Cramer frowned. ‘Organised? What do you mean, organised?’
‘We divide killers into two types: organised and disorganised. Basically, an organised killer plans his crime in advance, a disorganised killer is an opportunist. An organised killer will take his weapon with him, a disorganised killer might pick up a knife at the scene of the crime and use that. An organised killer will often travel to carry out his murder and will cover his traces afterwards, a disorganised killer will kill close to home and won’t care about how quickly the body is found or whether he’s left fingerprints.’
‘We know our man is organised,’ said Cramer. ‘He’d have to be to be a contract killer.’
‘Exactly,’ said Jackman. ‘The man we’re looking for is the ultimate organised killer. Which means there’s every reason to assume that he fits the profile of an organised serial killer.’ The profiler stood up and went over to the window. He stood there looking out, his hands clasped behind him as he continued his lecture.
‘Organised killers and disorganised killers tend to come from different backgrounds,’ Jackman added. ‘We know this not because of some great psychological insight, but because at the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit they’ve constructed profiles of every serial killer that’s ever been caught. I used to be with the BSU and part of my job was to interview these guys, to get inside their heads and to find out what makes them tick. By comparing their backgrounds, we can start to draw conclusions about their common characteristics.’
Jackman turned around and faced Cramer. He held up his left hand and began counting off on his fingers. ‘One, organised serial killers tend to be of above average intelligence. It isn’t unusual for them to have an IQ above 120.
‘Two, partly because of their generally high IQs, organised killers tend to have feelings of superiority, and that leads them to pick fights, to drive too fast, to argue with their bosses at work. You asked why I thought our man has lost his driving licence. That’s because most of the organised killers profiled by the BSU had a string of driving offences, and more than half had had their licences taken away. Telling them they’re driving too fast doesn’t have any effect, because they think they know best.
‘Three, organised killers tend to come from families where the father had a job but where there was little discipline at home. Disorganised killers often have a family background of mental illness or drugs and more often than not there’s also a history of abuse. Not necessarily sexual, but almost certainly beatings and the like.
‘Four, organised killers are usually very sociable, on the surface at least. Disorganised killers are loners, organised killers are happier in groups.
‘Five, organised killers generally have numerous sexual partners and are good in bed.’ He saw the look of disbelief on Cramer’s face and grinned. ‘It’s true. They’re often very good-looking and great talkers, but because of their nature they usually can’t sustain long-term relationships.’
‘They bore easily,’ said the Colonel.
Jackman nodded his agreement. ‘That, and they have a tendency to pick faults in their partners. Also, despite their success with women, a lot of organised killers have a deep-seated hatred of the opposite sex. You’ve got to remember that most serial killers choose women as their victims, but that might not apply in this case. I think it’s reasonable to assume that our killer comes from some form of dysfunctional family. I doubt he suffered sexual abuse. Divorce, maybe, or an early parental death.’
‘You’re saying that the loss of a parent makes a child more likely to grow up to be a serial killer? That seems like a hell of a generalisation.’
Jackman folded his arms. ‘The way you put it, it is. And it’s obviously not true. Plenty of children from single parent families grow up to be perfectly respectable, hard-working citizens. I lost my mother when I was ten, but I didn’t grow up to be a killer. It’s what happens afterwards that’s important, it’s how the remaining parent treats the child that counts. Children have to be taught the difference between right and wrong, they have to be taught to be sociable, they have to realise that they’re not the centre of the universe, that other people matter, too. It’s the lack of that training that produces the sort of personality which is capable of becoming a serial killer. Are you with me so far?’
Cramer nodded. He didn’t like being lectured, and he didn’t like Jackman’s overbearing confidence, but if Jackman held any clue to the killer’s identity, Cramer wanted it.
‘The Bureau began compiling profiles of convicted killers in the late Seventies,’ Jackman continued. ‘They started with assassins and would-be assassins, guys like Sirhan Sirhan and James Earl Ray, running them through a sixty-page questionnaire, looking for common features, something that sets assassins apart from other people.’
