The Malcontenta

7

Gordon was looking sickly pale, his brow crumpled with anxiety.

Brock cleared his throat. ‘How about a break?’

Kathy nodded. She looked over at the window and was surprised to see sunlight reflecting off the snow on the branches of the trees outside. Brock was on his feet, stretching, rubbing his hand through his beard. ‘It’s lunchtime,’ he announced. ‘I’ll get something organized.’

‘Can we help?’ Kathy offered, and they followed him out of the room, by a series of twists and bends in the passageway, to a small kitchen at the back of the house. Kathy heated tinned tomato soup on the stove while Brock gathered some things on a tray — cold meats, cheese, a pork pie, pickles and mustard, oatcakes and bread.

“What to drink?’ Brock asked, and outlined some alternatives. Gordon opted for a can of Foster’s, Brock a bottle of Guinness, and Kathy a cup of tea.

They returned to the sitting room, pulled a circular table into the projecting balcony and set places for themselves, Kathy and Gordon sitting on cushions on the window-seat, Brock pulling a chair over to face them. Golden sunlight was now streaming in from the south-west, enhanced by a dazzling white light reflected upwards from the snow-covered ground outside. The light caught Kathy’s face, and for an instant Brock felt an involuntary sensation of immense regret that he wasn’t twenty years younger.

‘What are you working on at the moment, sir?’ Gordon ventured, as they started on the soup.

‘Oh … I’ve got myself side-tracked a bit, a dead end I think.’ He sucked a steaming mouthful from his spoon. ‘I made the mistake of writing an article for Contact a while ago — that magazine the Met Forensic Science Lab brings out from time to time.’

‘I read it,’ Gordon said. “‘New Directions for Offender Profiling”.’

‘Really? Well … unfortunately, so did one or two other people, with the result I got dobbed in to represent the Met at this international conference that’s coming up on-the subject.’

‘Somewhere nice?’ Kathy asked.

‘Rome.’

‘Well, that sounds wonderful. I’ve never been to Italy.’

‘Haven’t you?’ Brock poked gloomily with his spoon at the soup. ‘I had accumulated a lot of leave, and Personnel and Training were insisting I take some of it, so the deal was that I would go into hibernation for a month or two and do some research in preparation for this conference, where I have to present a paper. In my paranoid moments I wonder if they aren’t trying to ease me out gently — you know, all that stuff about early retirement that’s been going around the Met recently.’

Kathy didn’t remind him that they weren’t in a position to know what was going round the Met.

‘More to the point,’ he continued, ‘the conference is at the end of this month, and I still don’t know what I’m going to say. To tell the truth, I’m finding the whole thing a bit of a pain.’

Brock returned to his soup for a while before speaking again. ‘The Americans from Quantico will have masses of data of course, much more than I can lay my hands on. The Germans will be proposing some kind of European standard for systematic evaluation. I’m told the French will be contributing a philosophical/cultural/historical perspective, would you believe. No doubt they’ll prove that Fourier or some other Frenchman invented the whole thing centuries ago.’

‘I don’t think I’ve read him,’ Gordon said.

‘He had a theory that human nature was formed by twelve passions,’ Brock explained, ‘the particular mixtures and variations of which determine each individual character. From the twelve passions he derived 810 basic human personality types — profiles if you like. He designed ideal communities around the idea of getting together precisely the right mixture of these personalities. Quite mad, of course.’

He peered at Dowling, as if reassessing him. ‘You read, Gordon. I’m delighted. You’re not one of these new breed who seem to get everything they need from videos.’

Gordon smiled shyly, pleased with the compliment, and got on with his soup.

‘So what line are you taking, Brock?’ Kathy asked.

‘As you probably saw’ — Brock nodded his head back towards the computer on the bench — ‘I’m supposed to be taking apart all my old cases and as many others as I can claim some familiarity with.’

Gordon choked on a piece of bread: the old man had spotted the screen after all.

‘I’m interested in the way the serial offender’s behaviour is changed by his experience of the previous crime, learning and developing the pattern in the light of what happened last time, you see. In other words, not seeing his profile as something fixed, so much as an evolving thing, becoming more violent perhaps, more formalized, more ritualistic, or whatever. The unfolding of his internal obsession against the experience of the reality of the act. At least, that was the idea. The people at the University of Surrey have been trying to help me, but, I don’t know … it’s much harder than I thought it would be. God knows what I’m going to say in Rome. There’s no chance that your murder could have been one of a series, I suppose?’

