Cramer nodded. He adjusted his sleeve and dropped his hands to his sides. Allan walked away, then stood facing Cramer with his hands on his hips. Martin joined him. Allan and Martin moved together as if some unspoken signal had passed between them, but whatever it was, Cramer missed it. They walked at a medium pace across the wooden floor. Cramer stayed where he was. Waiting. It was Allan who made the first move, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out his Glock automatic. Cramer’s right hand slid into his left sleeve and grabbed for the stiletto. As Allan swung up his arm to take aim with the gun, Cramer thrust out with the stiletto, but Allan swayed out of the way. The big man was deceptively light on his feet and moved as fluidly as a flyweight in an opening round, keeping the Glock pointed at Cramer’s face as Cramer lashed out with the knife again. Allan pulled the trigger twice in quick succession and Cramer was almost deafened by the explosions. ‘Shit,’ said Cramer dejectedly.
Allan ejected the clip and slotted in two more blanks. ‘You got it out all right, but you weren’t moving forward,’ he said, replacing the gun in its holster. ‘It’s only going to work if you get in close. In close and under the chin, straight up into the brain.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Cramer.
‘We’re getting there,’ said Martin, opening a pack of Wrigley’s gum and offering Cramer a piece. Cramer shook his head.
They were interrupted by the gymnasium doors opening. Blackie, one of the Colonel’s troopers, shouted that Cramer’s presence was required in the headmistress’s study. Allan and Martin grinned. ‘Sounds like six of the best to me,’ said Martin.
Cramer walked along the corridor to the study. He took off his overcoat, draped it over his right arm, and knocked on the door. The Colonel ushered Cramer in. A man stood looking out of the window and didn’t turn around as the Colonel closed the door. The man was just under six feet tall and had his hands clasped behind him like an undertaker overseeing a funeral. There was something funereal about the man’s attire, too; a black suit and black shoes polished to a shine and an inch of starched white cuff protruding from each sleeve. He had dark brown hair which he’d pulled back into a small ponytail which curved on his collar like a carelessly-drawn comma. Cramer didn’t generally make snap judgements about people, but he took an instinctive dislike to the man. It was partly the way the man dressed, partly the ponytail, but mainly it was the man’s crass rudeness — unless he was stone deaf, his posing by the window was solely for effect.
The man turned slowly as if he had only just become aware of Cramer’s presence. His hair was swept back from an unlined boyish face and for a second or two he studied Cramer through a pair of red-framed spectacles, then he grinned and reached out his hand. ‘You must be Mike Cramer,’ he said. He shook hands with Cramer. He had a strong grip and Cramer noticed that his nails were perfectly clipped. They reminded Cramer of Allan’s neatly manicured hands. ‘I’m Bernard Jackman.’ He pronounced his first name with the emphasis on the second syllable in a slow Texan drawl.
‘The profiler?’ said Cramer.
Jackman tilted his head on one side. ‘At your service.’
The Colonel walked over to his desk and sat down, nodding to Cramer and Jackman to take leather armchairs by the unlit fireplace. Jackman straightened the creases of his trousers before crossing his legs. There was something very precise and measured about all the man’s movements, as if he was giving a performance.
‘Bernard is passing through on his way to South Africa,’ said the Colonel, placing his walking stick on the desk. ‘We thought it would be a good opportunity for a briefing.’
‘Do we have a report on the South African killing yet?’ asked Cramer.
‘It’s on its way,’ said the Colonel.
‘I’ve already spoken to one of the investigating officers,’ said Jackman. ‘All the signs are that it was as professional as the rest. He was dressed as a ranger and driving a Landrover, obviously well planned. I’ll be visiting the crime scene to see what else I can get. I’ll compile my reactions while I’m there and either fax or phone you.’
‘Any idea who paid for the hit?’ asked Cramer.
‘He had plenty of enemies, both in Zimbabwe and South Africa,’ said the Colonel. ‘The sort of enemies who’d have no problem coming up with our man’s fee.’