‘Other than the fact that they kill people,’ said Cramer. The Colonel flashed Cramer a warning look but Jackman ignored the interruption.
‘Most assassins kill to attract attention to themselves,’ Jackman continued. ‘They might claim to be acting in the name of some political cause or another, but generally they’re seeking attention. Often they keep diaries, for instance. When you get your man, I think you’ll find that somewhere he kept a diary or a record of what he’s been doing. Almost certainly with photographs, newspaper clippings, maybe even video recordings of news broadcasts.’
Cramer shifted in his chair. ‘Okay, I see what you’re saying,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see how it’s going to help me identify the killer.’
‘In terms of being able to pick him out of a crowd, you’re right,’ Jackman admitted. ‘Profiles don’t work like that. What the FBI and other law enforcement agencies do is to use the profile to select the most likely suspects, so that they concentrate their resources in the most productive way.’
Cramer exhaled deeply and rubbed the back of his neck. It seemed that the more he tried to get specifics from the profiler, the more nebulous he became. It was like grabbing mist. ‘What about his nationality?’ Cramer asked.
Jackman shrugged. ‘American or British would be the most likely, possibly Australian or South African.’
‘Why?’
‘The man’s calmness under pressure and his marksmanship suggest Special Forces training.’
‘So why not German?’
Jackman removed his glasses and twirled them around in his right hand. ‘German is a possibility, yes. But whatever his nationality it’s clear he has an affinity for languages. Witnesses who heard him talk disagree completely as to his voice and accent. He was working as a waiter for three days before the killing of the Kypriano girl and spoke fluent Greek. We have witnesses in Miami who were sure that he had a New York accent and a bodyguard whose client was shot in Bangkok says the assassin is Scottish.’
‘Scottish?’
‘The bodyguard was from Glasgow and he swears that the accent was genuine. I’m not convinced that a German would be able to speak perfect Greek and English without a trace of a German accent.’
There was a knock on the door and Mrs Elliott appeared pushing a tea trolley. The Colonel smiled his thanks as she placed the trolley by the side of his desk and left the room.
‘There was something I didn’t read in your report that I thought would have been worth mentioning,’ said Cramer.
Jackman raised his eyebrows and stopped twirling his glasses.
‘The way he kills. Close up, one shot to the face, one to the chest.’
Jackman nodded. ‘It’s his signature. It’s a way of telling the world that he did it. Like Zorro carving a Z with his sword.’
‘There are easier ways of killing. The head-shot is risky. It’s not the way we’re trained to shoot.’
‘How would you do it?’ Jackman leaned forward, eager to hear Cramer’s reply.
Cramer shrugged. ‘The chest. It’s the biggest area, you’re less likely to miss. Rip through the heart or a lung, the liver even, and it’s all over.’
‘Faster than a shot to the head?’
‘A head’s easier to miss.’
‘And you think it’s significant?’
‘You don’t?’
‘I just think it’s his way of letting the client know that he did the job.’
Cramer put a hand up to his mouth and tapped his lips thoughtfully. ‘Maybe,’ he said.
‘You don’t seem convinced. But he can’t very well leave a business card, can he?’ Jackman smiled and there was something canine about the gesture, like a dog contemplating a bone.
Dermott Lynch was washing up when he heard a key slot into the front door lock. He picked up a large carving knife but almost immediately heard Marie call down the hallway, ‘It’s me.’ Lynch replaced the knife in the soapy water.
Marie walked into the kitchen and put a plastic carrier bag onto the table. ‘You’re very domesticated,’ she said.
Lynch shrugged. ‘You have to be when you live alone. You soon learn that if you don’t do it, it never gets done.’
‘Why Dermott, you mean there’s no young lady in your life to clear up after you?’
Lynch chuckled and rinsed the cutlery under the cold tap. ‘There are several young ladies, Marie, but I don’t think any of them are the type who’d do my housework.’ He picked up a towel and dried his hands. Marie took a bulging envelope out of her handbag and opened it. ‘It’s in fifties and twenties,’ she said. ‘Will that be enough?’
