studying, his film club, all that… while really he’s been saving all his energy to live out this depraved fantasy life of his. You agree?’
‘You mean he’s been showing the world one face and living another?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Yeah,’ Mickey said. ‘Definitely.’ Put like that, he agreed. Marina, learning Mickey was to be conducting the interview, had pulled him into the observation suite to prep him. Explaining that was usually how she worked with Phil, she had asked him if he wanted two-way communication with her in his ear. He had never done that before and was unsure whether to do it this time. He’d done interviews before and knew how to go about things. Even had his first questions in mind for this one.
Take it from there. But he hadn’t made his mind up yet. He would see how this conversation went before making a decision.
Marina looked at the file in front of her. ‘There’s one question that’s never been asked in this case. At least, not that I know of. And I think it’s the most important one. The one that the investigation should have hinged on. Why do men hate women so much?’
‘What?’ Mickey felt himself getting angry. Was she talking about him? ‘You mean me?’
‘I mean all men. Or at least all men who act on it.’
‘I hope you don’t include me in that,’ he said. ‘I don’t hate women.’
‘You never wanted to hit a woman? Punish her?’
‘I’ve wanted to hit lots of people. And I have done. But they deserved it. I’ve never hit a woman, though.’
‘Good.’ She smiled, nodded to the glass once more. ‘I’ll bet Mr Turner has. In fact, I think he’s done more than that.’ A quick glance down at her notes, then back up to Mickey. ‘Stalkers fall into two categories. Psychotic and non-psychotic. They’re usually sexual obsessives. The worst kind of women haters. And while our Mr Turner is not the best example of the male species, he doesn’t fit into that category. I’m not getting him as our stalker. That, we think, is the other one. On the boat.’ She pointed at the glass. ‘So what does he get out of it? Where does he fit in? Turner…’
Marina turned away, head back, eyes closed. Thinking, Mickey presumed. He watched her. She was completely different from Fiona Welch. That was a given. Older, certainly and better looking, although knowing she was the boss’s partner he pushed any such thoughts from his head. But there was something else. A conviction. Like she knew what she was talking about and said it in such a way that you could see what she meant. That, he knew from past experience, was rare in profilers.
‘I think… yes, I think our Mr Turner has a different motivation,’ she said. ‘Yes… It’s connected to Fiona Welch.’ She nodded as if confirming the thought to herself. ‘All bound up with her.’ She opened her eyes, turned back to the glass. Watched him intently. Turner was sitting there, looking like he was almost asleep.
A sure sign, Mickey knew, of guilt.
‘They’re Brady and Hindley, Bonnie and Clyde,’ said Marina. ‘Leopold and Loeb.’ She smiled, eyes alight with electricity. Turned to Mickey, gestured with her hand as if addressing a seminar. ‘Yes. Yes. That’s why they’ve… yes. That’s how they think of themselves. Nietzschean supermen. Yes…’
She paced the small room, gesturing to herself, alive with her theorising. Mickey watched her, wondering if she was like this at home.
She turned to him. ‘That’s the approach to take. Go for his vanity. His ego. Remember, this is someone who lives a rich inner life and a poor external one. Everything’s in his head.’
‘So why’s he acted it out?’
‘Because he met Fiona Welch. Classic pair. One leader, one follower. An enabler, allowing the other to become the person they imagine themselves to be.’ She turned to him. ‘Is that the approach you were going to take?’
Mickey just stared at her. Thought of his opening questions.
‘Er, yeah…’
He thought for a few seconds. Marina said nothing.
‘That link up, in my ear and that.’
‘Yes?’
‘I think I’ll take you up on that, thanks.’
Marina smiled. ‘Let’s go.’
89
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Paula?’
Phil stood in the doorway of Paula Hamilton’s terraced house. She held on to the door frame, swaying, fingers trembling. She looked terrible. Clothes askew, like she’d just won first place in a dressing in the dark contest. Hair greasy and unkempt, sticking out at odd angles, as if she’d just woken up and the sleep and the dreams were still stuck in it. Her eyes roved, not settling until she realised who he was. Then he wished they hadn’t. They looked like two open, ragged wounds.
She moved slowly aside, swaying insubstantially, a ghost, and allowed him to enter.
The living room matched its owner. A mess that wouldn’t be straightened out for quite some time. Phil saw empty rectangles on the wall where some of the photos had been removed. He could guess which ones. They must have been taken down after his last visit.
After he’d looked at them.
He moved debris from an armchair, sat down.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Paula?’ he said again. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’
Paula slumped rather than sat on the sofa, crumpling. She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Then…’
‘What?’
He sighed. Same question again. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Her turn to sigh. Phil saw the vodka bottle lying on its side on the floor. Knew that whatever answers he received – if any – would be filtered through it.
‘I… I just…’ Another sigh.
‘He didn’t die in a roadside bomb, did he, your son?’
She shook her head. Looked at the carpet.
‘What happened?’
‘He… he was, was injured.’ She kept her eyes on the floor. ‘Badly injured. They…’ She trailed off.
‘They what, Paula? Tell me.’
She said nothing, just sat there deflated as if all the air, the fight, had left her body.
Phil leaned forward. ‘Paula, your daughter is dead. And it looks like your son is responsible. And that’s terrible. Horrible. One of the worst things that could ever happen to you. But there are two other women out there. Missing. That your son has taken. And if you can help me find them, if there’s anything you know that can help me find them, that can stop another mother going through what you’re going through, then do it. Please.’
She sat silently for a while, then she began to shake. ‘There’s no one… no one knows what I’ve been through, no one…’
‘Then tell me,’ said Phil. ‘Make me understand. Tell me about your son. Tell me about Wayne.’
She sighed, picked up a glass from the side of the sofa, put it to her lips, realised it was empty. She sighed again, as if even that was conspiring against her, replaced it. Looked at Phil, resignation in her eyes. She began to talk. ‘He was trouble, Wayne. Ever since he was little. Trouble. At first we thought… you know. Just bein’ a boy. But no. There was something in there.’ She pointed to her temple. ‘Something not right.’
Phil waited. Knew there would be more.
‘His dad didn’t help, neither. Ask me, his dad was the problem. Always wantin’ him to grow up. To be a man.
