Riven (27 page)

‘Not always.’

‘You think he’s a local man or someone from out of town?’ asked Wheeler.

‘I would definitely say that the killer lives and works in this area. He’s a local man, I’m certain of it. Whether or not they were a couple, I don’t know, but whoever killed him knew him intimately. The nature of the beating was in itself extremely intimate. There was no sense of the man left. The killer was involved either physically, psychologically or emotionally with Gilmore,’ Newton paused, looking around the room, ‘and we know that the killer will be following developments closely.’

Most of the team nodded. It was well known that killers liked to monitor their notoriety.

‘Some killers need to read about their progress in the newspapers or listen to people discuss the murder in the street or on the television. He may even compare himself with other murderers, try to gauge the level of his notoriety. The more audacious prefer to communicate with the police force directly, to prove to themselves both how clever they are and how stupid the police are. One of the most important attributes of this section of society is their ego. They feel intellectually superior to others. And especially the police.’

‘If you have profiled him correctly,’ said Ross.

‘Of course, it’s not an exact science.’

‘But this is nothing we don’t know already,’ Boyd said. ‘This is all good in theory but textbook cases aren’t really going to help us.’

‘Anything else?’ asked Robertson, still tapping his pen on his notebook. So far he hadn’t taken a single note.

‘Okay, so we have a local man who in some way was intimately involved with James Gilmore. What sort of man might he be?’ Newton looked around the room, waiting for answers.

‘A psycho.’ Boyd slouched in his chair, sounded bored. ‘Obviously some psycho nut job.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Newton.

‘How come?’ Boyd chewed on the inside of his cheek.

‘Define psychopath.’

‘Christ, everyone knows what that is: somebody who can’t feel guilt about what he does, somebody who can’t empathise with his victims and also somebody who shows no remorse.’

‘And?’ prompted Newton.

‘And what?’ Boyd said. ‘It’s enough, isn’t it?’

‘Anything else?’

Boyd sat up, eyes darting to the left, remembering the research paper he’d read. Found it somewhere in his memory, scanned it quickly before replying, ‘Okay, it usually starts at school. He might be bullied, then he goes on to become the bully himself, maybe increasing the violence and intimidation as he gets a taste for it. Also he might mangle a few animals along the way, just to help him find his feet. Then as an adult he finally emerges as a fully fledged psycho.’

Subdued laughter.

Newton smiled. ‘Not bad. But you’re forgetting something: they are also extremely focused, can be incredibly charming, charismatic and good-looking. And they are great at manipulating people. They can also make brilliant business leaders, so they can be difficult to spot.’

‘Right.’ Boyd wasn’t convinced. ‘We’re looking for a good-looking, successful guy?’

‘In all probability.’

‘But not definitely?’ said Boyd.

Newton was patient. ‘The study of human behaviour isn’t an exact science.’

Boyd looked at the floor. ‘Blinding insight,’ he muttered.

Newton ignored him. ‘Let’s move on. Let’s look at what makes a killer function, his motivation if you like. There are some generalities we might look at. Killers, on the whole, but not always, tend to come from dysfunctional backgrounds. They often come from homes lacking in love, validation or support. They learn at an early age to escape into dream or fantasy worlds, which enables them to feel empowered when they are disempowered. Later they begin to resent the society which they feel rejected them. They may direct that hate towards the mother or father figure for having brought them into the world. As they mature, they may continue to feel inadequate, despite having achieved what, on the surface, may constitute success. They long to be included but persistently feel excluded. Deep down they feel unloved and unworthy of love. Neglected. Rejected. Abandoned.’

‘Neglected?’ Wheeler repeated, thinking of the Watervale kids and also remembering the brain scans from the lecture Matthew Barnes had delivered. The Keenan Institute was all about helping those kinds of children.

‘Yes, neglected, definitely. And although in his mind he is a
loner,
in terms of how society judges him, he could be a great success. But as a child he would have been left alone. He would have been neglected, perhaps by both parents, but definitely by the mother figure.’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ said Boyd, ‘he murders because his mammy left him?’

‘She
ignored or neglected
him. Perhaps even abandoned him.’

‘So someone with a grudge against his mother?’ asked Wheeler.

