

  ‘“You don’t care what your wife would think?”

  ‘“Fuck her.”

  ‘At this point, it did occur to me that Mike might actually have crossed some kind of tipping point. That he might really have come here intending to torture me. After all, I’d tortured him on and off for twenty years and if he had broken down, then all sorts of dangerous obsessions may have arisen in his head. Including ones where he hurt me.

  ‘“Mike, let’s calm down. Take a moment. See if we can talk through how to find Ivy. I’ve her bank details, we could see if she’s been making ATM withdrawals and where they were. Maybe they will mean something to you.”

  ‘“Go on then.” But his eyes remained jittery. “Look them up on your phone.”

  ‘“Oh, I’m sorry, Mike. I don’t have a mobile phone.”

  ‘“Your laptop then.”

  ‘I glanced towards the corner of the room, where my computer stood on a desk. He followed my gaze.

  ‘“Do it!”

  ‘For once I felt indecisive. On the one hand, showing Mike that Ivy was in Bristol or wherever she’d ended up might lead him to leave my house. But on the other, I didn’t want to give in to Mike, especially with him in this worked-up state. It might be taking a step towards a cliff edge.

  ‘“Do it!”

  ‘“Stop shouting, take a seat and I will.”

  ‘He quivered, visibly torn between wanting to assert himself some more and wanting my assistance to find out about Ivy. After a pause, he stood beside the computer and spoke to me in a reasonable tone. “Look it up.”

  ‘I was tempted to ask him to add the word “please”. But this was victory enough.

  ‘While I logged into Ivy’s bank account, Mike watched me intensely. He was silent, however, until I skipped through her password. I deliberately typed so quickly that he didn’t catch it.

  ‘“Wait. What is her password?’

  ‘“Sorry Mike… I don’t think Ivy would want me to share her banking password.”

  ‘Again, Mike flushed and I could see from the whiteness of his knuckles on his clenched fists that he was close to losing control and hitting me. I slipped my hand to the side of the computer, where I had put down the knitting needle, and touched it again.

  ‘After he had taken a few deep breaths, Mike gestured towards the screen. “Well?”

  ‘“See for yourself. Wexford mostly and Gorey.”

  ‘“She hasn’t gone far.” Mike leaned over to look and I have to admit, I did feel an impulse to stab him in the throat with the needle and get this over with.’

  Amy Philips looked directly at me and gave me a shrug. I tried to remain impassive, but this was close to a confession.

  ‘It would still have been self-defence,’ our suspect continued, ‘if I really had thought myself in danger. But I was no longer sure of Mike’s intentions. Perhaps he was calming down. Perhaps he would leave soon.’

  ‘Pause there.’ McCarthy tapped her pen on her pad. ‘You don’t own a mobile phone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I find them very intrusive. And isn’t it the case that you can be tracked by owning them?’

  McCarthy looked up sharply. ‘Why should that trouble you?’

  ‘Oh, Big Brother, you know.’ Amy Philips smiled at me.

  ‘But you do own a computer?’ McCarthy continued.

  ‘Yes, unfortunately, it is a necessity.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  As soon as McCarthy asked the question, I realised why. There had been no computer at the farm when we did our search. Of course, I couldn’t show my feelings in front of Amy Philips but I felt a flush of warmth towards McCarthy. She was competent and smart. Good to have at my side.

  Amy Philips let out a sigh. Her face had gone pale, the jowls of her cheeks seemed to sag. ‘It’s in the River Slaney. Or out at sea, if the current is strong enough.’

  McCarthy looked across towards me and I gestured with my chin that she should continue to press.

  ‘Now that, Ms Philips, is suspicious. You threw your computer in the river after the death of Mike Patterson?’

  ‘I’m afraid that I did. Before I rang the guards.’

  ‘Why on earth would you do that?’ I felt something like elation. My instinct was that Amy Philips had murdered Mike Patterson but that she was going to twist things around and get off much more lightly than she deserved. Now, for the first time, we had her on the ropes.

  ‘It’s embarrassing.’ Amy Philips looked down at the table top, as though studying the pattern of the scratches. Yet I felt that she was acting. Abruptly, she looked up into my eyes. ‘It was full of porn. Lesbian BDSM. Strong stuff. And some homemade recordings I had, of myself and Ivy. And I had online conversations, where I had been a strict mistress. There was a lot of chat and images to do with that, which I wanted to get rid of.

  ‘I knew once the emergency services came all this would be examined. It might even come up in court, in the media. I know it was wrong to dump it. I’m really sorry. But it is really shameful stuff. You have to remember, I’m a long way out in the countryside. It’s all I had.’

