The Mermaids Singing

11

But who meantime was the victim, to whose abode he was hurrying? For surely he could never be so indiscreet as to be sailing about on a roving cruise in search of some chance person to murder? Oh, no: he had suited himself with a victim some time before, viz., an old and very intimate friend.

Brandon stared bleakly at the sheet of paper in the typewriter. Tom Cross might have been a long way from the ACC’s idea of the perfect copper, but he’d always appeared to be a good thief-taker. Antics like tonight’s served only to raise a question mark over his whole career. Just how many other people had Cross fitted up over the years without anyone being any the wiser? If Brandon hadn’t himself bent the rules and taken Tony on their illicit search, no one would have doubted the ‘evidence’ Tom Cross had turned up. No one except Stevie McConnell would have known that two of Cross’s three ‘finds’ had arrived with him. The mere thought of the consequences of that was enough to send a prickle of cold sweat down Brandon’s back.

Cross had left Brandon with no option but to suspend him. The disciplinary hearing that would inevitably follow would be painful for all concerned, but that was the least of Brandon’s worries. He was far more troubled about the effect on the murder squad’s morale. The only way to combat it was to take direct responsibility for the enquiry himself. Now, all he had to do was convince the Chief that he was right. With a sigh, Brandon pulled the last sheet of paper out of the machine and inserted another page.

His memo to the Chief Constable was brief and to the point. That only left one task before he could crawl home to bed. Sighing, Brandon glanced at the clock. Thirty minutes to midnight. He pushed the typewriter away from him and started writing on a sheet of his personal memo paper. ‘To Detective Inspector Kevin Matthews. From John Brandon, ACC (Crime). Re: Steven McConnell. Following the suspension of Superintendent Cross, I will assume direct command of the murder squad. There are no grounds for charging McConnell with anything other than assault. McConnell should be released on bail pending a court date for the assault charge, and on separate bail to return to Scargill Street in a week so that we can question him further if more evidence arises. In view of his refusal to give us any information about his contacts, or any names of people he might have introduced to Gareth Finnegan and Adam Scott, we should pursue any contacts he does make. A warrant for a tap on his phone should also be obtained, on the basis of his connection to Scott and Finnegan, and the contact we now know he had with Damien Connolly in a professional capacity. Our enquiries into the four related murders should continue on a broad front, though I suggest that, following his release on bail, we maintain close surveillance of McConnell. There will be a case conference of senior officers tomorrow at noon.’ He signed the memo and sealed it in an envelope. How to make friends and influence people, he thought as he walked downstairs to the desk sergeant. Brandon prayed that Tony Hill was right about Stevie McConnell. If Tom Cross had been right to follow his instinct, it would be more than the morale of the CID that would be at risk.

Carol slumped over the dining table, chin resting on her folded forearms, one hand tickling Nelson’s belly. ‘What do you think, boy? Is he just another lying bastard, or what?’

‘Prrrt,’ the cat said on a rising intonation, his eyes closed to slits.

‘I thought you’d say that. I agree, I know how to pick them,’ Carol sighed. ‘You’re right, I should have kept my distance. That’s what happens when you make the running. You get the knockbacks. They don’t usually come from that far out of left field, though. At least now I know why he kept backing off. Better off without him, cat. Life’s tough enough without playing second fiddle.’

‘Mrrr,’ Nelson agreed.

‘He must think I’m brain dead, expecting me to believe that a total stranger leaves messages like that on his answering machine.’

‘Rowrr,’ Nelson complained, rolling over on to his back, batting her fingers with his paws.

‘All right, so you think it’s ridiculous too. But the man’s a psychologist. If he was going to make something up to explain the fact that he’d lied to me, he’d make it a damn sight more plausible than funny phone calls. All he had to say was that it was somebody he’d finished with who wouldn’t take the message.’ Carol rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, yawned and stood up in one languid movement.

The door to the boxroom Michael used as a study opened and he stood framed in the doorway. ‘I thought I heard voices. You could talk to me, you know. At least I answer you.’

Carol gave a tired smile. ‘So does Nelson. It’s not his fault we don’t speak cat. I didn’t want to disturb you; I could see you were working.’

Michael walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a small Scotch. ‘I was only play-testing, trying to spot the glitches in what we’ve done so far. No big deal. How’s your day been?’

