by J. F. Kirwan
Rickard was in mint condition, a full head of salt-and-pepper hair that made him look distinguished, no doubt helping him at the various A-list functions and dinners he attended, often as after-dinner speaker. Greg knew that he also played squash regularly. He had a politician’s face, the sort people would vote for without too much reflection. Not a bad commodity in their line of business. In contrast, Greg guessed he looked like something a slightly embarrassed cat had dragged in.
‘It’s three months since you turned in your licence,’ Rickard stated in a monotone as he studied Greg’s file. He looked up. ‘I don’t pretend to understand your pain on the emotional level, but I have an idea how hard this past year has been on you.’
Greg kept quiet, avoiding that particular rabbit hole.
‘Well, you know the drill, Greg. Any homicidal or suicidal thoughts?’
Would Donaldson have said anything to Rickard about the Roulette? Of course not. Besides, he’d not had time. ‘None,’ he said. ‘Except that when we catch him, I might petition for reinstating the death penalty.’
The whisper of a grunt. They were like two boxers sizing each other up, measuring the distance. Greg waited. Rickard stayed calmly quiet. They could both do this all day. A thought occurred to Greg, but he dismissed it. Still nothing. The thought refreshed itself, and Greg wondered if Rickard would… No, he wouldn’t. It was an unwritten rule between criminal psychologists. You never…
And then it happened.
Rickard frowned, slid open a drawer, and extracted a long white cable with something that resembled a thimble at the end, and offered it to Greg.
‘I’m sorry about this, but it’s procedure.’ Rickard looked genuinely apologetic.
‘When did it become procedure?’ Greg asked, managing to keep his voice level.
‘Three months ago. There was an incident on another case, an officer I don’t think you knew. In any event, during an interview like this one – not myself, I hasten to add – vital information was not elicited, and the officer… how did they put it? Ah yes, swallowed a bullet.’
Greg had heard about it just before he’d turned in his licence.
Rickard held the thimble in his fingers. ‘Of course, it’s voluntary, but if you refuse, then your temporary permit will be denied. I do hope you understand.’
Greg did. He forced himself to relax, breathing out long and slow, as he clipped the thimble onto the tip of his left forefinger.
‘Shouldn’t someone else be present?’ Greg asked. ‘As a witness?’
‘No need,’ Rickard breezed. ‘We’re colleagues after all, cut from the same cloth and all that. Just so you know, I’m recording your speech and facial reactions on camera.’
Great. Greg felt his facial muscles tense and, with an effort, he relaxed them. He resisted a strong urge to clear his throat.
Rickard smiled. A genuine one. ‘Now we can begin. Please look not at me, but the camera.’
Greg was on dangerous terrain. If he passed, fine. But if he failed, Rickard would be duty-bound to refer him for psychiatric therapy. As it was, the past year he’d bordered on depression-slash-PTSD caused by the ‘event’, as well as cumulative stress exacerbated by burnout. At least there had been nothing psychotic.
The alternative to taking the test was to stand up right now, say he wasn’t up for this, and walk out. But once he submitted to the test and it began, failure had consequences. And Rickard had a lorryload of authority. Christ, he could even section him.
Greg cleared his throat and cleared his mind. He stayed put. He needed to chase down this new theory, needed to be on the inside of the slick man-hunting machine that was Scotland Yard. Whatever else Fergus was, he was a new lead, and new leads went cold faster than an espresso.
So he complied, and stared at the tiny webcam perched on top of Rickard’s desktop screen. It would record pupil dilation and eye movements, then merge those measurements with his heart rate and sweat response as measured by the thimble on his finger, to triangulate his emotional state and, importantly, determine whether he was lying. Almost impossible to confound, especially with Rickard.
Almost.
Greg awaited the questions, knowing they would come thick and fast. He would have to respond immediately; it was better that way. Trying to hide something only amplified autonomic responses, making it worse.
Rickard sat back and made a steeple with his fingers. ‘All set,’ he said.
