"Middle-aged?" I say, smiling.
Again, Simon chuckles. "Hey, you said it, not me. What you haven't told me," he continues, rubbing his thighs with his hands, "is what exactly has happened that brings you here."
I held back with Reeves, of course. He wasn't taking me seriously, and so I didn't want him to know everything. This guy is different. I tell Simon about the lift, and about the library. This time, however, I tell him what he said about the thirty days. He listens intently, his eyes growing larger, like I'm shining a torch in his face.
Simon's mother, Janet, appears with the coffee. She sweeps her hand over a side table, not caring that papers fly everywhere. Simon gives her a vexed look. I thank her profusely, more than a little embarrassed by the situation. She nods her head at me, acknowledging my existence, face still frozen like she has been injecting Botox, and then disappears back upstairs without uttering a single word.
"Sorry about that," Simon says, though it isn't clear what exactly he's apologising for. "So, have you been to the police?"
I tell him about my meeting with Reeves. My words fade away before I get to the end. Simon glances around the room. He releases a dismissive grunt. It reminds me of one of the exercises I use in my workshops. I can tell he is waiting for me to get to the end, counting down the seconds, so I decide to get there quick.
"Have you told Baldwin?" he asks.
I pull my head back. Of course, he knows all about DCI Baldwin. His books are filled with candid observations and descriptions of the detective. Other writers failed to resist the temptation to depict him as a caricature, as the pantomime villain. Simon delved deeper than this. He considered the full circumstances at the time, the motives for what he did, for how he behaved.
"Why would I go to him?" I ask. "You know what happened last time. And he didn't solve it then, so what good would he be now?"
Simon blows out hot air. I sense disappointment. He thought I was serious; now he suspects I am hiding from the truth. I wonder just how much he does know. I wonder whether he knows everything. This terrifies me.
"Nobody could have solved it last time," he says. These words are a relief. He has decided to not tell it how it is, decided not to get to the crux of the matter. "But you know he put his life and soul into catching him. He turned stones than should have been left untouched, but that was only because he was prepared to do anything to catch the monster. You know that." Simon glances away. I sense he is priming himself to say something. The dread returns; it wraps around my throat and strangles me. "And if you really are serious, then you'd forget what happened last time and speak to him anyway."
This is a test. The guy is challenging my masculinity, sizing up my balls. Right now they feel like I've been playing football in skimpy shorts in the freezing cold. I prickle with a mixture of simmering anger and respect. At least, I think, he is prepared to speak his mind. Truth be told, I'm not sure whether I can face DCI Baldwin yet, for reasons even this guy doesn't realise. Are my balls really big enough? For a brief moment, it crosses my mind that I'd come face to face with Spartacus before I'd dare face DCI Baldwin. This is ridiculous, though. DCI Baldwin (hopefully) wouldn't be carrying a cut-throat razor.
I do my best to deflect the challenge, to bat it away. "Do you think it is him?" I ask.
Simon tangles his hands together and cracks his knuckles. "Who knows?"
"But what is your professional opinion? Or even your personal one? Does this sound like something he'd do?"
"That - right there - is partly what fascinates me about Spartacus, more than any other killer I've studied. Sure, there are others who killed more, who were infinitely more gruesome, but then none of them made less sense, were more of a paradox. Serial killers usually fall into two categories. The disorganised killer is often a social outcast, driven by compulsion and need. They're usually of below average intelligence. They often fit the stereotypical weirdo or oddball tag. Organised killers, on the other hand, can be intelligent, respected members of society, the last person you'd expect to be a killer. Now, I've no doubt that Spartacus is an organised killer..."
"What's your point...?"
Simon stares dreamily into space, presumably creating an image in his mind, probably contemplating the wonderful complexity of Spartacus.
"Even organised killers have patterns. The supposedly complex ones are still driven by some underlying urge or motive. Their killings follow some sort of routine. Their motive may not be outwardly clear, but you can work it out, with research and a little head scratching. Spartacus, though; now he is different. The victims follow no pattern. There are couples, young girls, older women, a young guy. The locations are sporadic. It is almost like he has gone out of his way to avoid any pattern. The only thing that is consistent is how he cuts the victim, down the chest, in Roman numerals, to indicate what number victim they are. Unfortunately, you know about this, of course, even though you survived."
I nod my head. Feeling his eyes on my chest, like he is undressing me, I wonder about his urges. I need to move the conversation forward quickly before he asks me for a picture. "So, you're a leading expert on the subject. You must have an opinion. Why do you think Spartacus kills? Killing is quite a big deal. It isn't like deciding to collect Panini stickers for the World