‘Don’t ask. They’ve moved us over to Scargill Street. It’s a hellhole. Imagine going back to doing your calculations on an abacus, and you get the picture of my current working environment. The atmosphere’s shit, and Tony Hill’s spoken for. Apart from that, everything’s magic.’ Carol followed Michael’s example and poured herself a drink.

‘Want to talk about it?’ he asked, perching on the arm of one of the sofas.

‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ Carol swallowed her drink in one, shuddered at the kick of the spirit and said, ‘I’ve brought you a set of pictures, by the way. How soon can you take a look at them?’

‘I’ve scrounged some computer time with the software tomorrow evening. That do you?’

Carol put her arms round Michael and gave him a hug. ‘Thank you, bro,’ she said.

‘My pleasure,’ he said, returning the embrace. ‘You know how I love a challenge.’

‘I’m going to bed,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long one.’

No sooner had Carol turned out the light than she felt the familiar thud of Nelson landing on the foot of the bed. It was reassuring to feel his warmth against her legs, though it was no substitute for the body she’d hoped for earlier in the evening. Of course, as soon as her head hit the pillow, her sleepiness vanished. The exhaustion was still there, but her mind was racing. Please God, by tomorrow afternoon, the awkwardness between her and Tony would have evaporated. The sting of humiliation would still be there for her, but she was a grown-up and a professional. Now she knew he was off limits, she wouldn’t place him in a difficult position again, and now he knew she knew, maybe he’d be able to relax. Either way, the profile should provide more than enough neutral ground between them. She could hardly wait to see what he’d come up with.

On the other side of the sleeping city, Tony too lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tracing imaginary road maps in the cracks round the plaster rose. He knew there was no point in switching out his bedside lamp. Sleep would elude him, and in the darkness, he’d start to feel the slow choke of claustrophobia closing in on him. Counting sheep had never appealed; the slow watches of the night were when Tony Hill became his own therapist. ‘Why did you have to ring tonight?’ he murmured. ’I like Carol Jordan. I know I don’t want her in my life, but I didn’t want to hurt her either. Hearing your blandishments on the answering machine must have felt like a smack in the face, after me saying there wasn’t anybody in my life.

‘An outsider would say we hardly know each other, everything that happened tonight was an overreaction. But outsiders don’t understand the bonding, the intimacy that springs out of nowhere when you’re working closely together on a manhunt, when the clock’s ticking the next victim’s life away.’

He sighed. At least he hadn’t blurted out the one thing that might have convinced Carol he wasn’t lying, the truth he’d so carefully kept locked inside himself. What was it he told his patients? ‘Let it out. It doesn’t matter what it is, speaking it is the first step in taking away the pain.’

‘What a load of crap that is,’ he said bitterly. ‘It’s just another one of the tricks in my magic bag, designed to legitimize my prurient curiosity, tailored to unleash the twisted minds of the fuck-ups who are driven to act out their fantasies in a way society can’t accommodate. If I’d told Carol the truth, said the i-word, it wouldn’t have taken my pain away. It would only have made me feel even more of a worthless piece of shit. It’s all very well for old men to be impotent. Men my age who can’t get it up are a joke.’

The phone rang, startling him. He rolled over, scrambling for the receiver. ‘Hello?’ he said, his voice tentative.

‘Anthony, at last. Oh, how I’ve missed you!’

His surge of anger at the languid, husky voice died as soon as it flared. What was the point in raging at her? She wasn’t the problem. He was. ‘I got your message,’ he said, resigning himself. She hadn’t caused the awkwardness with Carol; there would have been no grounds for awkwardness at all if he hadn’t been such a pathetic excuse for a man. No point in even thinking about relationships with nice, normal women. He would have blown it with Carol, just as he’d always blown it with women as soon as they got close. The best he could hope for was telephone sex. At least it generated a kind of equality; it allowed men to fake not just orgasm but erection too.

Angelica chuckled. ‘I thought I’d leave you something nice to come home to. I hope you’re not too tired for some recreation.’

‘I’m never too tired for your kind of recreation,’ Tony said, swallowing the self-disgust that threatened to overwhelm him. Think of it as therapy, he told himself. Tony lay back and let the voice flow over him, his hand straying down his chest towards his groin.

