Ploughing Potter’s Field
Chilling psychological suspense novel from a brilliant new voice in crime fiction: ‘Terrific plot and a name to watch’ – Frances Fyfield, Mail on SundayThe tabloids called him the ‘Beast of East 16’. The authorities called him a dangerous sociopath. But one man called Frank Rattigan the only possible road to redemption.When Adrian Rawlings undertakes a series of interviews with an incarcerated killer, he cannot possibly realize that his encounters with the man who spent three days torturing, murdering then calmly dismembering a young air hostess ‘for fun’ in East London, will eat so deeply into his psychological neuroses and inadequacies.And as Rawlings struggles to find the vital threads to rationalize the horrifying crime, he finds himself drawn into a dark world of secret histories and hidden agendas which stretch far beyond the Beast himself.But perhaps the answers Rawlings strives for lie buried within his own childhood – a place where vulnerable minds are always prey to the evil machinations of others…
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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
‘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.
