“So I guess it’s still way too early for us to break cover, then?” Metcalfe asked awkwardly.
“Oh,” she said, glancing quickly around the room to see if there was anyone she recognised, “I’m so sorry. Yes, it is. I still can’t even begin to imagine what the news might do to him right now. I really am sorry, Bob. This is all my fault.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said quickly. “Of course it’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just life, that’s all, the way things work out. As long as you haven’t changed your mind or anything, I can wait for as long as it takes.”
“I haven’t,” she said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “We just have to be strong and patient. One day, somehow, this will all come out alright.”
He lifted her hand, which was still wrapped around his, and kissed it. “OK, as long as we’re on the same page.”
“We are, I promise.”
“OK then.”
There was one of those long, smiley silences, which couples experience as tender moments of intimacy and onlookers find either charming or nauseating, depending on their disposition and the current state of their own love lives. The middle-aged man looked across the room at them as though he fell into the latter category.
“So what do you reckon to the guvnor’s new idea?” Metcalfe asked finally, releasing his grip on her hand. She let it rest casually on his knee, which he found unexpectedly comforting.
“I’m really not sure,” she answered after a moment’s thought. “It’s all very clever, but is it really plausible that somebody would plan the murder of various innocent people just to cover up a future murder of their own? I know it happened in a book but that’s fiction, isn’t it?”
“I know, I’ve been thinking about that myself. But I think at the very least it would be wrong to rule Barker out as a suspect at this stage just because we don’t have him marked as a multiple murderer.”
“Perhaps I’m just being naïve. I think maybe I have problems coming to terms with the idea that anyone could go out into the night to kill those poor women for no apparent reason, yet rationally I know that people do go out and do precisely that all the time, all over the world.”
“In a warped sort of way it almost feels logical to me,” he mused. “I mean, if you imagine yourself inside the mind of a psychopath, that is. Someone who feels no sense of right and wrong.”
“There’s a bit more to being a psychopath than that but yes, I see what you mean.”
“Isn’t that right, then?” he asked in surprise. “I thought the whole point about being a psychopath was precisely that—it’s as if someone has taken out their conscience chip.”
“Psychopathology is complex. For example there are different types of psychopaths, only some of whom are likely to commit violent criminal acts. I agree that a lack of sense of right and wrong is what it usually looks like, but you have to get behind that and see what is actually producing that effect.”
“Which is?”
“It’s often a combination of a lack of empathy and a lack of inhibition. Without empathy they lack the basic ability to imagine the suffering of others, and can therefore be indifferent to whether they inflict such suffering or not. With the rest of us, the reason we don’t go around hitting people in the head with hammers is not just because we know it’s wrong, but because we can imagine what it would be like to have our skulls smashed in and so would never dream of inflicting that sort of pain and damage on other people.”
“And inhibition?”
“Psychology talks about its opposite: disinhibition. It embraces not only a basic lack of behavioural control but also an unusually high desire for immediate gratification, which in turn tends to lead a psychopath to think only of the moment, and ignore the long-term implications of their acts. You often see fraudsters and embezzlers stealing money when they must know on any rational level that there is no way of concealing their crime for long, yet they do it anyway, not thinking about the consequences of getting caught. There was a well-documented case of a prisoner who was transferred to an open prison to serve the last few weeks of his sentence, and simply jumped out of an open window and ran away. ‘Pointless’ you might say, and you’d be right, but their brains don’t work in the same way.”
“I see,” Metcalfe said, “or rather, I think I do.”
“I’m only scratching the surface,” she said sheepishly. “Peter’s the real expert. I could listen to him talk about it for hours.”
With this sudden mention of Peter, it was as if a spell had been broken, dissolving to reveal two people sitting slightly awkwardly together in a Hampstead pub.
“Come on,” Metcalfe said. “Time to get back.”
They were astonished to be confronted on their return with the figure of Tom Allen, standing beside Collison in the incident room.
“Hello Bob, hello Karen,” he said as if nothing in the world had occurred to disrupt their relationship since last they had met.
Metcalfe said “Hello, guv” in a rather strained sort of way and looked at Collison, trying to work out what on earth this could mean.
“Tom has been appointed as senior investigating officer on the Gary Clarke murder,” Collison said quickly, trying to defuse an awkward moment. “He’s setting up an incident room upstairs but popped in to say hello.”
“And to set up some lines of communication, sir,” Allen reminded him, with a slight emphasis on the ‘sir.’ “After all, the two enquiries are related.”
