“Yes.”
“Please yourself.”
“OK, I've no problem with that. What you think is your own business. Let's concentrate on finding this woman.”
“The toms?”
“Just the one in particular.”
“She ain't here.”
“You haven't looked.”
“I'm certain, Mister. She was different. She stood out. You’ll see, when we find her.”
“OK, we'll wait. Meanwhile you could tell me a bit about yourself.” “Yeah, like I would.”
“Fair enough.”
“What about?”
“How you ended up on the streets? We could start there.” “How you do end up anywhere, you tell me? Did you end up doing what you wanted to do?”
“No, I was going to raise pigs. My mother holds a little place in Lincolnshire and she breeds pigs. It’s a small place and the smell is a bit dodgy, particularly on a hot day. But that’s what I had in mind. So what about you?”
Brian shrugged. He glanced up into Maynard's eyes. “Been there, done it.”
“Pigs?”
“Sort of.”
They both laughed then Maynard said, “You were hurt?” “Some of them like to hurt you, you know that.”
“Well, it wasn't serious or you wouldn't be here.”
“Two weeks in bed, couldn't eat, pissing blood.” He glanced at Maynard again. The light caught his long eyelashes, drew you to his dark eyes. He gave the psychologist a tricky little smile.
Maynard reached to the key. “Think you're clever?”
The lad shrugged his bony shoulders. He said, “Where we going?” “To the supermarket.”
“What's there?”
“The car park, more toms, more rent boys. More people who are hurting. Your kind of place.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I always do.”
The youngster threw him a strange glance.
They drove in silence.
Some of them like to hurt you.
Maynard knew all about it. Some of them were tuned into violence; it was part of the routine; an attempt at self-annihilation.
The High Road slid by full of Christmas shoppers, bulging bags, silly Santa-hats and rolls of see-through festive paper – fifteen for a quid. People weren’t feeling good and even the street dealers were feeling it. The holes in the wall were sucking in plastic like one-armed bandits but paying out less and fake Calvin Klein was snatched up by punters who fancied a tenner instead of thirty.
Maynard parked up. Five minutes went by before the lad said, “So?” “Just watch.”
“We could be here for hours.”
“Got anything better to do?”
“Anything's better than this.”
“We'll give it half an hour. If nothing happens we'll call it a day.” “What makes you think she'll be here?”
Maynard admitted wryly, “Just like you, I'm guessing.”
Brian shook his head. The rebuke had claimed his tongue. “Jason was pointing out the faces but not the one we wanted. He’s streetwise and bright but he’ll never grow old.”
Sympathy was beyond Cole and he struggled. “You can only offer to help. Nothing more. You don’t interfere in the animal kingdom, do you? You’d fuck up the food chain.”
“You’re a cold-hearted bastard sometimes.”
“You’re right. It goes with the job and my name isn’t Canute. No point in fighting something you can’t beat.”
“He never believed he could stop the tide. He was making a point to the Bosham locals that there were some things a man could not do – even if he was king.”
“Exactly. That‘s the point. There are too many Sidney Cookes and Lennie Smiths out there and too many kids who won’t listen for us to make a difference. All we can do is take one body at a time and go after the bastard who did it – taking into account, of course, at all times, the bastard’s human rights!” He made a suitable noise. Street boys and girls were easy prey and the city was full of predators. That was the reality. He shook the thought away and asked, “So what have we got, Geoff?”
“I talked to Mike Wilson and he agrees with what Brian and some of the girls are saying. The girls gave it to the Gazette by the way, and it was just speculation, perhaps jealousy. They run a closed shop. A blonde, short spiky hair wearing a black jacket, slim, good-looking and classy. She's been around for a few days. Didn't speak, remained aloof. Although she had plenty of offers no one saw her get into a car or go off with a punter. They figure she might be pricing herself out of the market. A high-class tom on the way down. It's worrying me. The woman I've been looking for is not well-built in the stocky sense. A woman of the size Brian described would find it difficult to manhandle even another woman.”
“Motive?”
“Difficult one. Not control or humiliation. Something sexual, I’m guessing. Whoever it is, is obviously getting some kind of pay-back from it. The concentration on the breasts has got to mean something – jealousy or loathing.”
“A woman with small breasts?”
“I doubt it. Haven't you heard of silicon?”
Cole pulled a face. “You said this isn’t about control. Does she hate other women?”
“Hate is tricky. That’s generally associated with revenge or indoctrination. She's getting off on something bigger than the attack itself. When we find her, it will be so obvious we’ll kick ourselves for missing it.”
“Choice of victims?”
“Attractive women under thirty. Beyond that, nothing. If it’s random it leaves us with two categories – the opportunist or the stalker.” He recalled covering the same ground with Donna and wondered how she’d got on with the CCTV. “For the victim it's a lottery and any women who fits the bill is potential prey. Whether she happens to take the wrong road at the wrong time or is stalked is beside the point. It matters to us because it reshapes the profile. The opportunist waits; he’s patient and calculating. The other hunts; he’s restless and hungry and more likely to make a mistake.”
“A lesbian?”
“No reason to think so. A serial assailant, woman to woman, is not common.”
“Once before you said find me the motive and I'll find you the killer.”
“Nothing’s changed. And if not already then before long we’ll be looking for a killer. The level of violence will only increase. But it's the motive that's difficult. If we rule out inadequacy and jealousy, two of the same, then we can consider concealment by imitation. Apart from the real target maybe the others are just camouflage. Given that scenario the real victim knows her assailant. I’m a long way from buying into that but it’s important we’re not sidetracked by grouping them together.”
“What about our Underground Slasher? We know he’s got a castiron alibi but he might have spoken to someone. You know what we think about coincidence.”
“John Lawrence put someone up to it? Not a chance. I studied Lawrence and covered everything from saviour delusion to pseudocyesis – the delusion of being pregnant. There was a case of a woman who stole a baby from a neighbour’s womb. She used a knife to break in.”
“The saviour delusion?”
“Jesus Christ? Too late. It’ll have to be another time.”
Anian Stanford came out of the crowd of kozzers and said abruptly, “Can I join you, or is this private?”
Cole was caught off guard. He managed, “Anian.”
