Ruth hesitated. “Your feelings toward your father weren’t entirely benign.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it? It’s still so hard for you, even now, isn’t it?—to criticize him, or acknowledge he let you down in real, fundamental ways. He never once gave you the love you needed. It took a long time for you to be able to see that, and to name it.”
Mariana shook her head. “Honestly, Ruth, I don’t think my father has anything to do with this.”
Ruth looked at her sadly. “It’s my feeling that your father is in some way central to this, as far as you’re concerned. That might not make much sense right now. But one day, perhaps, it might mean a great deal.”
Mariana didn’t know how to respond. She shrugged.
“And Sebastian?” said Ruth after a pause. “How are you feeling about him?”
Mariana shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about Sebastian. Not today.”
She didn’t stay for long after that. The mention of her father had cast a pall over the session, which didn’t fully disperse until she was in Ruth’s hallway.
As Mariana left, she gave the old lady a hug. She felt the warmth and affection in that hug, and tears welled up in her eyes. “Thank you so much, Ruth. For everything.”
“Call me if you need me—anytime. I don’t want you to think you’re alone.”
“Thank you.”
“You know,” Ruth said, after a slight hesitation, “you might find it helpful to talk to Theo.”
“Theo?”
“Why not? Psychopathy is, after all, his special subject. He’s quite brilliant. Any insights he has are bound to be useful.”
Mariana considered it. Theo was a forensic psychotherapist who had trained with her in London. Despite sharing Ruth as a therapist, they hadn’t known each other very well.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I mean, I’ve not seen Theo in a very long time … Do you think he’d mind?”
“Not at all. You could try and see him before you go back to Cambridge. Let me give him a ring.”
Ruth called him—and Theo said yes, of course he remembered Mariana, and he’d be happy to talk to her. They arranged to meet in a pub in Camden.
And that evening, at six o’clock, Mariana went to meet Theo Faber.
8
Mariana was first to arrive at the Oxford Arms. She got a glass of white wine while she waited.
She was curious to see Theo—but also wary. Sharing Ruth as a therapist made them a little like siblings, each coveting the attention their mother gave the other. Mariana used to feel a little jealous, even resentful, of Theo—she knew Ruth had a soft spot for him. Ruth’s voice took on a protective tone whenever she mentioned him, which had led Mariana, quite unreasonably, to concoct a fantasy for herself that Theo was an orphan. It came as a shock when both his parents appeared at their graduation, alive and well.
In truth, Theo did have a waiflike quality that Mariana was picking up on—an otherness. It had nothing to do with his build, but was entirely suggested by his manner: a kind of reticence, a slight distance from others—an awkwardness, something Mariana also recognized in herself.
Theo arrived a few minutes late. He greeted Mariana warmly. He got a Diet Coke at the bar, and joined her at the table.
He looked the same; he hadn’t changed at all. He was about forty years old, and had a slim build. He was wearing a battered corduroy jacket and a crumpled white shirt, and he smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. He had a nice face, she thought, a caring face, but there was something—what was the word?—anxious in his eyes, even haunted. And she realized that while she liked him, she wasn’t entirely comfortable around him. She wasn’t quite sure why.
“Thank you for meeting me,” she said. “It was very short notice.”
“Not at all. I’m intrigued. I’ve been following the story, like everyone else. It’s fascinating—” Theo quickly corrected himself. “I mean, it’s terrible, of course. But also fascinating.” He smiled. “I’d like to pick your brains about it.”
Mariana smiled. “Actually—I was hoping to pick yours.”
“Ah.” Theo seemed surprised to hear this. “But you’re there, Mariana, in Cambridge. I’m not. Your insights are much more valuable than anything I can tell you.”
“I don’t have much experience in this kind of thing—in forensics.”
“It makes no difference, really—since every case is completely unique, in my experience.”
“That’s funny. Julian said exactly the opposite. That every case is always the same.”
“Julian? You mean Julian Ashcroft?”
“Yes. He’s working with the police.”
Theo raised an eyebrow. “I remember Julian from the institute. There was something a bit … odd about him, I thought. A little bloodthirsty. And anyway he’s wrong—each case is quite different. After all, no one has the same childhood.”
“Yes, I agree.” Mariana nodded. “But still, you don’t think there’s anything we can look for?”
Theo sipped his Coke and shrugged. “Look. Say I’m the man you’re after. Say I’m extremely unwell, and highly dangerous. It’s entirely possible that I can hide all that from you. Not for an extended time, perhaps, or in a therapeutic environment—but on a superficial level, it’s very easy to present a false self to the world. Even to people we see every day.” He played with his wedding ring for a moment, turning it around on his finger. “Do you want my advice? Forget who. Start with why.”
“Why does he kill, you mean?”
“Yes.” Theo nodded. “Something about it doesn’t ring true to me. The victims—were they sexually assaulted?”
Mariana shook her head. “No, nothing like that.”
“So what does that tell us?”
“That the killing itself, the stabbing and mutilation, provides the gratification? Perhaps. I don’t think it’s that simple.”