‘That’s great,’ he said, running his thumb over the notes. He slipped the envelope into the back pocket of his jeans, then impulsively stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek. To his surprise she turned her face so that her lips brushed his and for a few seconds she returned his kiss. Lynch put his hands on her hips and tried to kiss her harder but she reached up and put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him away. She looked at him, one eyebrow raised archly, a lock of her hair across one cheek. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea, is it, Dermott?’ she said.
Lynch grinned. ‘Aye, right enough,’ he said.
Marie kept looking at him and he could see his own reflection in the pupils of her eyes. She smiled and put her head on one side as if reconsidering. ‘Maybe later,’ she said.
‘Aye, maybe,’ said Lynch. He knew that she didn’t mean later that day. She meant afterwards, after Cramer was dead. He nodded, still looking deep into her eyes.
She held his gaze for a few seconds then twisted around and pulled three cartons out of the carrier bag. ‘Hair dye,’ she said, handing them to him. ‘I wasn’t sure what to get, so I got one black, one blonde and one red.’
Lynch juggled the boxes thoughtfully and Marie slipped away to the other side of the kitchen, where she busied herself filling the kettle. ‘What do you think?’ asked Lynch.
‘I’d go for black,’ she said. ‘Red is always a risky colour. And it’ll only advertise the fact that you’re Irish. And I’m not sure you’ll suit the bleached surfer look. But I wanted to give you the choice.’
Lynch put down two of the packs and took the carton of black dye into the bathroom. Marie appeared at the doorway with an old towel as Lynch was reading the instructions. ‘Use this,’ she said, ‘and try not to get it everywhere.’
She was right; it was a messy business, and by the time Lynch had finished the bathroom looked as if a wet dog had shaken itself dry. He wrapped his wet hair in the towel and did his best to wipe the sink and mirror clean. When he walked back into the kitchen Marie was pouring him a cup of tea. Lynch took it and sniffed it appreciatively. She hadn’t made the mistake of brewing it too long and she’d poured the milk into the cup first so that the milk hadn’t scalded. He sipped it and sat down at the table. Marie reached over and unwound the towel. ‘Who cut this?’ she asked.
‘I did it myself,’ admitted Lynch. ‘Not good, huh?’
‘Not great,’ she agreed, running her fingers through the thick locks. ‘Let’s see if I can improve it.’
She took a pair of scissors from a drawer and led Lynch through to her bedroom and sat him down in front of her dressing table. Lynch watched her in the mirror as she combed his hair. She had a thoughtful frown on her face, like a little girl facing a difficult decision. She used the scissors carefully as if she was frightened of making a mistake. She tidied up the front and gave him more of a parting, then concentrated on the back, tapering it so that it just brushed the collar of his shirt. When she was satisfied she stood behind him and patted him on the shoulders. ‘How’s that, sir?’ she asked.
Lynch turned his head from side to side. She’d done a good job. ‘Excellent. Really good. Who taught you to cut hair?’
She leant across him to put the scissors on the dressing table and her hair brushed his cheek. ‘You’re my first customer,’ she said. Lynch turned towards her and his lips met hers. This time the initiative came from her, her lips pressed hard against his and her soft tongue forced its way between his teeth. She took sugar in her tea and Lynch could taste the sweetness on her tongue. She moved around him, still keeping her mouth pressed against him, sat on his lap and put her arms around his neck.
It was Lynch who broke away first, gasping for breath. ‘Hey, I thought this wasn’t a good idea,’ he said.
‘It’s not,’ she said. She kissed him again, harder this time. Lynch stood up and carried her over to the bed. He knelt on the quilt and lowered her gently. She lay there, her arms outstretched, a lazy smile on her face.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Lynch.
‘Just get on with it, Dermott,’ she laughed, reaching up for him.