The cleaners were gossiping by the lift as Penny Burgess emerged on the third floor of the Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times office. She walked down the newsroom, snapping on lights as she passed, humming tunelessly under her breath. She tossed her bag on the desk by her computer terminal and logged on. She executed the commands that took her into the library database, and pressed the key for ‘search’. Five options were offered: 1. Subject; 2. Name; 3. By-line; 4. Date; and 5. Pictures. Penny hit 2. At the ‘surname’ prompt, she typed ‘Hill’. At the ‘forename’ prompt, she keyed in ‘Tony’, and at the ‘title’ prompt, she entered, ‘Dr’. Then she sat back and waited while the computer sorted through the gigabytes of information stored in its huge memory. Penny flipped open her cigarette packet and pulled out her first cigarette of the day. She was only a couple of drags into it when the screen flashed ‘Found (6)’.

Penny retrieved the six items and called them up on her screen. They appeared in reverse order of date. The first was a two-month-old cutting from the Sentinel Times. It had been written by one of the news reporters. Although she’d read it at the time, she’d completely forgotten about it. As she read it, Penny whistled softly.

INSIDE THE MIND OF A KILLER

The man the Home Office have chosen to spearhead the hunt for serial killers spoke today about the latest slaying that has terrified the city’s gay community.

Forensic psychologist Tony Hill is one year into a major study funded by the government which will lead to the setting up of a criminal profiling task force similar to the FBI unit featured in The Silence of the Lambs.

Dr Hill, 34, was formerly the chief clinical psychologist at Blamires Hospital, the maximum-security mental unit which houses Britain’s most dangerous criminally insane offenders, including mass murderer David Harney and serial killer Keith Pond, the Motorway Madman.

Giving his verdict, Dr Hill said, ‘I have not been called in by the police to consult on any of these cases, so I know no more than your readers do about them.’

Either Dr Hill had been lying to her colleague, or his formal involvement with the case came after the interview. If that was the case, Penny could see how to exploit it in a way that would appeal to her editor. She could picture the headline now. ‘POLICE FOLLOW BEST’S LEAD IN MURDER HUNT.’ She quickly flicked through the rest of the piece. It didn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know, although she was interested that Dr Hill had speculated that the discrepancies in the third killing might mean there were two killers out on the streets. That was an idea that seemed to have sunk without trace. It was something to ask Kevin about next time she managed to get him on the end of a phone.

The next cutting was from the Guardian, and announced the setting up of the Home Office programme for developing a national task force to deal with serial offenders. The project was to be based at Bradfield University. The article gave her more background on Dr Hill, and she jotted down his career details in her notebook. No dummy, this guy. She’d have to handle him carefully. She tapped her teeth with her pen and wondered why the Sentinel Times hadn’t run a feature on the study, with a profile of Dr Hill. Maybe they tried and had been knocked back. She’d have to check with her colleagues on Features.

The next two cuttings were from a national tabloid, a two-part series on serial killers that had been timed to coincide with the general release of The Silence of the Lambs. Dr Hill was quoted in both articles, talking in general terms about the work of psychological profilers.

The last two cuttings dealt with one of his most prominent patients, Keith Pond, the so-called Motorway Madman. Pond had abducted five women from motorway service areas, then savagely raped and murdered them. At the time of his trial, only two of the bodies had been found. But after extensive therapy with Dr Hill, Pond had revealed the whereabouts of the other three bodies. Dr Hill had been hailed as a worker of miracles by the bereaved family of one of the victims. One of the two pieces had attempted a profile of Dr Hill, but they had scant information to go on. As usual, the journalist hadn’t let that stand in the way of a good story.

Tony Hill, who has never married, is devoted to his work. A former colleague said, ’Tony’s a workaholic. He’s married to the job.

’He’s totally driven by the desire to understand what makes his patients tick. There’s probably not another psychologist in the country who has his knack of getting inside their twisted minds and working out what makes them do what they do.

‘I sometimes thought he related better to mass murderers than he did to normal punters.’

The reclusive Dr Hill lives alone and is notorious for not mixing socially with colleagues. Apart from studying the minds of serial killers, the only hobby he apparently indulges in is hill-walking. On weekends off, he regularly drives to the Lakes or the Yorkshire Dales and tramps the fells.

