The light from the pale Norfolk sky filtered through the Perspex roof of the greenhouse, suffusing everything with a soft, milky glow. It was like being inside a light bulb, thought Salter, the world outside now a curious place of opaque shapes and undefined shadows. All around the quiet, airy space, potted plants were arranged on steel tables in rows so neat they looked like designs printed on a silver tablecloth. Standing in the doorway, Lauren Salter found the pattern of the endlessly receding pots almost hypnotic. It was easy to forget she was looking at living objects. Colour, height, size — if there was variation between the individual plants in any given row, she couldn’t see it. In the centre of them all, the massive form of Albert Ross looked like a rocky outcrop in a sea of green.
Although he had his back to her, Ross seemed to sense her presence. “You can get to the ones at the back by going along the walls,” he called out. “For anything in the middle of a table, you’ll have to ask me.”
He turned slowly and watched Salter’s approach with undisguised interest. What was he seeing, she wondered — the confidence, the sense of authority that she was trying to project? Or her inner anxiety? She gave her approach a bit extra to make sure she didn’t falter as she got closer and took in the man’s true size. Albert Ross was a colossus; six foot seven according to his file. He had a large head and enormous tree-trunk arms. The way he held himself straight, with no hunching forward, as so many tall people did, suggested he had come to terms with his immense size a long time ago. She introduced herself and Ross inclined his great head slightly.
“About Wattis, is it? I thought you’d be by.”
“Any particular reason you’d think that?”
“Murders. They’re usually done by somebody the victim knows, right?”
“In the vast majority of cases, yes.”
Ross nodded, like a man confirming something troubling. “Wattis didn’t have many friends. Not sure you’d count me as one, come to that. But I knew him, right enough.”
“For a number of years, I understand. I’m told you had an argument with him recently.”
“I have lots of arguments.” Ross picked up a potted plant and turned it slowly in his massive hands, peering in closely at the leaves before returning it to the same spot on the table. “Arguing with people is mostly what I do, when I’m not in here.”
“Can you tell me what your argument with Mr. Wright was about?”
“He’d made me a promise. Then I heard he was going back on his word, so I went round to see him.” Ross’s eyes fixed on some distant place and he began to pound a massive fist rhythmically on the steel tabletop, making the potted plants dance to the beat of the words. “Usual story.” Thud. “Sorry, Albert. A change in plans.” Thud. “Not possible at this time.” Thud. His breathing seemed to quicken and he picked up the pace. “Not possible.” Thud. “Not possible.” Thud. “NOT POSSIBLE.” He hammered his fist down with such force that pots at the far end of the table juddered violently.
Salter was startled by both the speed and the power of the action, but she managed to avoid flinching, and her voice was nice and level when she spoke again. “You’ve had trouble controlling your temper in the past. It’s got you into some difficulties.”
“It goes a bit beyond that,” said Ross ironically. His eyes had swum back to the present, and his breathing had returned to normal, but there was a faint sheen of sweat on his face. “I have Intermittent Explosive Disorder. At least, that’s what the experts call it.”
“I see,” said Salter in a tone that suggested she didn’t really see at all.
“Clinically diagnosed debilitating rage. Not a pretty sight when it kicks off. Or so I’ve been told.”
“Are you receiving professional help?”
“I see a psychologist twice a week. She’s big on CBT — cognitive behavioural therapy. Spot the initial triggers, remember the anger doesn’t need to rule you, understand you can learn to control it, develop a self-care plan.” He gave a short laugh. “Sounds straightforward enough when she says it.”
Salter was struck by Ross’s ability to speak in such an informed and dispassionate way about his condition. She’d seen the same thing in other people who suffered from serious illnesses. At times, it was almost as if they were describing someone else’s diagnosis, some third party with whom they had little personal connection. But then, perhaps that was who they were describing, after all. Ross had picked up a small African violet, and he rotated the pot slowly in his hands. A number of its outer leaves were turning brown and he removed them with a delicacy that bordered on tenderness. “I have a sponsor, too.”
“A sponsor?”
“Like in AA. Somebody I can talk to about things. Only drinking is a slow danger. You’ve got time to call somebody when you feel your problem starting to come on. These rages I get happen so fast, there’s no time for all that. All you can do is chat to somebody when it’s over.”
“So, you’re never in contact with your sponsor when you’re having one of your episodes?”
“It wouldn’t be a good idea. I can’t tell the difference between friends and enemies when I’m in the middle of one of my ‘sessions.’ I only call after I come back.”
“Come back?”
