to his assistant. ‘Judy, don’t put any calls through for the next half-hour or so, okay?’
‘Of course, Dr Griffith.’
Julian stepped into the office and sat in a winged leather seat opposite Tom’s expansive dark wood desk. ‘Very nice sanctum sanctorum you’ve got here,’ he said, looking around at the tasteful decor and the glistening sheen of polished wood.
‘I’ve always loved quality office furniture,’ said Tom as he pulled his seat out and sat heavily down. ‘It’s one of my weaknesses. The timber for this desk is reclaimed Indonesian teak — reclaimed from the hulls of fishing vessels. There’s no way to get your hands on that kind of wood without bribing the right official.’
‘My desk, by contrast, is a flat-pack from Ikea.’
Tom laughed, not unkindly. ‘I don’t recall you being as vain or materialistic as I am, though.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ said Julian with a wry smile. ‘Be nice to be able to put that to the test, though.’
Tom offered a conciliatory nod. ‘Things will turn around for you, Jules. You’re smart and you’re tenacious. That girl you worked with.. Rose, was it?’
‘Yes, Rose.’
‘You’re still partners in crime?’
He nodded.
‘She’s an incredibly good film-maker. I really liked what you did with that series. And…’ said Tom, reaching across the vast expanse of his desk and pulling out a lined pad of paper from the pile in his in-tray ‘… I really think you two will be on your way back out of the wilderness with this,’ he said, flourishing a page of notes written in his spidery hand.
Tom reached for an inhaler on his desk and took a hit. Julian remembered the man suffered with asthma.
‘Bloody fascinating stuff this, Julian, absolutely bloody fascinating.’
‘You’ve had a chance to go through some of the stuff I sent over?’
‘I’ve been through most of it, Julian. I couldn’t put the damn thing down, even though I should be working on the foreword to a colleague’s book.’
‘So? What do you make of it all?’
Tom settled back into his chair and pursed his lips in thought for a few moments. ‘What I think you’ve got there, my friend, is a very detailed account of a serial killer going about his business.’
‘That’s the obvious conclusion, isn’t it?’
‘But here’s the big question. Which one of them is it?’
‘Maybe it’s more than one of them?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Could be.’
‘So?’
‘So from the account written by this Lambert character, it looks very much like the most likely culprit is the Mormon preacher, Preston.’
‘Yeah.’
‘He appears to exhibit all the obvious traits of a narcissistic messianic complex.’
‘A narcissistic… a what?’
‘A dyed-in-the-wool sociopath of the very worst kind. I’m not sure how this little tale ends up, Julian-’
‘I’m still working my way through the journal.’
‘But,’ Tom continued, ‘I’d be prepared to bet bloody good money it ends with the death of most of these people. In particular, most, if not all of his followers.’
Julian looked at him. ‘What makes you so certain of that?’
‘He’s a classic Reverend Jim Jones figure. You recall the Jonestown incident, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘A strong-willed, charismatic sociopath, driven by a delusion of some messianic destiny. The pattern I’m seeing in this Lambert journal is very similar: a religious patriarchal figure leading his devoted followers out into an isolated wilderness away from the interference and prying noses of authority; in Jim Jones’s case it was Guyana. In Preston’s case, I’m presuming, he was heading for some unclaimed tract beyond the reach of the US government to set up his own little kingdom. Away from the rule of law, away from the established Church of Latter Day Saints.’
Julian nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it.’
Tom got up from his office chair and walked over to the door of his study. ‘Fancy some coffee?’
Julian nodded, and Tom cracked the door open and asked Judy to rustle up a cafetiere of Kilimanjaro Fairtrade for both of them. He closed the door gently.
‘To what end, though?’ Julian asked.
Tom smiled. ‘Like Jim Jones, like David Koresh… or to pick a few secular examples, like Idi Amin, Robert Mugabe… even Adolf Hitler — to realise his manifest destiny. To appease the particular malevolent imp inside him.’
Julian’s brows arched.
‘Imp?’
Tom spread his hands apologetically. ‘Forgive me. It’s a characterisation I’m using way too often right now. I’m consulting on a TV drama, a supernatural version of Cracker; the scriptwriters have been using that phrase, that metaphor in their dialogue, and I’m finding myself doing it now. It’s like catching someone else’s cold,’ he laughed. ‘No, I mean the delusion that’s driving him. Like I say, a classic dyed-in-the-wool sociopath. ’
Julian had heard the term many times, but had never been given a concise definition of it that made sense.
Tom seemed to pick up on that. ‘It’s an over-used word these days, Julian. One bandied about a bit too readily by screen-writers, crime novelists and daytime TV shrinks. It’s similar, in a way, to autism, an inability to comprehend the feelings of others; a total absence of the ability to empathise. But autism is an example of the brain misfiring, not working properly. It’s a disorder. On the other hand, the sociopathic tendency, I believe, is… for the sake of a better word an enhancement. It’s designed. ’
‘Designed?’
‘Darwinistically speaking, of course.’
Julian grinned with relief. ‘I thought for a terrifying moment there that you were going all creationist on me.’
Tom laughed. ‘No, I’ve seen enough of how the mind works to never be in any danger of suddenly finding God. No, by designed I mean the sociopathic tendency has evolved amongst a minority of people. Every serial killer is a sociopath; you’d need to be able to do what they do. The inability to perceive the feelings of others, the suffering of a victim, gives a killer an advantage… the competitive edge, if you like. Which, of course, in Darwinistic — one might even say Dawkinsian terms, these days — makes a hell of a lot of sense, if you think about it.’
The door creaked open and Judy brought in a tray of coffee and biscuits. Tom thanked her then waited until she had left before continuing.
‘You’d be surprised how many sociopaths are out there.’
Julian’s dark brow arched. He reflexively pushed his glasses up. ‘Uh, how many?’
‘It’s a trait that’s really quite common. Perhaps about one in ten people exhibits sociopathic tendencies to some degree.’
‘What? Surely the streets would be awash with blood.’
‘Well, you know where there’s an absence of a controlling mechanism — law and order — that’s exactly how it is,’ sighed Tom. ‘You only have to consider Baghdad, or Darfur, or Sarajevo, or Kenya.’
He dipped his biscuit, swilled it around and then carefully lifted the soggy thing to his mouth.
‘But listen, it’s a mistake to think that violent behaviour is always a natural follow-on for those who have this inability to pity, to empathise. You ever watch The Apprentice on the telly?’
Julian nodded guiltily. ‘Yeah, I hate to admit I got sucked into the last series.’
‘No one got sliced open or garrotted with piano wire, at least not that I’m aware of. But I’d say a very high proportion of those contestants had a sociopathic tendency of one sort or another, prepared to do anything to anybody just to be the winner.’
‘There now,’ said Julian, half joking, ‘I always knew there was a reason I didn’t like suits.’
