Donoghue drove his Rover up to the front door and parked on he gravel beside a light blue Bentley. He got out of the Rover and shut the door noisily. People who live in houses of this ilk do not like to be come upon suddenly. The ringing of a doorbell is all very well in the schemes and the suburbs, but the owners of homes of this nature appreciate preliminary warning of the doorbell being rung. The sound of his tyres on the gravel and the slamming of the car door had had the desired effect. The front door of the house swung silently open as he approached it.
A woman stood in the doorway. She was slightly built but plump about the face and had a page-boy haircut which might have suited her if she had been twenty years younger. She wore flat, sensible shoes. She reminded Donoghue of Richard King’s wife, but whereas he had found Rosemary King to be a young woman of steel behind her humility, this woman had a lost and frightened look about her.
‘Yes?’ she said meekly, apologetically, not at all the lady-of-the-house greeting a stranger on the threshold of her property. ‘May I help you?’
‘Police,’ said Donoghue.
‘Oh,’ she whimpered.
‘About Veronica.’
‘Oh, she’s better, she’s much better. She’s been keeping solids down.’
‘What do you mean?’ Donoghue allowed an edge to creep into his voice. ‘Do you know where she is?’
‘Well, yes,’ said the woman in a timid voice. ‘She’s out.’
‘Out?’
‘Upstairs. She’s upstairs in her room. Sorry, I’m a bit confused. She went out earlier in the day, but now she’s back. Out for a little walk.’
‘Why weren’t we informed?’
‘Informed of what?’
‘That she’s here. She is still listed as a missing person. You’re Mrs Bentley, her mother?’
‘Yes.’ The woman wrung her hands. ‘I didn’t know that Veronica was still listed as missing. Mr Bentley sees to things like that. He makes all the difficult decisions.’
‘I think I’d like to have a word with him.’
The woman looked frightened and glanced at her husband’s car.
‘There’s not a great deal of point in telling me that he’s out.’ Donoghue spoke quietly.
‘If you’d step this way, please.’ She turned. Donoghue swept his homburg off as he stepped over the threshold. The hallway was expansive, with Corinthian columns at either side of a wide stairway. It smelled heavily of wood polish and a whiff of disinfectant. Above all, it was quiet. Oppressively so. Even a ticking clock would have been welcome.
The woman opened a door on the left of the hallway. It was a heavy wide door with a knob at waist height as was the fashion in Victorian Britain and was much more sensible, in Donoghue’s view, than the handles set at shoulder height so often found in the modern ‘new build’ homes, homes like his own bungalow.
‘If you’d like to wait in here, sir,’ she said, pushing the door open and standing to one side, inviting him to enter the room with a flowing movement of her forearm.
The room was a library. The walls were lined with books; a fourth wall was taken up by two tall windows with a bronze-painted radiator underneath. Through the window Donoghue could see his car and Bentley’s Bentley, the gravel drive, the lawn, the shrubs and the gateway at the bottom of the drive. In the centre of the room was a huge, lavishly polished table, so huge that Donoghue fancied that one of the tall window-frames would have had to be removed from the stonework and the table manhandled sideways into the room. It was far too large to have been carried in through the doorway. On the table stood a vase of flowers and an ornamental wooden case about the size of a small suitcase. Upholstered chairs stood around the table, one at either end, four down each side.
Donoghue was in the room for a full five minutes before the homeowner deigned to appear. The door opened with a gentle click. Donoghue turned and stared at one of the tallest men, certainly the largest man, he had ever seen. Donoghue as a police officer was used to being taller than average and was used to looking into the eyes of his colleagues, but when he was confronted by David Bentley, he received a sudden and vivid insight into the world of small men.
Donoghue put Bentley’s height at six and a half feet minimum, but not only was the man tall but he was of impressive bulk, not bloated or run to fat, but muscular, in good shape, perfectly proportioned, broad-shouldered, broad-chested, with legs the same length as his spine. He wore a pale blue suit and tie, the same blue as his car, and a white silk shirt. He had a flat face, with a small nose.