Kathy smiled. ‘I hope not. One was trouble enough.’

‘So,’ Brock said, picking up some cheese and pickle with an oatcake, ‘we move on to the Wednesday, then. Is that right?’ Brock said. ‘The post-mortem had been on the Monday. Weren’t you getting some lab test results back by this time? That seems to be the crucial area.’

Hang on. Let me tell it. ‘We did get something later that day.’

‘Pugh — I’ve heard the name before. I just can’t remember the connection.’

‘Wednesday was the sort of day when things suddenly go flat. You’ve gone through the first panic, done all the obvious things, and then suddenly you’re on hold, just waiting. I had people trying to check Petrou’s activities outside the clinic, but I didn’t really believe it would lead anywhere. Then Belle came up with something.’

‘Aha!’ Brock settled back in his chair. The light caught his hair and beard in a kind of halo, and Kathy smiled. What a luxury to have a good listener, she thought, like a hot bath at the end of a long, cold day.

‘ This is the schedule of discrepancies, Kath.’ Belle had handed her two pages with about forty numbered items.

‘That’s great. I didn’t expect them so soon,’ Kathy said.

‘I thought you’d be in a hurry, so I worked through the night and all morning on it. I’m going home now for some sleep.’

‘Thanks, Belle, I really appreciate it. There seem to be an awful lot of discrepancies.’

‘Well, most of them are trivial, I’d say, just lapses of memory — A says she left the sauna at quarter past three when B says she was already in the dressing room at five past — that kind of thing. But there’s one that’s kinda interesting.’

She pointed to number twenty-three on the list. ‘Late in the afternoon a patient went to get something out of his car in the car park and noticed the utility van that belongs to the clinic come out of the stable courtyard where it’s kept, and drive away. It was soon after four-thirty, he reckons. It was light enough to identify the vehicle clearly, but dark enough for it to have its side lights on.’

Kathy nodded. ‘Dusk was at four-forty and it became overcast towards evening.’

‘Yes. The thing is, no one claims to have been driving it that afternoon, and everyone is accounted for at that time.’

‘Except Petrou! Did the patient see anything of the driver?’

‘The statement says not, but I guess you could ask again.’

‘That’s great, Belle. We should have picked that up ourselves.’

‘There are just too many things to cross-check. I hope it helps.’

‘Oh yes. It’s exactly what we needed.’

While Gordon organized a new search in Edenham and Crowbridge, this time looking for sightings of the van rather than of Petrou’s motor bike, Kathy returned to the clinic. She spoke to the patient who had seen the vehicle leave on the Sunday evening, but he was unable to add anything useful to his earlier statement. He had a clear picture of the van driving past, but absolutely no recollection of the driver.

Kathy then spoke again to Geoffrey Parsons, who was responsible for the security and maintenance of the vehicle. He said he hadn’t been aware that it had been taken out on Sunday. When he opened up the stable block on Monday morning, it had been parked in the courtyard as normal. He held a set of keys in his office in the stable block, but another set was kept in the office in the main house.

When Kathy said that she wanted to take the van away for forensic examination, Parsons became agitated. ‘We need it to collect groceries and things from town. We use it all the time. I don’t think we can do without it.’ He wiped his thin sandy hair back from his brow. ‘I’m sure the Director won’t agree to it.’

He was right. Dr Beamish-Newell evidently considered Kathy’s request the final straw. He slammed his diary down on the desk and stood up, turning away from Kathy and glaring out of the window. She watched him clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back. When he finally turned round to face her, he made no attempt to hide his anger. ‘What possible reason could you have for wanting the van?’

‘It was seen leaving the clinic on Sunday afternoon, soon after Mr Petrou was last seen here. It’s possible he was the driver. We are trying to trace his movements, and the van may be able to help us.’

‘Was he identified as the driver?’

‘No.’

‘This is getting way, way beyond a joke, Sergeant Kolla. You have done everything possible to disrupt the workings of this clinic, and I have had enough.’ His eyes held her with an almost physical force. She could imagine the effect on patients.

‘We will return it as soon as we possibly can. But if you don’t agree to surrender the vehicle voluntarily, I shall apply for a warrant, sir.’

It was clear he wasn’t used to having people talk back to him. He weighed her up for a moment before shaking his head.

‘You’d better know what you’re doing,’ he said. ‘Have it back here by tonight.’

