“Grace, you may have misunderstood me. I’m not here to score points against you, or gather information for a complaint, or to get some reassurance. But please don’t insult me by saying I shouldn’t be worried. I’ve seen the police memo, which you’ve also seen, about how the scene of my murder should be dealt with.”
Grace lit another cigarette.
“What do you want from me?” she asked impassively.
“There was no report by you in the files I saw. Maybe that’s because it says things about me I wouldn’t like. I need to know what you know.”
“I’m not sure I know anything useful.”
“Why me? I hoped the files would show something we had in common. I couldn’t find anything beyond the fact that we’re all little.”
Grace looked reflective. She took a deep drag on her cigarette.
“Yes,” she said. “And you’re all striking-looking, in different ways.”
“Well, that’s very nice…”
“You’re all vulnerable. Sexual sadists prey on women the way a hunting animal preys on other animals. It chooses ones who hang back, who are unsure. Zoe Haratounian was new to living in London, unsure of herself. Jenny Hintlesham was trapped in an unhappy marriage. You’ve just split up with a boyfriend.”
“Is that it?”
“It may be enough.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?”
She paused again for a while.
“There will be clues,” she said. “There are always clues. It is just a question of recognizing them as such. A French criminologist, Dr. Locarde, once famously said that ‘every criminal leaves something of himself at the scene of the crime-something no matter how minute-and always takes something of the scene away with him.’ Until we find out precisely what those clues are-and we will find out-all that I can say is that he’s probably white. Probably in his twenties or early thirties. Above average height. Physically strong. Educated, possibly to university level. But I’m sure you’ve worked most of that out for yourself.”
“Do I know him?”
Grace stubbed out her cigarette and started to speak, then stopped and for the first time looked really unhappy. She was having obvious difficulty pulling herself together.
“Nadia,” she said finally. “I wish I could say something helpful. I’d like to say it’s not somebody you know well, because I hope that the police would have established some connection with the other women. But it might be a close friend, might be somebody you’ve met once and forgotten about, or it might be someone who just saw you once.”
I looked around. I was glad I had chosen to meet her on a sunny morning with children running around making a racket.
“It’s not a matter of sleeping,” I said. “At the moment I don’t dare close my eyes because when I do I see the photograph of Jenny Hintlesham lying dead with… well, I’m sure you’ve seen it. I can’t accept that there is someone I have met, who is walking around leading a normal life after having done that.”
Grace was running a long, slim finger around the rim of her coffee cup.
“He’s highly organized. Look at the notes and the effort taken to deliver them.”
“But I still can’t believe that the police couldn’t have protected these women after he’d said what he was going to do.”
Grace nodded vigorously.
“In the last few weeks I’ve done some research. There have been a number of cases of this kind. One was a case a few years ago in Washington, D.C. A man made murderous explicit threats in notes to women. The husband of the first woman hired armed guards and she was still murdered in her home. The second had twenty- four-hour police guard and was tortured and killed in her own bedroom while her husband was in the house. I’m sorry to talk like this, but you asked me to be frank. Some of these men see themselves as geniuses. They’re not geniuses. They’re more like men with an obsessive hobby. What they are is motivated. They want to make women suffer and then to kill them, and they devote all their energy and resourcefulness and intelligence to carrying it out. The police do their best, but it’s hard to combat such singleness of purpose.”
“What happened to that killer in Washington?”
“They finally caught him at the scene.”
“Did they save the woman?”
Grace looked away.
“I can’t remember,” she said. “All I can say is that this isn’t a sweating psychopath living in a cardboard box under a bridge. He’s probably functioning perfectly well at the moment. Ted Bundy returned from committing two separate murders and, according to his girlfriend, he didn’t even seem tired.”
“Who’s he?”
“Another man who killed women.”
“But why go to all this trouble?” I protested. “Why not just attack women in dark alleys?”
“The trouble is part of the pleasure. The point I’m making, Nadia, is that you’ve got to give up all your commonsense views about character or motive. He’s not after your money. He doesn’t even hate you. At least, that’s not how he sees it. He may see it as love. Think of the letters he sends: They are love letters, in a perverse way. He becomes obsessive about the women he chooses.”
“You mean he’s the train-spotter and I’m the train.”
“Well, sort of.”
“But why? I can’t understand all this effort, writing notes, doing a drawing, taking terrible risks delivering the notes, and then killing these ordinary women horribly. Why?”
I looked Grace in the eyes. Her face was now almost a mask, expressionless.
“You think because terrible things are happening there have to be big motives. At some point, this person will be in custody and someone-it may be me-will talk to him about his life. Maybe he was savagely beaten as a child, or abused by an uncle, or suffered a head injury which resulted in a brain lesion. That will be the reason. Of course there are plenty of people who were savagely beaten or abused or injured who don’t grow up as sexual psychopaths. It’s just what he likes doing. Why do we like doing what we like doing?”
“What do you think will happen?”
She lit yet another cigarette.
“He’s escalating,” she said. “The first murder was almost opportunistic. He probably didn’t even look at her face, as if he wanted to eliminate her individuality. The second was far more violent and invasive. It’s a characteristic pattern. The crimes become more violent and uncontrolled. The perpetrator gets caught.”
I suddenly felt as if a cloud had passed over the sun. I looked up. It hadn’t. The sky was a beautiful blue.
“That should be helpful to the person after next that he picks on.”
We both got up to leave. I looked round at Lynne and she avoided my gaze. I turned back to Grace.
“How do you feel about the last couple of months?” I asked. “Are you pleased with the way you’ve conducted the inquiry?”
She picked up her sunglasses, her keys, and her cigarette packet.
“I gave up smoking-when was it?-five years ago, I think. I keep going over and over and thinking what I could have done different. When he’s caught, maybe I’ll know.” She gave a rueful smile. “Don’t worry. I’m not asking for your sympathy.” She took something out of her pocket and offered it to me. It was a business card. “You can call me anytime.”
I took it and looked at it in the pointless, polite way one does.
“I don’t think you’d be able to get there in time,” I said.
FIFTEEN
When I was at college, supposedly learning how to be a grown-up and ready for the real world, I had a friend who died of leukemia. Her name was Laura, and she had tiny feet, cheeks like rosy apples, and a dirty laugh. She
