One Perfect Witness: a gripping psychological suspense

by Pat Young

  Mum says, ‘He’s amazing. We had a meeting with his year head last week and got a wonderful report. Doing well in all his subjects. Settling in easily, despite the difficulties, and adapting to secondary school life. Making friends. “He’s a sociable, likeable, clever, well-behaved lad.” Those are the very words the teacher used.’

  ‘Stop, Mum.’

  ‘I’m proud of you. Especially after all you came through.’

  ‘Well done, Charlie. I’m proud of you too. That wasn’t the ideal start to high school. But it sounds as if you’re doing okay?’

  Nod. Sometimes I still do. Just because I can talk, doesn’t mean I always have to. Girls talk too much, I’ve decided. I eat a biscuit and sit listening to Mum and Nat.

  ‘So, eventually the police told us they were sure Charlie was covering up for someone. That’s when it all came out.’

  ‘He seemed such a nice guy, didn’t he?’

  ‘He was charming,’ says Mum.

  ‘Not to me, he wasn’t.’

  ‘I know, sweetheart, he terrified you. We know that now.’

  ‘And we all thought he was a hero, the day he left,’ says Nat. ‘The day of the fire. Explains why he was in such a rush to get away, doesn’t it?’

  Mum nods, agreeing. She’s said the same thing, quite a few times.

  ‘What about the business?’ says Nat. ‘If it’s okay to ask?’

  ‘We’ve no idea, to be honest. The insurance will cover the damage to the tower and the payout will help meet the refurbishment costs, if we go ahead. Not sure this is any bride’s idea of a perfect setting for a wedding now.’

  ‘It’s still a very beautiful place.’ Nat waves an arm in the direction of the sea. ‘That view hasn’t changed. It takes my breath away, every time.’

  ‘We’re going to wait and see. Ironically, on the day of the fire in the tower, an old friend of mine had finally agreed to invest in Brackenbrae. I thought all our worries were over and then I got the phone call. From there, all hell broke loose.’

  Nat touches Mum’s hand. ‘But you’ve come through it, haven’t you?’

  ‘So far, yes, and I’ve still got my boy, which is more than can be said for poor Sebastien’s mum. God only knows how she’ll cope, but thank goodness she sent that phone.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Seb, the real Seb, lost his iPhone on the way here so his mum sent him a new one, which the other guy kept for himself. Poor woman was phoning and sending texts.’

  ‘Thinking it was her son on the other end?’

  ‘Yes, and getting increasingly worried when she got no response. But that phone is the vital link, the only link, to the guy we thought was Seb. He turned out to be the real mystery man. The police don’t tell us much, but we know they’re tracing the phone.’

  ‘But Charlie’s in the clear?’

  ‘Of course he is. He did nothing wrong.’

  ‘Apart from taking the gun, Mum. If I hadn’t done that, none of the rest would have happened.’

  ‘Charlie, we’ve talked about this. That was a stupid thing to do, we all agree, but we know why you did it and it’s not a criminal offence, is it?’

  As if she wants to brighten the atmosphere, Nat says, ‘What about all these friends you’re making, Charlie. Are they cool?’

  Nod.

  ‘Come on, then, tell me. Remember you used to talk about Jayden Jeffries and Mackenzie what’s-her-name?’

  ‘Mackenzie McMullen. They weren’t really my friends.’

  ‘I know that. They were classmates.’

  ‘I never see them now.’

  ‘Well, that’s the great thing about ‘big school’, you meet a lot more people. Listen, have you got a nickname?’

  Nod then laugh. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Have you?’ says Mum. ‘You didn’t tell us that.’

  ‘Only the coolest kids have a nickname,’ says Nat. ‘Do you like yours?’

  I do kind of like it, even though I probably shouldn’t. I was worried that folk would hear about the not-talking thing and make a fool of me, but the guys I’m friendly with just laughed. Then Ian said it and it stuck.

  ‘Can we ask what it is?’ asks Nat.

  I nod and laugh again.

  ‘It’s Noddy.’

  73

  South Africa

  Sunday 21 October

  Birds are singing in the hospital garden and from his window Gus can see mountains against a deep blue sky. A smudge of high cloud drifts past the sun. It’s a beautiful spring day, perfect weather to be set free.