“To an extent,” Collison demurred, “but only a small one. I presume your investigation will focus almost entirely on what happened to Clarke in prison.”
“You mean after he was convicted?” Allen said innocently, letting the question hang in the air.
“Exactly,” Collison replied. “Whereas the ACC was at pains to make it clear that those events should form no part of our investigation.”
There was silence while everyone wondered who was going to speak next, and what they would say.
“So please feel free to drop in from time to time, Tom,” Collison said, “but right now you’ll have to excuse us, I’m afraid. We have a catch-up scheduled.”
“What’s the latest theory, then?” Allen asked, unabashed.
“I’m sure you’re aware, Tom,” Collison said smoothly, “that it is strictly forbidden to talk about an ongoing enquiry with anyone who is not a member of the team. Why, I’ve had occasion to stress this point formally with my team on a number of occasions. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to put any colleague in a difficult position by asking them to give you information which they are not at liberty to divulge.”
Willis imagined Lord Peter Wimsey murmuring, “A palpable hit, old boy.”
“It was only a friendly enquiry,” Allen responded. “Just trying to show an interest.”
“Very nice of you, Tom,” Collison replied, “but like I said, you’ll have to excuse us now.”
“Just before I go, I was wondering if I could borrow Bob here.”
“Borrow? What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ve managed to have Ken Andrews posted back to me, but I’m short a DI. Since Bob and I have worked together for a long time, he seems an obvious choice.”
“I’m sorry, Tom,” Collison said after an astonished pause, “but I couldn’t possibly agree to Bob being moved in the middle of an active enquiry. Why, he’s the only one who knows where all the records are, for a start. No, it’s simply out of the question.”
“It has been a very long enquiry, though, hasn’t it?” Allen persisted. “I thought you told me that it was now common practice to rotate senior members of a team in the case of such long investigations? New approach, fresh pair of eyes, stop people going stale, that sort of thing? I seem to remember there’s been some research on this in America, isn’t that right?”
Metcalfe gazed at Collison imploringly. His boss, however, seemed unfazed. “You do rate a DI of course, Tom,” Collison said, affecting to ignore Allen’s last c
ontribution to the conversation, “and fortunately you’re in luck. I have an excellent one you can have. Andrew Leach over there. To tell the truth, he’s a bit surplus to requirements anyway.”
Allen put his hands in his pockets and stared at Leach quizzically, as if evaluating a racehorse. Leach noticed him staring and looked back awkwardly, unsure for what reason he was being singled out for special attention.
“It is usual, of course, in these situations,” Allen said gravely, “to try to palm some poor chump off with a colleague who is, let us say, one of the less effective members of a team.”
“Not the case here at all,” Collison said briskly. “Absolutely not. In fact Andrew has made a very significant contribution to our efforts since he’s arrived. You’ll like him, Tom, trust me. He’s a solid traditional copper.”
“He looks to me”—Allen turned away from gazing at Leach—“like a blot on the landscape.”
“Oh gosh, Tom,” Collison said anxiously. “I wouldn’t let him hear you say that if I were you.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s great friends with the ACC. Why, they speak daily on the phone, I believe. That’s why he’ll be such a valuable member of your team. You’ll have a direct line to the top anytime you need it.”
Allen, aghast, looked from Collison to Leach and back again.
“Or even when you don’t,” Metcalfe interjected innocently.
Allen muttered something that might have been “Thank you so much for your generous cooperation,” but probably wasn’t, as he strode from the room with what dignity he could muster.
A tangible sense of relief swept through the three people whom he left in his wake.
“Bob,” Collison said with a smile, “would you ask Andrew to come over here for a minute so we can break the happy news about his new responsibilities?”
“With pleasure, sir.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Now then,” Collison said as the slightly delayed update meeting began minus DI Leach, “what do we have on Dr Barker?”
“I’ve re-interviewed the neighbours,” Desai said. “There have been some developments. They’ve seen a young woman coming and going from the flat on a regular basis. In fact she may even be living there. She looks Chinese, apparently, but beyond that nobody knows anything. Oh, and unlike with Kathy Barker, there have been no noisy scenes.”
“Interesting,” Collison commented, “but hardly conclusive. Anything else?”
“I’ve interviewed his colleagues at the practice,” Willis reported, “discreetly of course. Nothing much to report. He took a couple of weeks off after his wife was killed but then returned to work and appeared as right as rain. In fact when I pressed the receptionist there she remarked that he seemed happy nowadays, which she says he certainly hadn’t been before.”