Theo nodded. “Neither do I.”
“The pathologist said the cause of death was a severed throat—and the stabbing took place postmortem.”
“I see,” Theo said, looking intrigued. “Which means there is a certain performative aspect to all this. It’s staged—for the benefit of the audience.”
“And we are the audience?”
“That’s right.” Theo nodded. “Why is that, do you think? Why does he want us to see this horrific violence?”
Mariana thought for a moment. “I think … he wants us to believe they were killed in a frenzy—by a serial killer—a madman with a knife. But in fact, he was entirely calm and controlled—and these murders were deliberately and carefully planned.”
“Exactly. Which means we’re dealing with someone much more intelligent—and much more dangerous.”
Mariana thought of Edward Fosca, and nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
“Let me ask you something.” Theo peered at her. “When you saw the body up close, what’s the first thing that came into your mind?”
Mariana blinked—and for a second, she saw Veronica’s eyes. She banished the image. “I—don’t know … that it was horrible.”
Theo shook his head. “No. That’s not what you thought. Tell me the truth. What was the first thing that came into your mind?”
Mariana shrugged, a little embarrassed. “Funnily enough … it was a line from a play.”
“Interesting. Go on.”
“The Duchess of Malfi. ‘Cover her face—mine eyes dazzle—’”
“Yes.” Theo’s eyes lit up suddenly, and he leaned forward, excited. “Yes, that’s it.”
“I—I’m not sure I understand.”
“‘Mine eyes dazzle.’ The bodies are presented like that—to dazzle us. To blind us with horror. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it. Why is he trying to blind us? What doesn’t he want us to see? What is he trying to distract us from? Answer that, Mariana—and you’ll catch him.”
Mariana nodded as she took this in. They
sat in contemplative silence for a moment, looking at each other.
Theo smiled. “You have a rare gift for empathy. I can feel it. I can see why Ruth praises you so highly.”
“I don’t deserve that, but thank you. It’s nice to hear.”
“Don’t be so modest. It’s not easy, being so open and receptive to another human being, you’re able to feel their feelings … It’s a poisoned chalice in many ways. I’ve always thought so.” Then he paused, and said in a low voice, “Forgive me. I shouldn’t say this … but I’m picking up something else in you…” He paused. “A kind of—fear. You’re afraid of something. And you think it’s out there…” He gestured into the air. “But it’s not—it’s in here—” He touched his chest. “Deep within you.”
Mariana blinked, feeling exposed and embarrassed. She shook her head.
“I don’t—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, my advice is—pay attention to it. Get friendly with it. We should always pay attention when our body tells us something. That’s what Ruth says.”
He suddenly looked a little awkward, perhaps sensing he had overstepped the mark. He glanced at his watch. “I should go. I have to meet my wife.”
“Of course. Thanks so much for seeing me, Theo.”
“Not at all. It’s been good to see you, Mariana … Ruth said you run a private practice now?”
“That’s right. And you’re at Broadmoor?”
“For my sins.” Theo smiled. “I don’t know how much longer I can take it, to be honest. I’m not terribly happy there. I’d look for a new job, but, you know—no time.”
As he said this, Mariana suddenly thought of something.
“Wait a second,” she said.
She reached into her bag. She pulled out the British Journal of Psychiatry that she’d been carrying around. She flicked through the pages until she found what she was looking for. She showed Theo the journal, pointing at the advert in the box.
“Look.”
It was an advert for the position of forensic psychotherapist at the Grove, a secure psychiatric unit in Edgware.
Mariana glanced at him. “What do you think? I know Professor Diomedes—he runs it. He specializes in group work—he taught me for a while.”
“Yes.” Theo nodded. “Yes, I know who he is.” He studied the advert with obvious interest. “The Grove? Isn’t that where they sent Alicia Berenson? After she killed her husband?”
“Alicia Berenson?”
“The painter … who won’t talk.”
“Oh—I remember.” Mariana gave him an encouraging smile. “Maybe you should apply for the job? Get her talking again?”
“Perhaps.” Theo smiled, and thought about it for a moment. He nodded to himself. “Perhaps I will.”
9
The journey back to Cambridge went by in a flash.
Mariana was lost in thought the whole time, going over her conversation with Ruth and her meeting with Theo. His idea that the murders were deliberately horrifying, in order to distract from something, intrigued Mariana—and made emotional sense in a way she couldn’t quite explain.
As for Ruth’s suggestion she organize a therapy group with the Maidens—well, it wouldn’t be easy, and maybe not even possible, but it was definitely worth pursuing.
What Ruth had said about Mariana’s father was far more problematic.
She didn’t understand why she’d brought him up. What did Ruth say?
It might not mean much now—but one day, it might mean a great deal.
That couldn’t be more cryptic. Ruth was obviously hinting at something, but what?
Mariana puzzled over it, staring at the fields whizzing past the window. She thought of her childhood in Athens, and her father: how as a child, she had adored him—this handsome, clever, charismatic man—worshipped and idealized him. It took Mariana a long time to see that her father was not quite the man she thought he was.