He had piercing blue eyes which held Donoghue’s gaze.
The two men stood staring at each other, Donoghue feeling small and vulnerable as he stood in the centre of the room, Bentley standing half in the room, holding the door open, saying nothing, not showing any facial expression, save a forced mood of seriousness.
Donoghue thought: I’ll hold his stare, he’ll have to speak first.
But Bentley just stood and stared, not moving, not even blinking.
Seconds dragged.
Donoghue began to feel a gnawing fear of the man which ate at the very fabric of the mantle of authority that he wore as a police officer.
Still the man spoke not a word, nor did he move so much as a muscle.
Before he knew what he was doing, Donoghue said, ‘I’m Detective-Inspector Donoghue, P Division, at Charing Cross.’ Then as if rewarding Donoghue, Bentley smiled, stepped fully into the room with extended hand.
Donoghue hesitated. Bentley held his hand out and continued to smile.
Again, seconds dragged by.
Eventually Donoghue extended his hand and it was grasped by the clammy paw of David Bentley of the cold eye.
‘How can I help you. Inspector?’ Bentley smiled.
‘I’ve called about your daughter, sir. She’s still listed as a missing person, but your wife has just informed me that Veronica is upstairs.’
T know, I know, I have spoken to her, my dear Inspector. How can I apologize enough? What can I say? We did wonder why the police had not called to verify that she was safe, that she had returned.’
‘So what happened? You seem to have withheld information from the police.’
‘It’s the old story, Inspector. I thought that my wife had done it and vice versa.’
It didn’t ring true, but Donoghue let it ride.
‘I don’t think I’ve met you before. Inspector. I know many policemen, but I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure?’ A smile. A gleam in the eye.
‘No. I don’t think we have met.’
‘A drink?’
‘I can’t. But thanks anyway.’
‘Of course you can’t. I was forgetting. Are you a family man, too?’
‘Yes, I am. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason, just curious. It was fortunate that my wife showed you in here. I was coming in here to clean my guns.’
‘Your guns?’
‘The box here.’ Bentley moved silently and effortlessly across the carpet and reached for the box which stood on the table. He opened the catches and lifted the lid. Inside the velvet-lined box were two silver, pearl-handled revolvers and a row of bullets.
‘I hope you’re impressed?’ he said. ‘They are, of course, registered, I have a licence and I keep the box in a safe.’
‘Of course,’ said Donoghue, unimpressed. He did not like guns. He did not like scratched and battered First World War Walthers in the hands of money-lenders, or pearl-handled revolvers in the hands of solicitors. Guns were guns and he didn’t like them.
Bentley picked one of the revolvers from the case and fondled it lovingly. He held it in one hand and ran the fingers of the other along the barrel. He handed it to Donoghue, butt first.
‘No.’ Donoghue shook his head. ‘I don’t like guns.’
‘They are my one pleasure,’ said Bentley. ‘I find being the head of a family and the head of a firm of solicitors a lonely business. No colleagues in either role. No—what’s the term?—lateral support,
that’s it, no lateral support.’
‘Indeed?’
‘You and I must be about the same age, same generation anyway.’ Bentley held the gun and drew back the hammer. ‘I grew up alone. Did you have any brothers or sisters?’ He released the hammer gently.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘You know, I would have liked a brother. Never had one.’ He replaced the gun back inside the presentation case. Donoghue felt uneasy in Bentley’s presence. Perhaps it was just years of police work, perhaps it was human instinct, but he felt that he was being drawn into a wholly inappropriate collusion with a very dangerous person.
‘I’d like to see your daughter, sir.’
‘Of course.’
‘We have to see her in order to close the missing person file.’
‘Of course, I’ll bring…I’ll have her come down.’
‘I’ll go to her room if she’s ill. Mrs Bentley indicated as much.’
‘She’s ill, but quite able to walk.’ Bentley smiled at Donoghue.