Greg watched the camera but could see Rickard in his peripheral vision. He was studying the screen, where no doubt he saw a magnified image of Greg’s right pupil, and real-time graphs of his heart rate and sweat response. In the middle of this psycho-physiological dashboard, typically a single arrow hovered above a scale running from green to red.
‘Let’s begin,’ Rickard said. ‘What did you have for breakfast this morning?’
Greg replied, answering three other warm-up questions that calibrated the system.
‘When was your most recent social interaction?’
‘Yesterday, Donaldson and I–’
‘Social interaction.’
Greg thought for a moment. ‘Yesterday morning. Starbucks. An ex-yoga colleague.’
‘Have you had any sexual thoughts?’
‘Not so much.’
‘When did you last have sex with another person?’
Cute, gender-neutral wording. ‘Over a year ago.’ Kate. Don’t, don’t go there…
‘No sex since then?’
He shook his head.
‘Please, Adams, reply verbally and keep your head still.’
‘No sex since then.’
Rickard tapped at a few keys, then continued.
‘Have you had any homicidal thoughts?’
Only against myself. ‘Not for some time.’
‘Any suicidal thoughts?’
‘Occasionally.’ No hesitation, but low-key.
‘Why?’
‘Because I haven’t been able to find her killer. And I miss her.’ Steady… Don’t visualise Kate. You’ll blow it.
‘Have you imagined your suicide, thought about how you would do it?’
Why was he pursuing this line of inquiry? ‘Kate and I used to joke about it, so yes. Russian Roulette.’ A steel truth wrapped in silk.
Rickard moved the mouse on his desk. He paused to make a note with pen and paper.
‘Have you ever put a loaded gun to your head?’
Greg kicked himself for having said Russian Roulette, giving Rickard ammunition. Don’t hide it. Slight misdirection instead.
‘Once. I’d been drinking.’ He had to get past this one, literally get ahead of the curve on Rickard’s dashboard. He spoke as if it was a joke, a game after a few too many drinks. He shrugged, which was natural, but that would interfere with his heart rate as any movement did.
‘Didn’t get very far, the phone rang.’ He laughed, in part because now he thought about it, it was kind of funny that the phone rang exactly at that moment. But he also knew the smile would flatten his eyes, affecting the pupil reading, and the feeling that it was a joke would interfere with the emotional undertow concerning how close he’d come to extinction.
‘Please, Adams, do not anticipate my questions, only respond to them.’
‘Sorry, Professor,’ he said, offering a sliver of flattery – Rickard was still an honorary professor at Oxford – to get him to pass over the vital question of whether Greg had pulled the trigger. Because there was no way to lie about that.
The moment slid past. But then the gloves came off.
‘You find the killer. He tells you how he enjoyed raping your wife. He’s laughing at you. He holds up a pair of her bloody panties, waves them in your face, tells you how she begged for mercy at first, then begged for more.’
It was like a roller-coaster coming off the tracks. Fuck, Rickard was good at this. Greg had been climbing all this time, up and up, and now suddenly his emotional control was in free fall. He said nothing, imagining the graphs spiking
on the dashboard, the arrow flicking into the red zone.
Rickard continued. ‘You are alone with him. He is torturing a woman who is chained to the wall. She is screaming, she is crying. He is laughing, a butcher’s knife in his hand. You have a pistol in yours. What do you do?’
I empty the mag into his head. He flushed the image away. ‘I shoot him in the leg and call for police and ambulance support.’ He found a sliver of truth to back it up, because a quick end was too good for someone like that. Something he and the gang had hotly debated.
Rickard wasn’t letting up.
‘He is arrested but a week later is released due to a technicality. He is crossing the road. You are in a car, approaching him. You know he will torture and kill again. What do you do?’
Greg shut his eyes a moment.
‘Open your eyes, Adams!’ Rickard said.
Greg complied. ‘I let him cross and I drive on.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s how the judicial system works. It’s there for a reason.’
‘Even if it means letting a serial killer go? So he can rape, torture and murder another man’s wife? Wouldn’t you then be responsible?’
Greg’s roller-coaster hit the ground hard. This wasn’t fair, because Rickard knew damned well Greg’s thoughts on this subject. But fair had nothing to do with it. Greg was losing this.