‘A grudge against society,
originating
with his mother.’ Newton paused. ‘Another aspect is that since at his core he feels disempowered, it is by killing that he becomes empowered. God-like. The rush of adrenaline he would have experienced during the beating was an opportunity to experience power.’

‘Sick bastard,’ said Ross.

‘So, who are we looking for?’ Robertson asked. ‘Theories are interesting but surely we need substance.’

‘Many killers can and do outwit the police. And psychiatrists and psychologists. Psychopaths, if he is one, are clever and learn what they should say, what they should do, how they should act and, under scrutiny, they do it. But internally they are their true selves. They may be introverted or paranoid, with a fixation that the world and people are against them. Yet, externally they may successfully hide this. In fact, they may be prominent people in our society.’

‘Like politicians?’ suggested Ross.

A ripple of laughter from the team.

‘Like anyone. You or I, for instance.’

‘Not a copper, though,’ muttered a uniformed officer from the back.

‘Why not?’ said Newton.

The officer glared at him but said nothing.

Newton continued, ‘You see, that’s his cover. He can merge into any society. That’s why we can’t identify killers when they stalk our streets. He is an outsider, someone who doesn’t fit in. But he has learned to.’

‘And you think he might be liaising with the police?’

‘In some way he will be communicating with you. That would feed his ego. I would go as far as to say you may well have spoken to him directly. I can only offer an insight into the man’s mind. It’s for you to uncover the pattern of his movements. I would say someone who appears confident but internally is lost. A lost soul.’

A poor wee soul
, thought Wheeler, wasn’t that what Paton had called George Grey? ‘What about the two boys?’

Newton glanced at his notes. ‘Munroe and Wilson? I think that they stumbled, literally, across Gilmore’s body.’

Wheeler nodded.

‘Could it be one of the other kids from the school?’ Boyd asked.

Newton paused. ‘He’d have to be quite a complex character, have the ability to present himself in a positive light while being capable of this. Of course there is a third way.’

‘Which is?’

‘That emotionally he’s not just detached but dead. In that case, this would have been merely a mechanical deed.’

‘And?’ prompted Boyd.

Newton pursed his lips. ‘And he is emotionally dead because anger, violence and death may be all he knows.’

‘A lost soul,’ said Wheeler.

‘Might be quite a big section of the city,’ said Ross.

‘I know, but it’s a start,’ offered Newton.

‘So, are you directing us back to Watervale?’ Robertson sounded irritated.

‘I don’t believe so; this wasn’t done by kids.’

Wheeler thought about the list of ex-Watervale pupils who had landed in trouble with the police.

Stewart strode into the room. ‘Thank you, Dr Newton. Now if you’re finished, a word in my office?’

‘You’re very welcome. I hope it maybe gives a bit of room for thought but, as I said, it’s not an exact science.’

Wheeler remembered her previous conversation with Stewart.
Special budget. Special rates.
She watched Stewart and Newton leave the room together. Did that mean ‘mates’ rates’ and what had Newton meant by ‘there’re more of us around than you’d think’? She saw the back of Stewart’s pristine suit, knew the hit of his aftershave was floating around the room. Suddenly the unwanted image of Stewart in a bright red dress, wearing lipstick and high heels, flashed across her mind. She quickly turned away. Too late, the image had registered. Wheeler shook her head and wondered if she would ever lose it.

Wheeler went back to her desk and fired up her computer. Checked her messages. There was an email from Callum Fraser asking her to call him.

So she did.

‘Lauren Taylor had gamma hydroxybutyrate in her system.’

‘GHB,’ Wheeler said, ‘the date rape drug?’

‘Except that she wasn’t raped. Hadn’t had sex recently, which means—’

‘Which means,’ she finished for him, ‘that she took it recreationally.’

She listened while Callum gave her the specifics. Wheeler jotted the information down in her notebook.

‘So, the side effects, if I remember correctly, include hallucinations?’

‘Hallucinations and often a sense of euphoria.’

‘So she could have been hallucinating and walked out onto the balcony?’

‘It’s certainly one possibility.’

‘Anything else, Callum?’

‘The individual may feel dizzy and their vision may become impaired.’

‘Could she have been pushed?’