Sounds like a real barrel of laughs,’ Penny said aloud, scribbling more notes on her pad. She returned to the main menu, where she selected the fifth option. Again, she entered Tony’s name for a picture search. The data banks revealed there was one stock picture on file. Penny called it up and stared at the face that appeared on her screen. ‘Gotcha!’ she exclaimed. She had only seen him once before, but now she knew who Carol Jordan’s new sidekick was.

Penny leaned back in her seat, savouring her third cigarette, and registered that the newsroom was starting to fill up. One quick phone call, then she could afford the time to treat herself to a fry-up in the canteen. Reaching for the phone, she dialled Kevin Matthews’s home number. He picked up on the second ring. ‘DI Matthews,’ came the sleepy mumble.

‘Hi, Kev, it’s Penny,’ she said, savouring the stunned silence that greeted her announcement. ‘Sorry to bother you at home, but I thought you’d rather answer my questions there than in the office.’

‘Wh-what?’ he stuttered. Then, muffled, ‘Yeah, it’s work. Go back to sleep, love.’

‘How long has Dr Tony Hill been on the team?’

‘How did you hear about that? Shit, that’s supposed to be top secret!’ he exploded, his nervousness transforming itself into anger.

‘Tut, tut. Kev, she’ll never get back to sleep if you yell like that. Never mind how I know, just be grateful you can put your hand on your heart and deny it came from you. How long, Kev?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Just a couple of days.’

‘Was it Brandon’s idea?’

‘That’s right. Look, I really can’t talk about this. It’s supposed to be kept under wraps.’

‘He’s doing a profile, right?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Working with Carol Jordan? Brandon’s blue-eyed girl on this one, is she?’

‘She’s the liaison officer. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you about this later on, OK?’ Kevin tried to sound menacing, but failed.

Penny smiled and slowly exhaled a mouthful of smoke. ‘Thanks, Kev. I owe you a very special one.’ She replaced the handset, cleared her screen and opened a story file.

‘Exclusive. By Penny Jordan,’ she typed. Never mind breakfast. She had far more interesting stuff to do.

Tony was back in front of his screen by half past eight. Instead of the guilt he’d expected to feel about his erotic encounter, he felt refreshed. Giving himself permission to indulge himself with Angelica had somehow released and relaxed him. Surprising though he found it under the circumstances, he’d actually become aroused as she’d talked him through an outrageous, imaginative sexual encounter. He hadn’t actually managed to sustain his erection as far as orgasm, but because there was no one there to share his failure, it hadn’t seemed to matter. Maybe a few more calls from Angelica would be all he needed to contemplate the reality with something less than abject panic.

But not at work. What he needed now was complete peace. He’d already instructed his secretary to hold all his calls, and he turned off the ringer on his direct line. Nothing and nobody was going to interrupt the flow of his thoughts. His feeling of satisfaction continued as he read through the work he’d done the day before. He was ready now to put himself on the line and commit his conclusions about Handy Andy to paper. Tony poured himself a cup of coffee from his Thermos and took a deep breath.

We are dealing with a serial killer who will certainly kill again unless he is caught. The next killing will take place on the eighth Monday following the death of Damien Connolly unless some trigger accelerates this. What might push him over the edge into extreme escalation could be some catastrophic event that causes him to lose whatever it is he is using to keep the fantasy alive. Since, for example, he is using videos, loss of or damage to his tapes could lead to loss of control. Another possible scenario is that an innocent person is charged with the killings. That would be such an affront to his sense of himself that he might commit his next murder ahead of schedule.

I believe it is likely that he has already selected his next victim and is familiarizing himself with that victim’s movements and lifestyle. The chances are that the chosen victim is a man not known to the gay community. He will be, to all intents and purposes, a straight man living a heterosexual lifestyle.

The fact that his last victim was a police officer is disturbing. It is highly probable that this was choice, not accident or coincidence. The killer is sending a message to the investigation. He is demanding that we take notice of him, that we take him seriously. He is also telling us that he is the best; he can catch us but we can’t catch him. There is a theory that such behaviour is a way of inviting capture, but I do not believe that is what is going on in this case.

It is possible that his next target may also be a police officer, perhaps even one who is working on the investigation. This alone will not be sufficient motive for the killer to choose them; they must also fit the victim criteria that he has drawn up in his own mind in order for the killing to assume its full meaning for him. I would strongly recommend that any officers who fit the victim profile employ extra vigilance at all times, noting any suspicious vehicles parked near their homes, and checking to see whether they are being followed to and from work and social events.