The door opened. Greg seized the opportunity to turn around to see Donaldson standing in the doorway, Rickard’s secretary utterly ineffective in preventing him from disrupting the session.
Rickard stood up from his chair, for the first time looking ruffled.
‘Superintendent Donaldson,’ Rickard began, ‘you can’t just waltz into my office in the middle of an interro… an interview. What is the meaning of this intrusion?’
Donaldson had his impatient face on. ‘You’ve had long enough.’
Nice play. In reality Rickard had only just got going, but that was because he’d kept Greg waiting half an hour.
‘Is he good to go, or not?’ Donaldson asked.
‘I’ve barely started,’ Rickard protested.
‘I can only imagine. But I need to know right now. Best judgement?’
Greg made to stand up and leave.
‘Stay put, it’s the Professor’s call,’ Donaldson said.
Rickard was clearly flustered. ‘If we are to discuss his evaluation, Adams should leave.’
‘Only if it’s negative, right? Otherwise, he can see his results before they’re destroyed. And if it is negative, he can appeal and have the transcript reviewed by a third party. Correct?’
Greg resisted a smile. Donaldson had read the new protocol cover to cover. It probably said a witness should be present.
Rickard sat down. He sighed, glanced at the screen, clicked once with his mouse, then sat back. ‘He…’ He turned from Donaldson to Greg. ‘Adams, you are cleared to work on the case in a consultant role.’ He stroked his chin. ‘But I am concerned. Clearly the pain of your wife’s death…’
Her murder.
‘…is still raw. I strongly advise you to focus on new aspects, to look forward, not backwards. And I want you to have counselling on self-harm in the next two weeks. You can use an external agency if you prefer.’
Before Greg could react, Donaldson walked forward. ‘He agrees.’ Then he approached the desk as he held out a piece of paper to Rickard. ‘Just saving you some time, doc.’
Greg wondered what was going on. Donaldson pinned the sheet onto the desk with his thumb on the left corner. He leaned closely over Rickard who, Greg and Donaldson both knew, disliked physical proximity at work. Hence the large desk.
‘Right here,’ Donaldson said, pointing.
Rickard signed.
Donaldson whipped it away. ‘Thanks. Your sec can give me a copy.’ Donaldson gave one of his trademark fulsome grins, took the sheet and handed it to the secretary, who immediately fled the room. He turned to Greg. ‘Okay, your ass is mine. Back to work.’
Greg removed the thimble, then rose and addressed Rickard, whose normally flawless composure hadn’t quite reasserted itself.
‘I wouldn’t mind seeing a copy of the recordings,’ he said. To know how close it had been.
Rickard didn’t look at him, just made a click with the mouse, then after a couple of seconds, swivelled the screen around. ‘I’ve already deleted them, as per the new personal data protection protocol.’
Greg nodded. ‘No problem.’ He stood up and headed for the door.
‘I hope you find him,’ Rickard said.
Greg stopped and turned around. ‘Who?’
Rickard spread his hands. ‘The Dreamer, of course.’
‘Right. Of course.’
Greg was back in Donaldson’s office. ‘Mind telling me what–’
‘Just shut up for once. Read this. Look like you’re working.’
Greg took the file and opened it. It was a different case altogether. What the hell?
Donaldson’s office door opened suddenly, Muriel barring a slim woman and a portly man from entering.
‘It’s okay, let them in,’ Donaldson said.
They pushed through and stood in front of Greg.
‘DCI Finch,’ the woman said to him, ‘and this is DCI Matthews.’
‘What can I–’
‘Gregory Adams?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re going to have to come with us,’ Finch said, pulling out a pair of handcuffs.
‘Not like that, he isn’t.’ Donaldson stood, like Moses about to part the waves.
Finch wheeled to face him down. ‘Adams–’
‘Was there last night at my request.’ He pointed to a piece of paper on the desk. A copy of the one Rickard had just signed. ‘He’s consulting on the case. Has been since yesterday.’