‘111?’
‘Just ill. But recovering.’ Bentley turned. ‘If you’d wait here.’
‘I know that she is a heroin addict.’
Bentley halted and Donoghue thought that he collected himself just in time to avoid throwing a glare at him.
‘Then there isn’t any point in trying to hide it from you?’ Again Bentley smiled a warm, colluding smile.
‘No, sir, there isn’t.’
Bentley left the room. Donoghue heard him call ‘Miriam, have Veronica come down to the library…yes, now!’ Bentley returned. ‘Took me a long time to collect the books,’ he said. ‘There’s seven thousand of them in this room. Many of them first editions.’
‘Really,’ said Donoghue, still feeling unsure, still feeling himself to be on unfamiliar territory.
‘Collect anything yourself?’ A beaming smile.
Donoghue shook his head. ‘Can’t say that I do.’
‘Oh.’
There was a footfall in the hallway, two pairs of feet, softly shuffling. A knock at the door of the room.
‘Come in,’ said Bentley.
The door swung open. A figure glided into the room and Donoghue caught his breath. Once, he thought, once she had probably been quite beautiful. Now she was drawn, deathly white, as white as the gown she wore. Her cheeks were hollow and sunken, her hair was dull and lifeless, her eyes had sunk in their sockets.
‘My daughter Veronica,’ said Bentley. ‘Whom I love deeply.’
Veronica shot a glance at her father. His hand flinched.
Veronica pulled her head back and stepped to one side.
And Donoghue, watching, observing, felt a sudden chill run through him: there was something about the man’s manner, the apparently jovial attitude that was betrayed by a coldness of his eyes and the sudden curtness, and the equally sudden flash of temper…Donoghue had read and heard of such men. He would seek learned advice.
Chapter 8
Thursday, 09.05–18.00 hours
‘How long have I got?’ The man smiled. He had a round jovial face, but eyes which spoke of serious intent. ‘You know the popular reply to your question is to say, “Well, I can’t describe an elephant, but I know one when I see one.”’
‘I see. Do you mind if I smoke, sir?’ Donoghue took his pipe from his pocket.
‘Not at all.’ Dr Cass grinned. ‘In fact, I’ll join you. Do you want to try my tobacco?’ He proffered a tin.
‘A bit strong for my taste, sir.’ Donoghue took his pipe from his pocket. Try mine. It’s a mix I have made up specially.’
‘Sounds interesting.’ Cass scraped his pipe bowl into the ashtray and filled his pipe with Donoghue’s mixture. Donoghue glanced around Cass’s office. The desk was healthily untidy, strewn with papers, the walls were lined with books, there were plants on the windowsill. The window itself looked out across an open grassed area which was surrounded by university buildings. The rain fell vertically.
That morning, after a troubled and restless sleep, he had phoned the university, requesting an audience with a psychiatrist. If none had been available, he would have telephoned the psychiatric hospitals until he located a psychiatrist who was prepared to give up his or her time for him. Come what may, he had to consult a psychiatrist and do so with a degree of urgency. He struck lucky with the first phone call. Dr Cass could offer him an hour between 10.0 and 11.0 a.m. Donoghue arrived at Cass’s office at 09.45, shook the rain from his coat and handed it to the secretary who smilingly hung it on the peg on the door. The secretary showed Donoghue into Dr Cass’s study. Cass stood and extended his hand. He had a firm, genuine grip and Donoghue liked the man instantly.
‘How can I help you, Inspector?’ Cass indicated a chair which stood in front of his desk.
Thank you, sir.’ Donoghue relaxed into the chair. ‘Well, I’d like some information, sir. I’d like to know what exactly is meant by the term “psychopath”?’