  Soon he’ll be out there, racing along the highway, a beast of a bike roaring between his legs. His hand goes to his crotch as he imagines the delights that await him when he hits the beach. He’s in top shape physically, probably the best of his life, and all without the aid of drugs. Just hours and hours in the gym, encouraged by a doctor who takes the ‘healthy mind in healthy body’ approach. A few days in the sun will bring his colour back and he’ll have to fight the babes off.

  The weeks have been long in Sunnyvale, but true to his word, he’s been a model patient, keen and willing to learn how to manage his anger. He has listened and made notes, read all the suggested books and done everything right. His doctor, well, psychiatrist really, has been impressed, making very encouraging noises at his last assessment meeting. Gus is sure everyone knows he was never crazy, just a big guy with a temper to match. He’s a reformed character now. He knows how to control that temper of his and he’s safe to return to society. Of course, they couldn’t let him out right away. He had to be seen to be undergoing some kind of ‘punishment’ for beating up that guy on the rugby pitch. That’s okay, he’s cool with that. Fair enough. He’s done the crime and now he’s done the time. Soon he’ll be free to go and get on with his life – an upstanding citizen of South Africa.

  While he waits to be called to Doctor van Beek’s office, he tidies his few belongings. He’s already decided to leave almost everything behind, a sign of the new start he plans to make.

  ‘Doctor van Beek is ready to see you now, Gus. Please go through.’

  The door to the doc’s office is open. Gus is about to pin a bright smile on his face and step inside when he spots two policemen sitting behind the desk. His face freezes into a frown. He stops on the threshold and they look towards him. Hairs rise on the back of his neck. He’s certain the cops can see the guilt on his face. He rearranges his features into a smile and steps forward, trying to look confident. Best to brazen this out and deny everything. That little bastard, Charlie, must have spilled the beans. After all this time.

  His doctor is the first to speak, inviting him to sit and offering him a drink of water. The psychiatrist starts explaining to the cops that Gus has been making great progress, learning to deal with issues that stem from a childhood with an abusive father and a negligent mother, exaggerated by steroid abuse and blah blah blah.

  Gus has heard this psychobabble so often he could recite it off by heart. There’s no need to listen to it all over again. Instead he concentrates on the two policemen facing him. The first one has a tight little mouth sandwiched between a thin line of moustache and a goatee beard, trimmed with precision into a tiny triangle. Both moustache and beard look like they’ve been drawn in black marker pen. His eyes are like holes poked with a stick, so deep Gus can’t read their expression. The other cop looks straight off the farm, his acne face is as round and red as a pizza. A topping of bright orange hair does nothing to make Gus warm to him.

  The doc has stopped talking. It’s clear Gus is expected to respond in some way. He feels like he’s back in junior school. The teacher would interrupt his daydreaming with a question and he’d have no idea what she was talking about. He remembers how stupid that made him feel, how angry. He reminds himself that his anger is a thing of the past.

  Doctor van Beek says, in his gentle, cajoling voice, ‘The officers think you might be able to help them with an enquiry, Gus, and they’d like to ask you one or two questions.
Fine with that?’

  Gus wonders if he can say no, but he smiles and says, ‘No problem.’

  Moustache Man starts to explain that they’re here at the request of police colleagues in Scotland, in connection with a body that’s been found on a campsite where Gus is believed to have spent several weeks working.

  Gus stops paying attention. But no daydreaming this time. He turns his mind to his options. He’s vaguely aware of the cop’s voice, droning on about pathologist’s findings, but doesn’t waste time listening to details. He hears only bits of medical gobbledygook that mean nothing to him. He picks up random words like head wound, instantaneous death, enough to tell him he’s in deep shit. When he hears the cop say ‘buried on the hillside’ he glances at van Beek, whose eyebrows have disappeared under his hair.

  Even half-listening, Gus hears enough to know that this is looking seriously bad. He starts to shake his head. He absolutely will not go to jail. Anything but that. He sees a way and decides to take it.

