Cold Light

Thirty-six

Through the slatted blinds of Resnick’s office, the city folded in upon itself in pools of orange light softly washed by rain. He knew all too well the results of profiling in this type of crime, studies carried out initially by the FBI and confirmed here at the Institute of Psychiatry. Four basic types: those needing to compensate for their own feelings of sexual inadequacy; those who experience excitement and pleasure as a direct response to their victim’s suffering; the assertive with a need to express more fully their sense of domination; those whose hostility is a reaction to deep-seated anger.

He was also aware that a high proportion of sexually motivated criminals, those who sought to exercise power over their victims, were also obsessed with the police. They read books and articles, followed cases, watched trials, collected anything and everything, from warrant cards to uniforms, they could lay their hands on. As far as Resnick knew, they were fully paid-up subscribers to Police Review.

He knew all that, the theory of it, and at that moment it was little help. Twenty-four hours. It wouldn’t really matter … There still wouldn’t be time. And they still had to make sure the voice on the tape was genuine, Nancy’s voice.

Resnick turned away from the window towards the telephone.

As soon as she recognized his voice, Dana’s face broke into a smile which as abruptly disappeared. “I’m sorry to have to ask you this,” Resnick said, “but if we can avoid it, we’d prefer not to inform her parents before we must.”

All assurances aside, Dana came into the CID room wearing the expression of someone asked to identify a body. She sat in Resnick’s office, the tape player between them on the desk, and it was as if the two of them had scarcely met, never touched.

At the first sounds of Nancy’s voice, a gasp tore from Dana’s body and she began to shake. Resnick paused the tape so that she could regain control. He signaled through the glass and Naylor brought in a mug of tea which sat in front of her, ignored. When he played the tape again, she listened in silence, the tears falling slowly down her face.

“You’re sure, then?” Resnick asked.

“Aren’t you?”

“It is her voice, there isn’t any doubt?”

“No, for God’s sake. No. What’s the matter with you?”

“Do you want someone to drive you home?” Resnick said from the door.

“It’s all right. I’ll be fine.” And then, “At least, she’s still alive.”

“Yes. That’s right.” But the pause before he spoke was too long to allow anything but cold comfort.

Helen Siddons was finishing off a takeaway chicken tandoori, chasing the rice around the foil container with a plastic fork. The ends of her fingers were stained orange-red from where she had used her hands. A bottle of mineral water was almost empty beside the ashtray. Helen had been on the phone to her old headquarters, ordering up the available paperwork relating to Susan Rogel. The copy of the ransom note had already been faxed. Obey my instructions to the letter. She could still remember the scorn on the faces of some of her so-called colleagues. Overstepped the mark on this one, hadn’t she? Standing beside her car with the wind coming hard off the tops and nothing to show but cracked lips and cold and empty hands.

“You want it to be him, don’t you?” Resnick spoke from the doorway. “The same man.”

“I want him to be caught, whoever.”

“But if it turned out that way …”

“Then, yes. Great. But you don’t have to worry, I’m not about to develop tunnel vision.”

“Am I worried?” Resnick said.

“I don’t know you well enough to say. Perhaps you always act like this.”

“Which is?”

Helen made a small shrugging movement with her shoulders. “Suspicious. Resentful. Almost hostile.”

“And that’s what I’m being?”

“Where I’m concerned, yes.”

“I don’t think so.”

Helen smiled. “Naturally.” There was nothing warm about the smile.

“Those calls that were made to Susan Rogel’s parents,” Resnick said. “I don’t suppose any of them were taped?”

Helen shook her head. “There’s someone coming in first thing. Loughborough University. Make a comparison between the Rogel note and the voice on the cassette. Vocabulary, phraseology, whatever.”

Resnick nodded. The lingering smell of chicken was making him realize he was hungry. Part of his mind was sorting through the contents of the food cupboard, the refrigerator: a snack at bedtime. “See you in the morning, then. Early start.”

“I think I’ll stay here,” she said. “Catch an hour in the chair.”

Resnick said goodnight and walked towards the stairs. Outside, he noticed that Skelton’s car was still backed up against the fence.