Cass smiled and made mention of the elephant. He returned Donoghue’s tobacco pouch and Donoghue commenced the filling of his own pipe. As one pipe-smoker would to another, Cass waited until Donoghue had completed the ritual of filling his pipe and then of lighting it until the tobacco smouldered to his satisfaction and until Donoghue had relaxed back in the easy chair, savouring the smoke. Then he spoke.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘the first thing to understand is that the term “psychopath” is a lay term and, despite the fact that all the papers have been written by psychiatrists, psychopathy is not a recognized or treatable psychiatric condition. A psychopath’s personality does not break down as would be the case if he were mentally ill. Someone may be dubbed a psychopathic killer by the media when at large, and then, when apprehended and imprisoned, his personality collapses, indicating that that person has been mentally ill all along. A true dyed-in-the-wool psychopath will retain his or her personality while in gaol, throughout a long-term sentence, even life, and will continue to convince himself and all who will listen of his innocence. Or, if he concedes guilt at all, he will concede partial guilt, saying for instance, “Well, I did kill two people, but not the six or seven or whatever that they blamed me for.”’
‘I see.’ Donoghue nodded, already intrigued.
‘Or again, if he concedes guilt, he will attempt to blame others. This is a bit difficult to describe, but a psychopath will offer not just a limp excuse for his crime but a circuitous argument which defies logic or reason. He may, for instance, say something like, ”Well, yes, I did embezzle all that money over a period of years, but Personnel had it in for me and had blocked my promotion. So I was the victim all along.’”
Donoghue caught his breath.
‘Sounds familiar. Inspector?’
‘Painfully so.’ Donoghue nodded. ‘Usually just with petty criminals, though. I have tended to associate the label psychopath with dangerous criminals.’
Cass cradled his pipe in his hands and Donoghue felt relaxed and thought that students must enjoy tutorials with this man.
‘You’ve very cleverly struck two nails on the head with a single sentence,’ Cass said, smiling.
‘I have?’
‘Yes. Point one is that psychopathic behaviour is more antisocial or asocial than it is bordering on insanity. As I indicated earlier, psychopaths are perfectly sane. It is for that reason that the American term “sociopath” is gaining currency this side of the herring pond. It’s a term which more accurately describes the condition than does “psychopath”, which carries with it a wholly erroneous suggestion of insanity.’
The telephone on Cass’s desk rang. He ignored it. It rang twice and was then silent.
‘Donna, my secretary, has caught it,’ he explained. ‘You see, the first point is that, for the most part, psychopaths’ behaviour is of a petty criminal type or just plain antisocial. And the second point that you hit upon is that we have been able to identify three groups or types of psychopaths or sociopaths. The inadequate, the creative and the dangerous.�
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‘Really?’
‘Yes. So let us take them in that order. The inadequate, well, he’s the chap that you blokes come across time and time again. The neds, as you might say. They are incompetent, they get involved in petty crime, always in and out of gaol, and they will always blame someone else for their misfortune. The second group is the creative. Now these are successful people in terms of achievement, but their personal behaviour is destructive; people in this group would include artists, composers, captains of industry.’
‘Successful solicitors?’
‘Anything. Anything at all. But despite their success, they are unable to deal with relationships and can damage without remorse or guilt. The third group is the one that gets all the media attention and that is the so-called “aggressive” group. These are the mass murderers, the serial killers. This group shows a lack of emotional response, they enjoy killing and feel no remorse. They can be heroes in wartime.’
Donoghue nodded reverently.
‘All psychopaths are intelligent and articulate. Even the so-called “inadequate” group. Any crime they commit is often bizarre, well-planned and intricate, and here you have the hallmarks of a psychopathic crime. You see. Inspector, someone who is seriously mentally ill will kill at random and will leave the body where it fell, where it can be found, and will run off into the night. A psychopath, on the other hand, now he’s the boy who will choose his victim, plan the murder, often prolonging it with ritual, or may convince the victim that he is not going to be murdered and will eventually be released from captivity, and who will dispose of the body in such a way that it will not easily be found, burying it, for example. Alternatively, he may leave the body where it is easily found, but do so in order to implicate an innocent party.’
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