  With a mad roar, he lunges forward and grabs the edge of the desk. He hurls it over on top of the two policemen. Their chairs topple backwards, trapping them underneath the desk. Doctor van Beek reaches for his emergency button, but before he can press it, Gus gets him by the throat and squeezes. The doctor’s eyes start to bulge and his tongue pokes out, red and pointy. The cops scramble to their feet and Pizza Face moves forward. Gus thrusts the doctor at him with such force that the two men fall. Their momentum knocks down the third and they lie there, legs tangled like the Keystone Cops. Gus rampages around the room, bellowing and storming like a speared bull. He sweeps folders and notes to the floor, lifts his chair and hurls it through the window, all the time screaming, ‘He deserved to die. He was a stupid, fuckin arsehole, running up at me out of nowhere. Right into the sights of the gun. It wasn’t my fault. How the fuck was I supposed to know he was there?’

  Out of the corner of his eye he sees the senior cop approaching and gets ready to take him down. When he notices the outstretched arm, he changes his mind. The cop bawls, ‘Pepper spray!’

  As if he’s run out of steam, Gus stops and stands panting in the corner, chest heaving and hands raised in surrender. He doesn’t want a face full of that shit. Anyway, he’s done enough to convince them he’s insane. Just to make sure, he cowers like a cornered animal, whimpering as if all the fight has gone out of him. Doctor van Beek tentatively reaches again for the button that will summon help.

  It takes only a moment for two burly back-up guys to burst into the room and grab him. He puts up little resistance. If he struggles too much he’ll be given a tranquilising shot. He can’t let that happen. He must stay in control and stick to his plan. Allowing his body to sag between his two minders, he looks his doctor straight in the eye and says quietly, between gasps of air, ‘I’m glad I shot him. Stupid people have no place in this world. I’d kill them all if I could.’

  A spooky silence falls on the room. Gus can smell sweat from an armpit, maybe his own, and wrinkles his nose in disgust.

  ‘Let him go,’ says van Beek, ‘and help me right the desk and chairs please.’

  Gus can tell the men are reluctant to release him, but Moustache Man is still on guard, brandishing his can of pepper spray. He looks as if he’d like nothing better than an excuse to blast him with it. The two gorillas follow orders and leave Gus standing there while they move the furniture. The psychiatrist calmly gathers papers and folders into rough piles, as if he were tidying his room instead of clearing up after a brawl. ‘Thanks, chaps, you can go now.’

  The orderlies look at one another. ‘Doctor, are you sure you don’t want us to take the patient to his room?’

  ‘No thanks. That will be all for now. I’ll call if I need you.’ Addressing Gus, he says, ‘Let’s take a seat and talk about this.’ He smiles, as if this were a normal meeting.

  Pizza Face steps close to his boss and mutters, ‘The doctor’s as mad as the loonies in this place. Can we go?’

  ‘We’ll go when we’ve done our job and not before,’ says the superior officer, with an apologetic look at Gus’s doctor. ‘Now sit down and shut up.’ Both cops sit, never taking their eyes off Gus, as if he might explode at any minute. Gus notices the pepper spray has not been put away.

  Doctor van Beek rubs at his neck, coughs and says, ‘Gus, it’s important you understand that these officers aren’t here to arrest you for murder. I’m not convinced you understood everything they said. You didn’t shoot the young man.’

  This is a trick. They’re trying to trip him up, find out if he’s really mad or simply pretending. He’s far too clever to fall for that. ‘Oh, I shot him okay.’ He holds an imaginary gun and takes aim, one eye closed. ‘Pow!’ He mimes the recoil, remembering how it felt and hearing again the deafening noise of the shot. ‘I got him right between the eyes. Clean kill. Like a sniper.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Gus. There was a post-mortem.’ Van Beek flicks through a file of papers and holds one up. ‘I have a copy here. It shows the young man died of a heart condition, not a gunshot wound.’

  ‘Bullshit. A heart condition? What even is that? You saying he had a heart attack?’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  Gus forces out a laugh, making it sound as maniacal as possible. ‘Cut the crap, Doc. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to swallow that? I saw the damage I did.’ Gus gets to his feet. The two cops react but the doctor signals for them to remain seated. Gus adopts the stance of a marksman taking a rifle shot. ‘Bullseye!’ he crows. ‘Never fired a gun in my life but I was still too good to miss the target.’