  As soon as she had spoken, I felt deflated. For a moment I thought we had her, that her story was about to unravel. But this was plausible. I didn’t believe her but a jury might. Was there any point dredging the river? The hard disk was probably intact. But she wouldn’t take us to the right spot. No, it was hopeles
s.

  ‘Tell me those login details.’ I raised my pen expectantly.

  ‘For Ivy’s bank account?’

  ‘For her bank account.’

  Amy Philips hesitated, then spelled out the name and password. I wrote them down on a new page, tore it off and took it to the ruddy-faced, young sergeant outside. ‘Log in to this account and print off all the transactions.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘As far back as they go.’

  ‘Very good, superintendent.’

  Chapter Ten

  Back in the room, McCarthy looked restless. But we had to push on. As things stood, there was nothing to support a murder charge.

  I sat opposite Amy Philips again and met her intense gaze for some time, before looking back down to my notes. ‘Going back to your account of the night of the death of Mike Patterson. You had shown him the bank transactions.’

  ‘I had.’

  ‘And he had calmed down.’

  ‘Well, I thought so. But he was still out of control. He straightened up and paced around my carpet. “Give me your wallet!” Mike demanded at last.

  ‘“My purse, you mean?”

  ‘“Wherever you keep your bank cards.”

  ‘“Are you going to rob me, Mike? I thought you had lots of money.”

  ‘“Just give it to me.” He looked around the lounge, eyes bulging, head moving back and forth.

  ‘“You know, you look like a meerkat. A fat one.”

  ‘Immediately he came over and slammed his hand on the desk. “Don’t trifle with me, Amy. I’m on the verge of doing something terrible.”

  ‘What do you want my bank cards for?’

  ‘“If you’ve got Ivy’s cards, then… then it’s you who drew out the cash. It means you’ve killed her… and I’m going to kill you.” His voice, which up until now had been loud and impassioned, grew sombre with that last threat. And I truly believed him.’

  ‘You believed your life was in danger?’ I asked.

  ‘Precisely, Superintendent. There was something rather comical about Mike trying to be in command of me. When he was shouting and banging things, I didn’t worry too much. But when he became serious and his fury was channelled into a cold anger, well, I’d never seen this before and I was frightened.’

  McCarthy sneered and if her expression meant that she did not believe Amy was ever afraid of Mike. I agreed with her. It seemed to me that Philips was simply preparing her defence.

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I must have looked across at my handbag. For with a cry, “Aha!” Mike ran across to it as if in a race with me. But I didn’t try to beat him to the bag. I did, however, stand up and hold the knitting needle in front of me in both hands.

  ‘Mike rummaged through the bag, throwing out tissues and keys. Then he found it, Amy’s bank card and turned completely white. It was quite a shocking transformation, from red-cheeked anger to pale horror.’

  ‘So you did have the bank card?’ asked McCarthy accusatorily.

  ‘Oh yes. I’d had it for years.’ Amy Philips did not sound troubled. Yet I could see why Mike might consider this as proof that something grim had happened to his missing sister.

  ‘Why?’ continued McCarthy with a frown.

  ‘It’s a long story and I would be happy to go back to what happened after our school years. But in short, I was Ivy’s mistress and it was part of our game that she was utterly in my power. And that included me having her passport, her bank cards, control of her Facebook page. Everything.’

  I wrote down ‘Facebook’ on my notes, to remind me. Then looked up at her. ‘Do you still have the card?’ I asked.

  ‘Why yes, Superintendent, right here in my bag.’ Amy Philips smiled at me. ‘Would you like it?’ She knew she was teasing us.

  ‘Can I search your entire bag?’

  ‘By all means.’

  So I did. McCarthy and Philips waited patiently as I took out the contents and put them on the table. Two pens; a small notebook (mostly blank, with shopping lists on the first few pages); a pocket flashlight; a hairbrush; a purse with change and two fifty-Euro notes; lip balm; a plaster; five dusty mints and her cards. Two bank cards. One, an ATM card in her own name. And there it was, a second card with little silver letters: Ivy Patterson.

  ‘Can you get an evidence bag?’ I asked McCarthy and held it by the edges. Perhaps we’d have Mike’s fingerprints on it.

  ‘Just a moment, Superintendent, but evidence for what? You haven’t charged me with anything. Right now, that is private property.’

  I leaned back in my chair, weighing up my options. ‘All right, let’s just leave it here for a few minutes, while you finish your account.’ I let the card fall flat on the table.

  Amy Philips gave me the knowing look that I was becoming used to.