‘There were no signs of a struggle, no defence wounds. Nothing much under her fingernails to suggest that there was a scuffle.’ He paused. ‘My other phone is ringing, Katherine – may I email you the results later?’

Wheeler agreed, thanked him quickly and put down the phone.

Ross was at his desk. ‘GHB?’

Wheeler nodded.

‘Jason?’

‘West End are interviewing him later. I’ll email them the results Callum sends through.’

‘Was there anything at the scene to link him to Lauren?’

‘Nothing.’

Later, at his interview, Jason omitted to mention that after he had left Kat Wheeler’s flat he had gone home and calmly showered. Then he made sure that there was nothing incriminating in his flat. He had washed out his hip flask, put the gloves in a drawer and had made sure that he had his story completely straight before he met with the cops. He hadn’t been with Lauren that night – she’d been there by herself – so, unless they had evidence to the contrary?

They had none.

Since her meeting with Maurice Mason, Stella had not stopped thinking about him for a heartbeat, but she was smart enough to carry on her daily routine and for her this meant shopping. She had just pulled her car into the underground car park in the Buchanan Street Galleries when her mobile rang. It was Doyle.

‘You in town?’ He knew she was; she had told him where she was going before she’d left that morning.

She kept her voice soft. ‘I’ve just pulled into the car park, babe. You need me to pick up something for you?’

She waited, heard the hesitation in his voice. ‘No, I don’t need anything. I’ve just had a phone call . . . it feels all wrong.’

‘Yeah?’ Stella heard her breathing quicken a pace, tried to keep her voice casual. ’Anybody I know?’

‘Lizzie Coughlin.’

Silence. Stella’s chest tightened for a second. She inhaled then exhaled, calmly. Took her time.

‘You there, Stella?’

‘The reception’s bad here, babe,’ she lied. ‘I didn’t catch the name – who was it again?’

‘Lizzie Coughlin. You remember her?’

‘Vaguely. Isn’t she big Kenny’s daughter?’
And Maurice bloody Mason’s girlfriend. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

‘She wants to talk to me,’ said Doyle.

‘Lizzie wants to talk to you? She say what about?’

‘No, she wants a one-to-one. In private. Thought you might know what about. Fuck knows, I’ve got nothing to say to her.’

‘I could come home, babe, and speak to her?’

His voice suspicious, ‘No need, it’s me she wants to see. I was just wondering if you had any bloody idea what it’s about?’

‘Haven’t heard from Lizzie in years.’ Stella kept her voice calm. ‘Maybe it’s something about Kenny. He still inside?’

‘Yeah.’ Doyle sounded bored. ‘Just thought I’d check it out with you. I’ll sort it. See you later.’

The phone went dead.

Stella sat in the car, drummed her scarlet nails on the dashboard. Glanced at the phone, dialled, waited a heartbeat for an answer. ‘Sonny, about that favour? It’s needed ASAP.’ She ended the call without waiting for a reply.

She crossed the car park, heels clicking on concrete, a flash of red sole. She took the lift to John Lewis and stood at the entrance to the store and breathed deeply, allowing the calm and order of the shop to comfort her. The place was as close to a spiritual home as Stella had and she felt almost reverential. She glanced around, noted that everything on display was ordered, arranged neatly and looked beautiful. Stella felt herself calm. Breathed deeply again and stepped over the threshold. Once inside, she made for the kitchen department and began browsing, running her fingers over the knives on display.

A few seconds elapsed before an assistant approached her. ‘Hello, may I help you? Are you looking for anything in particular?’ The assistant was middle-aged and enthusiastic and managed a smile which seemed genuine.

Stella returned the smile. ‘As a matter of fact I am. I’m looking to buy a knife, a big boning knife,’ she held her hands out, a foot apart. ‘You know the kind butchers use?’

‘Of course.’ The smiling assistant led the way. ‘What kind of meat will you be preparing?’

‘Tough meat. Usually that’s the problem isn’t it, meat that’s all bone and gristle? You have to hack your way through it. Gets messy.’

The assistant had stopped in front of a display. ‘There’s quite a difference in price range and weight – some of the knives are very heavy.’

Stella reached across and took a fifteen-inch, stainless-steel knife in her right hand, felt the heft, curved her fingers around the handle. ‘Beautiful.’