Simon Chaillon flicked through his copy of Euromoney, looking for anything of interest. The magazine seemed to get bigger each year and if it continued to grow it would soon be the size of a telephone directory. There still seemed to be precious little to hold his attention, though. The brass plate on his office door gave his profession as personal banker and financial adviser, but Chaillon wasn’t a typical Swiss financier.
Chaillon’s secretary knocked gently on his door and walked into his office. ‘Courier delivery,’ she said, placing a Federal Express envelope on his desk.
‘Thank you, Theresa,’ said Chaillon, looking up from the magazine. If it came to a choice between reading the latest World Bank projections or watching the twenty-five-year-old blonde walk across his plush green carpet, it was no contest. Theresa walked slowly back to the door, swinging her hips as if she knew that he was watching, and swishing her mane of hair like an impatient racehorse. At fifty-eight, Chaillon was old enough to be her father, but there was nothing parental about his affections, or his intentions. She’d been with him for eighteen months — his previous secretary had died in a road accident — and he didn’t quite trust her yet, which was why he left the envelope unopened on the desk until she’d closed the door. Chaillon looked out of his window, across the River Limmat and its flat-roofed river boats towards the twin-towered Grossmunster Cathedral. Maybe today would be the day he’d suggest that they go out for dinner. Chaillon had no reservations about mixing business and pleasure. If anything, a sexual relationship would bind her closer to him.
He opened the envelope. Inside were three colour photographs taken with a long lens. They were slightly grainy but the images were clear: a man, tall with deep-set eyes and a worried frown, was stepping away from a large Mercedes, a bodyguard to his right, a young Oriental girl just behind him; the same man, coming out of a doorway; and a close-up, just of the man. Chaillon wondered how long it would be before the man in the photograph was dead. Chaillon’s client was the ultimate professional. He had never failed, he had never had to refund his fee. That was why he was so expensive.
Along with the photographs were three A4 typewritten sheets. Chaillon didn’t read them, he preferred to know as little as possible about the targets. It wasn’t that he was squeamish, it was simply a matter of self-protection. There was only one thing he needed to know. He picked up the telephone connected to his private line and called an office less than half a mile away. Chaillon gave a nine-digit identif
ication number and asked if there had been any deposits made within the previous forty-eight hours. The answer was affirmative. Five hundred thousand dollars. Chaillon replaced the receiver. He put the photographs and typewritten sheets in another envelope and sealed it. The envelope went inside a fresh Federal Express packet.
Chaillon swivelled his chair around to face an IBM PC which was displaying a list of Japanese share prices. He manipulated the mouse to activate the computer’s modem and within seconds he was connected to a bulletin board on the West Coast of the United States. There was one word on the board: London. Chaillon cut the connection. His fingers played across the keyboard of his computer. From the screen he copied an address in London onto the Federal Express airbill, and then he pressed his intercom and asked Theresa to come back into the office.
She knocked again before entering. Chaillon was always amused by her politeness. As she sashayed over to his desk he wondered if she’d be as polite in bed. He smiled at the thought. ‘Send this right away, Theresa,’ he said, handing her the packet. He had no qualms about her seeing the name or the address: it was an accommodation agency, one of more than a dozen that his client used around the world.
‘Shall I be mother?’ asked the Colonel.
Jackman frowned. ‘Mother?’ he repeated.
‘It’s an English expression,’ said the Colonel, picking up the teapot. ‘It means I’ll pour.’ He poured steaming tea into a white china mug and handed it to the profiler. Jackman helped himself to milk and two lumps of sugar. ‘When are you going to South Africa?’ asked the Colonel.
‘I’m catching the red-eye,’ said Jackman. He stirred his tea thoughtfully. ‘Cramer didn’t seem very impressed with my work.’
‘He has a lot on his mind.’
Jackman nodded and pulled a face. ‘He’s got guts, that’s for sure.’ He tapped his spoon against the mug. ‘The target, he’s safely out of the way?’
‘Well out of reach,’ agreed the Colonel.
‘Good. What have you done with him?’
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