The stalking and preparation serves two main purposes for the killer: it cuts down on the potential surprise elements when he comes to carry out the killing, and it also fuels the fantasy that is the all-important area of the killer’s life.

Our killer is probably a white male, aged between 25 and 35. He is likely to be at least 5ft 10ins tall, well muscled, with considerable upper-body strength. In spite of this, he probably has a poor body image. He may work out in a gym, but if he can afford it, he would prefer to use his own equipment in the privacy of his home. He is right-handed.

He won’t look like a con. He’ll look deeply, deeply average. He will have a demeanour that doesn’t provoke suspicion. He’s the sort of bloke you wouldn’t look at twice, and certainly wouldn’t suspect of being a multiple murderer. He may have tattoos and/or self-inflicted scars, but these are likely to be fairly discreet.

He is familiar with Bradfield, and his knowledge of Temple Fields is clearly current. This implies someone who lives and probably works in the city. I don’t think he’s a casual visitor, nor a former resident who simply comes back here to kill. There is no obvious geographical pattern to the homes or workplaces of his victims, except that they all lived in reasonably close proximity to a tram line. The first victim’s home is most likely to be geographically closest to where the killer lives or works. Looking at the general background and style of the victims, and working on the principle that he’s sticking to the kind of environment he knows and understands, I would suspect that the killer lives in privately owned property rather than rented, a house rather than a flat, in a suburban area of similar properties to those of the victims. The victims’ houses are probably worth more than the killer’s; these are men that in some way he aspires towards.

He is probably of above average intelligence, though I would not expect him to have a university degree. His school record is probably quite patchy, with poor attendance and highly variable marks. He will never have lived up to his potential or to other people’s expectations of him. Most serial killers have a bad employment record, flitting from job to job, being sacked more often than resigning. But this man exhibits an extraordinary level of control in the commission of his murders, so I would expect him to be capable of holding down a steady job, possibly even one with some degree of responsibility and forward planning. However, I don’t think his job will involve much contact with his fellow human beings, since his relationships with others will be characterized by their dysfunctional nature. His victims are all white-collar workers, with the marginal exception of Damien Connolly, which indicates to me that he probably operates in a similar working environment. I wouldn’t be surprised to find him working in a technology-related area, possibly computers. This is an employment area where people can hold down good jobs without having significant people skills. People who don’t fit in are accepted and acceptable in the weird world of software engineers; indeed, they are often highly prized since they are hard to replace. I doubt if our killer is a leading-edge creative person in the software world, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find him as a systems manager or a program tester. He probably doesn’t get on well with his bosses, being inclined to be insubordinate and argumentative.

He will be middle class in terms of his job, his aspirations, his clothes and his home, although he may be working class in background. He is good with his hands, but I am inclined to think he is not in a manual occupation, if only because of the high degree of planning involved in these murders.

Socially, he feels isolated. He may not necessarily be a loner, but he does not connect with people. He feels like an outsider. He probably has developed superficial social skills, but somehow his behaviour always strikes the wrong note. He’s the one who laughs too loudly, the one who thinks he’s making jokes when he’s actually being deeply offensive, the one who sometimes seems to have drifted off in a daydream all of his own. He’s the one who doesn’t really have any friends, who will join in with the group but never pair off with one buddy in particular. He has little insight into his social failings. He prefers to be alone with his fantasies, because when others are involved socially, he can’t fully control what’s happening around him.

It’s entirely possible that he does not live alone. If he lives with someone, it will be a woman rather than a man. Because he is sexually attracted to men and cannot accept that, he will not under any circumstances be living with a man, not even in a platonic relationship. His relationships with women may well be sexual, but he will not be an enthusiastic or successful lover. His performance will be barely adequate, and he may regularly experience problems in achieving and/or sustaining an erection. However, he will not be impotent during the commission of his crime, and will almost certainly be able to complete a full sexual act of some sort with his victims.

Tony paused and stared out of the window. Sometimes it felt like the chicken and the egg. Did he empathize with his patients because he too knew the frustrations and anger of impotence, or had his sexual problems increased precisely so that he could do his job better? ‘Does it matter?’ he said impatiently. He ran a hand through his hair and concentrated once again on the screen.