“From the dark side, Sergeant,” said Ross, leaning in to add a touch of mock-menace. “I have blackouts. Sometimes seconds, sometimes more. The first I know about what I’ve been up to is when I wake up. There’s usually a few reminders laying around — broken stuff, torn up papers, furniture knocked over.” Ross’s impassive expression gave her the sense once again that he almost felt he was describing someone else.
“Is it possible you could have forgotten even if you’d been in an altercation with someone?”
He looked at her directly. His eyes swam for a moment with troubling thoughts. “Are they saying I’m the one who killed Wattis?”
Salter recognized she was on the verge of something important. A swell of eagerness built within her, but she knew she had to approach the next few moments carefully. A man as unstable as Ross was likely to bolt back into his emotional cave if she pressed too hard, too fast. “You didn’t hurt him when you went to see him at his house that afternoon. We know that much. You just shouted at him, repeating the same thing over and over again.”
“Repeating?” He shook his head. “It can get bad when I do that. It winds me up, see, the repeating, gets me going. That’s one thing my sponsor keeps telling me. Stay away from the repetition, Albert, don’t let it drag you in. Easier said than done, though. What did I say?”
“You said Wattis Wright was a dead man. You said the same thing at least a dozen times.”
“I said that?” Ross fell silent.
He looked so devastated by the news that, despite herself, Salter’s heart went out to him a little. “It’s about now that people normally tell the police it wasn’t meant to be taken literally.”
But Salter’s attempt at comfort found no resting place with Ross. He was staring blankly down the uniform rows of plants, trying to come to terms with something that Salter could not understand. She looked around the greenhouse. The diffused light filled the space. For the first time, she noticed the faint scents, too, hovering at the edge of her senses like a promise of spring. He picked up another African violet, identical to the earlier one, at least as far as Salter could see. He began the same process of gently removing the dead leaves from around its edges.
“It’s very peaceful in here, isn’t it? I imagine you must like working in a place like this.”
“Lot of wasted space, though.” He shook his head. “You’ve got a big gap around the walls.” He nodded, agreeing with himself. “Wide central aisle, too, and still you can’t get to the plants in the middle. Circular tables would fix that, and narrower aisles. They should come off a central display area. Easier traffic flow, that way.” He tapped his temple with an enormous forefinger. “I’ve got the ideas, see. No problem, the ideas. But nobody will listen to me, will they?” He raised his voice. “No, nobody here will listen to me. Just ignore me, don’t they. Oh, it’s Albert, we can ignore his ideas,” he shouted to the empty space again. “Just ignore me, and my ideas!” He had gripped the edge of the steel table and she saw his knuckles getting whiter. She could sense the struggle within him as he battled to suppress the welling anger, to drive it back down inside him. It must be so wearying, she thought, to be permanently hovering on the edge of the abyss like this, constantly fighting to retain his grip on the world.
He looked down at his hands as if seeing them for the first time. “They tell you to do that, hold on to something physical, when you feel it coming on. Chair, table, whatever’s at hand. It obviously works.” The ironic smile was that of a different person, one Salter could go back to questioning. Perhaps.
“Are you capable of moving during these episodes you have?” she asked carefully. “I mean travelling from one place to another?”
“Must be. Sometimes I’m lying in my own bed when I come back, with no idea how I got there. I get tired, you see, after. Exhausted. Sometimes I sleep the whole next day.”
“Do you think it’s possible you could have had a blackout episode the day of your argument with Mr. Wright? Or perhaps later that night? Do you remember going to his house later on, a few hours after the first time?”
Ross shook his head, but he didn’t speak. Salter couldn’t tell if it was shame at what he remembered or frustration at what he didn’t. But perhaps it was something else altogether; perhaps it was just the evasiveness of a guilty man. His eyes began to float slowly into focus once again, as if he was drifting back toward her once more.
“I can’t help you, Sergeant. In fact, I don’t think I can tell you anything else at all about that day.”
“I’m sure your sessions with your psychologist are covered under doctor-patient confidentiality, but do you think I could talk to this sponsor of yours?”
“She won’t talk to you. She’s not allowed to.”
“Even with your permission?”
“Permission denied,” he said. Ross looked to the door at the far end of the greenhouse. “You can show yourself out.”
At the doorway, Salter took a final glance back into the greenhouse. The way the pale light bathed the neat rows of plants, the way the gentle silence settled over this space, it would be easy to lose yourself in a place like this. It might even be possible to convince yourself that bad things in the outside world had never really happened. If you tried hard enough.