There are whistling sighs and grunts of scepticism. This is beyond their comprehension.
‘Why? What’s the motive?’ asks the DI.
‘Revenge. Anger. Sexual gratification.’
‘What- we take our pick?’
‘It’s all of them. This man is a sexual sadist. It’s not about killing women. It’s more personal than that. He humiliates them. He destroys them psychologically because he hates what they represent. He may have had issues with his own mother or an ex-wife or a former girlfriend. You might even find that his first victim sparked his resentment.’
‘You mean Christine Wheeler?’ says Monk.
‘No. She wasn’t the first.’
Silence. Disbelief.
‘There are more?’ asks the DI.
‘Almost certainly.’
‘When? Where?’
‘Answer that question and you’ll find him. The man who did this has been working towards this moment- rehearsing and refining his techniques. He’s an expert.’
Veronica Cray looks away, gazing silently out the window, staring so hard I wonder if she wants to escape outside and disappear into someone else’s life. I knew this would be the most difficult point to get across. Even experienced police officers and mental health workers struggle with the reality that someone could experience intense pleasure and exhilaration from torturing and killing another human being.
Suddenly, everyone is talking at once. I’m bombarded with questions, opinions and arguments. Some of the detectives appear almost eager, excited by the hunt. Perhaps I have the wrong mindset but nothing about murder exhilarates or energises me.
Solving crime is a vocation for these men and women. It is a longing to restore moral order to a fractured world: a means of exploring questions of innocence and guilt, justice and punishment. For me the only truly important person is the victim who triggers everything. Without him or her none of us would be here.
The briefing is over. DI Cray escorts me downstairs.
‘If you’re right about this man, he’s going to kill again, isn’t he?’
‘At some point.’
‘Can we slow him down?’
‘You might be able to communicate with him.’
‘How’s that?’
‘He’s not looking to engage the police in some sort of cat and mouse game but he will be reading the newspapers, listening to radio and watching TV. He’s plugged in, which means you can send him a message.’
‘What would we say?’
‘Say you want to understand him. The media are putting labels on him that are less than flattering. Let him correct the misunderstandings. Don’t demean. Don’t antagonise. He wants respect.’
‘And where does that get us?’
‘If you can get him to call, it means that you have dictated an outcome. It’s one small step. The first.’
‘Who delivers the message?’
‘It has to be one face. It can’t be a woman. It must be a man.’
The DI raises her chin slightly as if something on the horizon has caught her attention.
‘What about you?’
‘Not me.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not a detective.’
‘Makes no difference. You know this man. You know how he thinks.’
I’m standing in the foyer as she lists all the arguments without giving me a chance to rebut. A police car accelerates out of the rear gates, the bleat-bleeping siren drowning out my protests.
‘So that’s decided then. You script a statement. I’ll set up a press conference.’
The electronic doors unlock. I step outside. The sound of the siren has faded and left behind a feeling of change and of loss. Putting down my head, I swing my arms and legs, aware that she’s still watching me.
32
There are flowers everywhere- propped against the railing fence and the trunks of trees. A photograph of Christine Wheeler is wedged in a clear plastic sleeve at the centre of the largest wreath.
Darcy is wearing one of Julianne’s dresses and a black winter coat that almost touches the ground as she walks. She stands in a circle on the opposite side of the grave, beside her aunt- who arrived this morning from Spain- and her grandfather who sits in a wheelchair with a tartan blanket over his knees.
Her aunt is a tall woman who stands squarely as though addressing a golf ball instead of a person. The breeze is playing havoc with her hair, flattening it on one side of her head.
I’ve been to funerals before but this one is wrong. The mourners are too young. They’re Christine’s old school friends and mates from university. Some had nothing appropriate to wear in their wardrobe and have chosen muted greys rather than black. They don’t know what to say so they stand in clusters, whispering and glancing sorrowfully at Darcy.
Alice Furness peeks out from beside her aunt Gloria. Her father, home from Geneva, is dressed in a black suit and talking on a mobile. His eyes meet mine and then his gaze drifts to the right and he reaches out and puts a hand on Alice’s shoulder. He has to bury his wife next. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose Julianne. I don’t want to imagine it.
On the opposite side of the cemetery, gathered on a ridge, TV crews and photographers have taken up positions behind a barricade of traffic cones and police tape. Uniformed officers are keeping them away from mourners.
Safari Roy and Monk stand shoulder to shoulder, looking like pallbearers. DI Cray is standing separately. She has brought a wreath of flowers, which she rests on the mound of dark brown earth that is covered by a carpet of artificial grass.
A hearse murmurs through the gates. The curved road is lower than the surrounding grass and I can’t see the tyres turning. It gives the impression that the vehicle is floating towards us.
Julianne’s shoulder brushes mine and her right hand takes my left hand- the one that trembles. She holds it still, as though keeping my secret.
Ruiz joins us. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.
‘Where you been?’
‘An errand.’
‘Care to elaborate?’
He glances across at Darcy. ‘I’ve been looking for her father.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did she ask you?’
‘Nope.’
‘She’s never met him!’
‘Never met mine either,’ he shrugs. ‘Still thought he might like to know. If he turns out to be an axe-murderer I won’t give Darcy his address.’
The coffin has been placed in a cradle over the grave. Flowers are piled high on the polished wood. Darcy is crying openly. Her aunt doesn’t seem interested. Another woman wraps an arm around Darcy’s shoulder. Wretched and red-eyed, she’s wearing a black coat over a long grey skirt.
Suddenly, I recognise the man next to her- Bruno Kaufman. It must be his ex-wife, Maureen. Bruno mentioned that she went to school with Christine, which means she also went to school with Sylvia. My God, she’s