  His doctor’s voice sounds sad when he speaks, as if he feels genuine sorrow for Gus. ‘We’ll have plenty of time to talk about this in the months and years ahead, Gus, but I think it’s important that you listen to what the police have to say. One thing is clear: whatever you may think, you are not guilty of murder, and you need to understand that. It may help you to heal. Now, I want you to pay attention and cooperate fully. Can you do that?’

  The doctor inclines his head towards Moustache Man, who is opening a notebook, pen at the ready. ‘Where were you, Angus Webb, on Monday 28 May this year?’

  ‘On holiday in the Bahamas.’ Gus chortles, as if he’s said something hilarious.

  ‘Did you, in the company of a minor, bury the body of Sebastien Lamar?’

  Gus leans back in his chair and scratches his groin, hoping it looks as insolent as he intends. He remembers from a movie he saw one time that real crazies show no remorse. ‘So what if I did?’

  After a few more questions the cop gives up. The corners of his mouth droop, the moustache following. ‘Thanks, Doctor, it looks like we’re done here.’

  As they rise to leave, Gus says, ‘Can I ask one thing? Are you saying that guy’s death was nothing to do with me?’

  The policeman nods.

  ‘But he had a head wound.’ He places his finger in the centre of his forehead. ‘Right there. I saw it. Like a hole. Blood all over his face and clothes. He’d been shot. It was obvious.’

  ‘According to the pathologist’s report, there was no gunshot wound anywhere on the body. Sadly, the young man died of some kind of congenital heart failure. Ticking time bomb, could have happened anywhere. Some would say he was fated to die that morning on that hillside.’ He pauses, giving Gus time to take it all in. ‘You’re obviously not the ace marksman you thought you were.’ His voice reeks of sarcasm.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Gus sits up straight. ‘That means I’m innocent, right?’ He bares his teeth in a cocky smile and turns to the doctor. ‘You heard that. I’m an innocent man. You just said two minutes ago, I’ve sorted out my anger issues, made great progress. So I can go, yeah?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that, Gus. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, I get it.’ Gus nods to show he understands the situation. ‘You think I still need help after the way I kicked off in here, is that it?’ He laughs. ‘Don’t worry about that, Doc. I�
��ll let you into a secret. That was all an act, put on for the cops’ benefit, when I thought they were here to arrest me.’ He can’t resist a gloating look at the cops as he says, ‘Why go to jail, when I could stay in here?’

  Turning his attention back to his doctor, Gus says, in his perfect-patient voice, ‘I’m sound, Doctor, you know that. If you want to keep me here for a few more sessions of anger management, that’s cool. I’ll just have to put my plans on hold for a bit. As long as you let me out in time to catch a few sunny days. Got a big Harley waiting to take me to the beach.’

  ‘Gus, I think it might be a good idea if you were to stay with us for the foreseeable future. We’ll move you over to the secure block and the doctors there will find the best treatment for you.’

  ‘Why? There’s nothing wrong with me. This whole thing’s an act. I’ve been acting since the day I walked in here. I thought you knew that.’

  ‘I hope you’ll be fit for discharge one day, but I don’t think you should count on riding that motorbike any time soon.’

  ‘But I’m innocent. You heard him.’ He points to the policeman.

  ‘Innocent?’ says Moustache Man. ‘Oh, that’s what you think. You didn’t shoot the victim, no, that’s right. However…’ He holds up his left hand and touches his thumb, ready to count. ‘One, you failed to report a serious incident. Two, you tried to cover up what you believed was a murder by burying the poor lad. Three, you forced a child to collaborate with you. Four, you stole the victim’s belongings, including his passport. Five, you used his identity to obtain work under false pretences. Then, of course, you left the country, attempting to pervert the course of justice.’

  The policeman rubs his hands together as if he’s looking forward to a treat. He leans in so close, each individual hair in his goatee is visible. He pinches Gus’s cheek and wobbles it, as if he were talking to a naughty schoolboy. ‘Know what, sunshine? I’d sell that motorbike, if I were you. And if you ever do get out of here,’ he says, ‘don’t bother calling a taxi. We’ll have a nice, shiny police car waiting to pick you up.’