If he is living with someone, she will almost certainly have no suspicion whatsoever that her partner is the killer. It’s therefore quite likely that her first instinct will be to alibi him, since in her heart, she knows it couldn’t possibly be him. Any suspects solely alibied by girlfriends or wives should therefore not be eliminated on those grounds alone.

He is mobile, with his own car, which is in good condition (see above). And on Monday nights, he’s free to roam without hindrance or obligation to be somewhere.

He is a highly structured personality, a control freak. The sort who has a tantrum because his girlfriend has forgotten to buy his favourite cereal. He believes he’s absolutely justified; he thinks that in his crimes, all he is doing is actually committing the actions that everybody else wants to but lacks the bottle for. He has a big chip on his shoulder and feels that the world has conspired against him; how come, since he’s so bright and talented, he’s not running the company instead of doing this poxy job? How come, since he’s so charming, he’s not going out with some supermodel? The answer is, the world is out to do him down. He has the egocentric world view of the spoiled child, and has no insight into the impact of his behaviour on others. All he sees is the way events affect him.

He is a persistent fantasist and daydreamer. His fantasies are elaborately constructed and seem more significant to him than reality. His fantasy world is where he retreats both from choice and also whenever he faces any kind of setback or obstacle in his day-to-day life. The fantasies are likely to involve violence as well as sex and may also be fetishistic. These fantasies don’t remain static; they lose their power and have to be developed further.

He is certain that he can act out his violent fantasies without anyone being able to stop him. He has supreme confidence that he is smarter than the police. He is not planning for the day he will be caught. He thinks he’s too clever for that. He has been very careful to erase forensic traces, which is why, as I have already outlined to Inspector Jordan, I am convinced that the fragment of Russian deerskin left at the scene of the fourth killing is a red herring of the grossest kind. He is almost certainly keeping a close eye on the investigation, and will doubtless be laughing his socks off as we run round trying to source the leather. Even if the police do trace it, I suspect that when we find the killer there will be nothing among his possessions that will remotely connect to it.

If he has any criminal record at all, it is likely to be a juvenile one. Possible offences include: vandalism, minor arson, stealing, cruelty to younger children or animals, assault on teachers. However, somewhere along the line, our killer has learned enormous self-control, and he’s unlikely to have an adult record.

He will keep abreast of the investigation as much as possible, and will thrive on publicity as long as it appears to accord him the glamour and respect he craves. It is interesting that Adam Scott’s grave was desecrated shortly after the second murder. This may have been an attempt to raise the profile of his crimes. He is possibly someone who has contacts with police officers, and if he does, he will endeavour to use this to gain information about the progress of the investigation. Any officer who feels they are being pumped in this way should be encouraged to report it to senior officers in the murder squad.

Tony saved his file and read the whole thing through again. Some of the psychologists he’d worked with incorporated great slabs of background about the likely childhood background of the killer, as well as a checklist of behaviours that the killer would possibly have exhibited when he was growing up. Not Tony. There was time enough for that sort of information once there was a suspect ripe for interrogation. Tony never forgot that he was dealing with coppers who were out there at the sharp end. Men like Tom Cross, who didn’t give a toss what kind of hideous childhood their suspect had endured.

Thinking of Tom Cross sharpened Tony’s critical eye. Convincing him of the value of the profile was going to be a nightmare.

The first edition of the Bradfield Evening Sentinel Times hit the street just before noon. The eager searchers after flats, jobs and bargains snatched the first copies from the street vendors without even looking at the front page. They turned straight to the section of small ads that they hoped would meet their needs, holding the front and back pages up to the advantage of passers-by. Anyone curious enough to glance at the banner headlines on the front page would have discovered ‘ MURDER HUNT BOSS DUMPED. Exclusive, by our Crime Correspondent, Penny Burgess.’ Further down the page, the bottom right-hand quarter was taken up with a photograph of Tony, saying, ‘MURDER COPS FOLLOW BEST LEAD. Exclusive by Penny Burgess.’ If they’d been intrigued enough to buy their own copy, they could have read a sub-headline saying, ‘Top shrink we chose joins Queer Killer hunt, see story p. 3.’

In an office high above the bustling streets of Bradfield, a murderer stared at the paper, excitement churning inside. Things were working out beautifully. It was as if the police were acting out the killer’s own fantasies, proving that wishes do come true.