Jackman turned to Cramer. ‘You’ve read my profile of the killer?’
Cramer nodded. He eased a finger into his shirt collar. ‘It was interesting,’ he said noncommittally.
‘Interesting?’ repeated Jackman. ‘I hoped you’d find it more than interesting.’
Cramer flexed his shoulders inside the suit. ‘No offence, but a lot of it seemed to be guesswork.’
‘Guesswork?’ Jackman repeated slowly, stressing the two syllables.
Cramer looked across at the Colonel. The Colonel nodded that he should continue. ‘You say that the guy we’re after is intelligent, but that’s a given because he couldn’t do what he does if he was stupid,’ Cramer said.
‘Sure,’ said Jackman.
‘Yet you go on to suggest that he was a bully at school, and that he didn’t go to university.’
Jackman steepled his fingers under his chin and studied Cramer. ‘And I stand by that.’
‘That has to be guesswork, right?’
‘What else aren’t you happy with?’ asked Jackman, ignoring Cramer’s question.
‘You say he has a military background, and again I’d say that would be a given. But you say he left and had trouble keeping a job afterwards. I’d have thought that someone with army training, someone with above-average intelligence, wouldn’t have a problem finding and keeping a job.’
‘Like yourself?’ said Jackman quietly. Cramer held the profiler’s look for a few seconds. Jackman smiled tightly. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. What makes you think he lost his driving licence?’
The Colonel made a soft snorting sound as if he was suppressing a laugh, but Jackman kept his eyes on Cramer. Jackman pushed his spectacles higher up his nose with his forefinger. ‘I feel like Sherlock Holmes about to explain himself to Dr Watson. But it won’t be the first time.’ He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, taking care to adjust his creases again. ‘How much do you know about profiling?’
‘I saw
Jackman gave Cramer another tight smile. ‘Okay, I can see how an outsider would think that what I do is guesswork, but you’ve got to remember that I’ve got thousands of case histories to draw on, data on murderers and their victims from all around the world. Those cases allow me and profilers like me to draw certain conclusions, to assign certain characteristics to killers. In about five per cent of the cases dealt with by FBI profilers, the profiles lead directly to the arrest of the perpetrator. In another ten per cent of cases, the perpetrator is arrested as a result of the investigation being refocused following the profile. And in almost all cases, when a successful conviction is made, the criminal closely matches the profile. Profiling works, Mike, there’s no doubt about that.’
Jackman rubbed his hands together, making a soft whispering sound. His eyes were fixed on Cramer’s with almost missionary zeal. ‘Leaving aside the specifics of the man we’re looking for in this case, it’s a general rule that serial killers are white and male. That holds true almost without exception, so even if we didn’t have witnesses I’d be assuming that our killer fits those two characteristics.’
‘So you’re assuming that a paid assassin fits the same criteria as a serial killer?’ asked Cramer. ‘I thought serial killers were all crazy.’
Jackman shook his head. ‘It’s a common misconception,’ he said. ‘In fact, only two per cent of serial killers are ever classified as insane. My research leads me to believe that there is a valid comparison to be made between a serial killer and the man we’re looking for. He kills on a regular basis, the killings appear to be happening at decreasing intervals, and he has a consistent method of killing. These are all characteristics of an organised serial killer.’
Cramer frowned. ‘Organised? What do you mean, organised?’
‘We divide killers into two types: organised and disorganised. Basically, an organised killer plans his crime in advance, a disorganised killer is an opportunist. An organised killer will take his weapon with him, a disorganised killer might pick up a knife at the scene of the crime and use that. An organised killer will often travel to carry out his murder and will cover his traces afterwards, a disorganised killer will kill close to home and won’t care about how quickly the body is found or whether he’s left fingerprints.’
‘We know our man is organised,’ said Cramer. ‘He’d have to be to be a contract killer.’
‘Exactly,’ said Jackman. ‘The man we’re looking for is the ultimate organised killer. Which means there’s