At four o’clock that afternoon Kathy kept an appointment with Professor Pugh, made in response to her phone call earlier in the day. She was shown into his office and accepted the offer of a cup of tea. The pathologist left his desk and came and sat with her on the low chairs arranged round a coffee table in the centre of the room. He seemed preoccupied as he thumbed through a sheaf of papers.

‘Any developments?’ he asked, and listened with head bowed, nodding from time to time.

‘Well,’ he said when she had finished, ‘I don’t know that I can help a lot at this stage, but I can tell you what we’ve got so far from the tests. Blood tests now … First of all, he wasn’t HIV positive.’

He searched for a particular sheet and pulled it out. ‘Blood group … He was an O secretor. PGM group (2–2 +). The blood group of his sexual partner, on the other hand, was AB secretor. Unfortunately, the semen stains weren’t strong enough for a successful PGM grouping. Unlikely anyway after more than six hours…’

As he droned on about different classifications of the blood groups, Kathy found herself listening to the tone of his voice rather than what he was saying. The lilt had gone, his voice flat. He seemed worried.

‘… and until they get an effective PCR technique up and running it’s taking six to eight weeks to get a DNA profile. I’ve sent the semen samples anyway, though the profile won’t be much use unless you have someone to match it to — if it’s relevant at all. You particularly asked about drugs. We think we’ve found traces of MDMA.’

All these initials were beginning to go over Kathy’s head, and it took her a moment to register. ‘Ecstasy?’

‘Yes.’ He shrugged. ‘It suggests he wasn’t short of money, or the person who gave it to him wasn’t.’

‘I’m not up to date with this. Is it very expensive, then?’

‘It’s not so much that it’s very expensive as that in the past year it’s become so much more expensive than the alternative drug of choice — good old-fashioned LSD. About twenty-five pounds a unit as against five for LSD, so they tell me.’

‘Are they similar, then?’

‘To tell the truth, I’m not really sure. There’s damn-all scientific data on the effects. MDMA’s supposed to be softer, more pleasant, somewhere between a stimulant, like amphetamine, and a hallucinogen, like LSD. But in the high doses, 100 to 150 milligrams, it’s probably much like LSD. If you want to try it, let me know. I could write a paper on it.’

For a moment his face brightened, then reverted to a frown.

‘I was about to fax my preliminary report to you this afternoon anyway,’ he said. ‘You and the Deputy Chief Constable.’

Kathy blinked. He was looking down at his papers, avoiding her eyes.

‘The Deputy Chief Constable?’

‘Yes … I understand he has a personal interest in this case. Didn’t you know?’

‘I didn’t know he was asking for copies of your reports.’

‘Perhaps I’ve spoken out of turn, then.’ He looked up at her carefully, letting her know he was trying to help. ‘Perhaps you’d best forget I told you.’

Gordon Dowling found Kathy standing at a window in the office, staring out at the darkening sky. The street lights were coming on, some orange, others still cold and red. She was wondering why she was doing this. For three days she had been trying, trying hard, and had got nowhere. At the clinic she had been an outsider, attempting to get people to talk to her, help her understand. No one had. She remembered the look on the face of the last patient she had seen as she left. It was the same sensation she had had in the Jolly Roger, of being an unwelcome visitor, an alien. And it was the same sensation she had here in the force. And now Professor Pugh … All the time, she felt as if she had been charging around the outside, trying to find some way in.

‘Cheer up, Kathy,’ she heard Dowling say at her back, ‘I’ve got something for you.’

She turned and saw him standing there like a big puppy, holding two mugs of tea. She smiled. ‘Thanks, Gordon. Just what I need.’

‘I’ve got something else, too.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I found where the van went.’

He beamed in triumph at the look on her face.

‘Where?’

‘A greengrocer’s shop in Edenham. Two blokes own it — Jerry and Errol.’

‘Gordon! That’s terrific!’

‘Yeah. It was the barman in the Jolly Roger put me on to them. He knew they were friends of Petrou’s.’

‘What? He never said anything to me. How come he told you?’

Gordon looked sheepish. ‘I don’t know. He guessed you were a copper.’ ‘What about you?’

‘I told him straight off. He said I might have a word with them.’

Kathy was peeved. ‘Well … and did you?’

‘I spoke to Jerry. You’ll want to see him yourself. I said we’d meet him in an hour, after he’s closed up the shop. He wants to meet in the Hart Revived. More discreet, he says.’

Kathy raised her eyebrows.

‘So Petrou visited them at the shop on Sunday evening.’

‘No. That’s the thing — it wasn’t Petrou. The driver of the van was Dr Beamish-Newell.’