Greg squinted to see the date on the sheet. Yesterday’s date. Donaldson had held his thumb over it while Rickard had signed. These two DCIs could check, but in truth no one liked going near Rickard.
Donaldson continued. ‘I sent him to interview Fergus McShane last night. He was there on official business.’
Greg watched Finch, who was clearly seasoned enough to know when she wasn’t getting the whole story.
‘Have it your way. But he still comes with us.’ She put away the cuffs.
Greg stood up. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Do you deny that you visited Fergus McShane yesterday evening? There was a handwritten note on his table that stated you were to have such a meeting.’
Greg shook his head. ‘Why would I deny it?’
Finch gestured to the doorway. ‘Because your interviewee, one Fergus McShane, was found dead this morning, his face bashed in. Which makes you the last known person to see him alive.’
7
Greg pored over the photos.
‘How would you describe Mr McShane’s mood during your interview?’ Finch asked. She had honey blonde, shoulder-length hair, recently cut, minimal but effective make-up, slightly dark lipstick. A pretty but all-business face. Nothing out of the ordinary except the eyes. Jade. A hardness there, lasering through you to see what was underneath. A detective’s cold eyes.
‘Agitated, at first, then–’
‘Did you argue? Did things get heated?’ Matthews chimed in.
Whereas Finch was lean as a gymnast, Matthews had eaten most of the pies. Even though Donaldson thrived on sugar, he held it well. Greg reckoned Matthews’ was nervous fat. This odd couple pair of detectives were not obviously well-suited, but they had a reputation for getting results, so he’d heard. Greg glanced again at the photos. Bashed in was the expression Finch had used. No exaggeration. There wasn’t much face left, just plenty of blood-soaked ginger hair.
‘He had a Taser,’ Greg replied. ‘So I left.’
‘So you say,’ Matthews said. ‘We didn’t find one.’
Which was troubling.
‘But this is the man you met?’ Finch asked.
‘As far as I can tell.’ Greg’s eyes were drawn to a photo resting face down underneath Finch’s hand.
Finch followed his gaze, her clear fingernails pinning the photo to the table. ‘Care to take a guess?’
Matthews raked a metal chair across the floor, sat on it the wrong way round, his gut bulging through the gaps between the back of the chair’s horizontal silver ribs. He jabbed a finger in Greg’s direction.
‘First prize is life, no parole before fifteen years. Best if you don’t drop the soap in the showers.’ He grinned at his own humour.
Finch’s face was locked down. Poker-faced didn’t cover it.
Greg leaned back as he shrugged. ‘Here’s a wild guess. A yin-yang symbol carved somewhere on his body.’
The two DCIs exchanged glances. Finch spoke first. ‘Come again?’
Matthews joined in. ‘You shrinks are sick, you know that?’
Greg sat back up. ‘No symbols? No carving?’
‘He’s trying to throw us off the scent,’ Matthews said, rocking forward, the chair balancing precariously on two legs.
Greg reached out with his right hand, placed his fingers and thumb around the photo’s edge, and teased it from Finch’s grip. He turned it over. Fergus sprawled on the ground, his body twisted, his face thankfully towards the floor. But his right arm was stretched out. A blood-soaked forefinger had scrawled the three letters. A–D–A on the floor. Could have meant a hundred things. But whatever else the letters might mean, they were unquestionably the first three letters of Greg’s surname.
‘We think he either died at that point, or the pain became unbearable,’ Finch said.
‘Or else he ran out of blood,’ Matthews jibed.
Greg was engrossed in the image for a moment. He leaned back again, and decided to speak to Finch and ignore Matthews.
‘Do you know how many nerve endings there are in the face? After that much damage, nobody could even think straight, assuming they didn’t pass out or have cardiac arrest from the trauma. And his eyes…’ He didn’t have to spell it out. The killer had gouged Fergus’s eyes from their sockets. Apparently they were still missing.
Why had the killer taken the eyes?
Finch retrieved the photo, put it in a folder. ‘Let’s see what the coroner has to say. We’re awaiting time of death. The best estimate is 10pm, but that’s only based on the blood-writing.’