The revelation occurred when she was in her early twenties, after she graduated from Cambridge. She was living in London and training to be a teacher. She had begun therapy with Ruth, with the intention of addressing the loss of her mother, but found herself talking mainly about her father.
She felt compelled to convince Ruth what a wonderful man he was: how brilliant, how hardworking, how much he had sacrificed, raising two children on his own—and how much he loved her.
After several months of listening to Mariana, and saying very little … one day Ruth finally interrupted.
What she said was simple, direct, and devastating.
Ruth suggested, as gently as she could, that Mariana was in denial about her father. That after everything she had heard, she had to question Mariana’s assessment of him as a loving parent. The man Ruth heard described sounded authoritarian, cold, emotionally unavailable, often critical and highly unkind—even cruel. None of these qualities had anything to do with love.
“Love isn’t conditional,” Ruth said. “It’s not dependent on jumping through hoops to please someone—and always failing. You can’t love someone if you’re afraid of them, Mariana. I know it’s hard to hear. It’s a kind of blindness—but unless you wake up and see clearly, it will persist throughout your whole life, affecting how you see yourself, and others too.”
Mariana shook her head. “You’re wrong about my father,” she said. “I know he’s difficult—but he loves me. And I love him.”
“No,” said Ruth firmly. “At best, let’s call it a desire to be loved. At worst, it’s a pathological attachment to a narcissistic man: a melting pot of gratitude, fear, expectation, and dutiful obedience that has nothing to do with love in the true sense of the word. You don’t love him. Nor do you know or love yourself.”
Ruth was right—this was hard to hear, let alone accept. Mariana stood up and walked out, angry tears streaming down her face. She vowed never to return.
But then, on the street outside Ruth’s house, something stopped her. She suddenly thought of Sebastian—of how uncomfortable she would always feel whenever he complimented her.
“You’ve no idea how beautiful you are,” Sebastian used to say.
“Stop it,” Mariana would reply, her face coloring with embarrassment, as she batted away the compliment with a wave of her hand. Sebastian was wrong; she wasn’t clever or beautiful—that wasn’t how she saw herself.
Why not?
Whose eyes was she seeing herself with? Her own eyes?
Or her father’s?
Sebastian didn’t see with her father’s eyes, or anyone else’s; he saw with his own eyes. What if Mariana did too? What if, like the Lady of Shalott, she stopped looking at life through a mirror—and turned, and stared at it directly?
And so it began—a crack in the wall of delusion and denial, letting in some light; not much, but enough to see by. This moment proved to be an epiphany for Mariana; it propelled her on a journey of self-discovery she would much rather have forgone. She ended up quitting her teacher-training, and began training as a therapist. Although many years had passed since then, she had never fully resolved her feelings about her father; now that he was dead, presumably she never would.
10
Mariana got off the train at Cambridge station, lost in melancholy thought, and walked back to St. Christopher’s, barely aware of her surroundings. When she got back, the first person she saw was Morris. He was standing by the porter’s lodge with some police officers. The sight of him brought back all the unpleasantness of their encounter. She felt sick to her stomach.
She refused to look at him—she walked past him, ignoring him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him tip his hat at her, as if nothing had happened. He clearly felt he had the upper hand.
Good, she thought, let him think that.
For the moment, she decided not to say anything about what had happened—partly because she could imagine Inspector Sangha’s reaction: her suggestion Morris was in league with Fosca would only provoke disbelief and ridicule. Like Fred had said, s
he needed proof. It would serve her better to remain silent, let Morris believe he had got away with it—and give him enough rope to hang himself.
She felt a sudden desire to call Fred, to talk to him—and she stopped herself in her tracks.
What the hell was she thinking? Was it possible she was developing feelings for him? For that boy? No—she wouldn’t even let herself consider it. It was disloyal—and also frightening. It would be better if she never called Fred again, in fact.
* * *
As Mariana reached her room, she saw the door was ajar.
She froze. She listened carefully but couldn’t hear a sound.
Very slowly, she reached out and pushed open the door. It creaked as it opened.
Mariana looked inside and what she saw made her gasp. It looked as though someone had torn the room apart: all the drawers and cupboards were thrown open and rifled through, Mariana’s possessions strewn around, her clothes torn and ripped to pieces.
She quickly rang down to Morris at the porter’s lodge—and asked him to find a police officer.
A few moments later, Morris and a couple of policemen were in her room, inspecting the damage.
“Are you sure nothing’s been stolen?” said one officer.
Mariana nodded. “I don’t think so.”
“We’ve not seen anyone suspicious leave the college. More likely to be an inside job.”
“Looks like the work of a spiteful student,” said Morris. He smiled at Mariana. “Been upsetting anyone, miss?”
Mariana ignored him. She thanked the police officers and agreed it probably wasn’t a burglary. They offered to check for fingerprints, and Mariana was about to agree—when she saw something that made her change her mind.
A knife, or some sharp instrument, had been used to carve a cross deep into the mahogany desk.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I won’t take this any further.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
As they left the room, Mariana stroked the grooves of the cross with her fingertips.
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