  ‘Very well. So, when Mike found that card, he lost control of himself. His eyes bulged and he let out a roar of anguish. What was he feeling? Horror, perhaps, and rage. In his imagination I’d done something terrible to his sister.

  ‘“You fucking bitch! You wicked fucking bitch.” He stepped across to the fireplace and picked up the poker. “What have you done!” This was a terrifying scream. I felt in fear for my life. As he took a step forward, I was convinced he was going to attack me with that poker and not stop hitting me until I was dead.’

  When she made this statement, Amy Philips used a matter-of-fact tone that was unusual. I was watching her closely and there was no sign at all that she was troubled by the memory of this event. No tremble in her voice, no shake of her hands. It was as though she were speaking for the sake of the record and her future trial.

  I’ve heard a few accounts of extreme violence, murder even, and while people can often keep themselves calm, they wince to themselves, or twitch. Humans – normal humans – shy away from trauma.

  ‘Go on,’ said McCarthy.

  ‘The moment he raised his arm, I knew I had to act. Once he first struck me, he wouldn’t stop. Not only was there his anger over Ivy pushing him on, there were decades of pent-up anger in his eyes. Anger at the humiliation and suffering I’d inflicted on him over the years.

  ‘Whatever control I used to have over Mike was gone. So just as his took his next step forward, I surprised him, darting forward and jabbing the needle into his chest. There was a resistance, a strong resistance, but I was panicked and afraid so I pushed as hard as I could and suddenly, it went in.

  ‘And that was that. Without another word and without much blood either, he fell. First to his knees and then he keeled over on his side, with a distinct crack as his head hit the thin rug. After a moment, when I could control my breathing, I knelt down and checked. Mike’s eyes were empty, his breathing had stopped. He was dead.’

  ‘How did you feel?’ McCarthy asked. This was an odd question and I glanced at my colleague. But it was clever, too.

  ‘I have to admit, I laughed. I was so relieved. Instead of a horrible and painful death, I was going to live. I had survived.’

  That mention of laughter was a mistake by her. Well done, McCarthy. The jury wouldn’t be impressed by that.

  ‘And then you rang the emergency services?’ McCarthy looked down, ‘at nine forty-one.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Amy Philips,’ I said, hearing the formality in my voice. ‘I charge you with the murder of Michael Patterson. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’

  Her face fell. ‘But, Superintendent…’ After a short pause, she rallied herself, staring hard at me. ‘Murder, Superintendent? Surely you mean manslaughter.’

  ‘No, I mean murder.’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh, come on. It’s not too late to save yourself from being made a fool of.’ Amy Philips glanced at McCarthy, who had produced a charge sheet and was about to fill it in.

  McCarthy looked at me.

  ‘Murder.’

  And the sheet
was filled in accordingly, McCarthy unable to suppress a slight smile as she did so.

  There was a silence.

  ‘What now, Superintendent? When do I get my lawyer?’

  I looked at my watch. It was only five to ten, even though it felt like I’d been in here all day. ‘We’ll be able to get you a District Court bail hearing this afternoon. Or, if you agree and wish to co-operate, it can be tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Absolutely, Superintendent. I do want to co-operate.’

  ‘In that case, I propose a break until this afternoon. I’ll have someone take your fingerprints, blood and hair sample – voluntarily on your part – in that time. And you can make one phone call.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Again there was silence.

  I stood up. McCarthy stood up.

  ‘Your bag, please.’ I gestured with a nod to the table and with a sigh, Amy Philips placed her belongings in front of her.

  ‘This is stupid,’ she said. Then she got up too. ‘Take me to the phone, please.’

  Chapter Eleven

  I could leave a lot of the administration to McCarthy. Having contacted the court, she would be arranging with a doctor to get the DNA samples as well as getting the fingerprint analysis of Ivy Patterson’s bank card. One matter that I couldn’t delegate, however, was to brief the Director of Public Prosecutions.

  Later that afternoon, having made good time on the motorway, I entered her office on Infirmary Road in Dublin. She had a good view over a cobbled square to the Jameson Distillery and I immediately felt a desire for a whiskey. It would be good to switch off for a while.

  Helen O’Reilly – or, Léan O’Raghailligh, as the gold lettering on her door plate put it – was relatively young for the post, at about forty years old. Appointed just last year, she was younger than me and I couldn’t help resenting it. Double my salary, I’d guess. It wasn’t that she was a woman, I understood that. Even now, after a real effort to balance things, women had only a quarter of the top police posts and a third of the judges’. No, what I resented was the question of class. Like most of the people at the very highest levels of law and policing and very much in contrast to my own circumstances (my father was a poor farmer) she had come from a privileged background.