“And I suppose you pressed her on that too?”
“I certainly did, but then she got a bit evasive. So I spoke to one of his partners there. He eventually admitted that they had been so concerned about his heavy drinking before Kathy’s death that they had convened a formal practice meeting and threatened to suspend and report him if he didn’t do something about it.”
“I wonder if that ‘something’ was killing his wife,” Desai interjected grimly.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Collison counselled. “The ACC wants something very cogent indeed if he’s going to allow us to re-interview Barker, and I understand his point of view. This could rebound on us very badly indeed if we pull him in only to find that we can’t make anything stick.”
“Well, this might make a difference,” Metcalfe reported smugly. “I spoke to the solicitor who’s handling Kathy Barker’s estate, on the pretext that we needed to tie up a few loose ends procedurally. I asked what the details of her will had been but apparently she never made one so all her assets pass automatically to the husband.”
“How much are we talking?”
“Very little, so at first it didn’t seem like there was anything there by way of a motive, but then he let slip that the amount of her estate didn’t really matter because of the life insurance.”
“Life insurance?”
“Naturally I pricked my ears up then and asked him for the details. He suddenly got all coy and wondered whether he ought to have mentioned it. I told him that we absolutely had to have anything relevant to her estate for our files, but he muttered something about privilege.”
“Privilege? But Kathy’s dead,” Willis pointed out.
“Yes but her husband isn’t, and he’s also a client,” Metcalfe explained. “So I asked if he could confirm that he was prevented from answering my question because of legal privilege owed to Dr Barker and he thought a bit and then said yes.”
“So…” Collison said slowly.
“So the husband was the beneficiary under an insurance policy on her life, which gives him a motive,” Desai cut in excitedly.
“It certainly sounds like that,” Collison admitted, “otherwise I don’t see why the solicitor should have felt unable to answer the question.”
“Then he actually has not one possible motive but two,” Willis pointed out. “Desire to get rid of an unwanted wife and the ability to benefit financially from her death.”
“And we know he doesn’t have an alibi for the night of his wife’s murder,” Desai continued, “and it would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to have been waiting for her at her sister’s flat. After all, he knew exactly where she would be going.”
“This is good stuff,” said Collison, “but it’s all still circumstantial. If only we could link him directly to even one of the killings…”
“He is one of the relatively few people who could have put the evidence in the loft space,” Metcalfe pointed out. “In fact he’s the only keyholder we’ve been able to identify so far who has any connection with Kathy Barker other than Gary Clarke, and we know now that he wasn’t our man.”
“You say relatively few,” Collison said quietly. “How few exactly?”
“We may never know for certain,” Metcalfe conceded reluctantly. “There are just too many moving parts and uncertainties—agents, contractors, previous tenants and so on—but so far we’ve identified only about thirty specific individuals.”
“What are the odds,” said Willis, “that more than one of thirty people who could have planted evidence taken from a murdered woman also has a clear motive for killing her and no alibi for the night of her murder?”
“There’s one other thing,” Desai volunteered before anyone could answer. “I had a thought about your new theory of the earlier killings being a blind to draw us away from Barker. That would mean that he would have had to be planning all this before the first murder took place.”
“Agreed.” Collison nodded.
“So when I re-interviewed the neighbours I asked them to try to focus on exactly when it was that all the shouting and screaming started from the Barkers’ flat. They agreed pretty much. It turns out that it was about six weeks before the date of our first murder.” She looked around the room with an air of quiet triumph.
“So you definitely want to re-interview the husband?” the ACC said. “You do remember what I said, Simon, about the need for compelling evidence before you do?”
“Indeed I do, sir. It’s all in the report I sent in.”
“Yes.” He stared at the report sitting on his desk.
“I think I would regard that as ‘compelling,’ sir,” Collison ventured when the other man said nothing.
“It certainly seems strong, but allow me to remind you that you thought we had an even more compelling case against Clarke and we now know it wasn’t so.”
“All the facts seemed to fit the theory, sir.”
“Yes,” the ACC said, gazing hard at him. “And maybe that’s where we went wrong, Simon. Detective work is about making the theory fit the facts. Perhaps we were drawn into doing things the wrong way round. The tail wagging the dog, as it wer
e.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way, sir,” Collison replied thoughtfully, “but perhaps there’s something to it. We had our nice new shiny profile and it seduced us into not looking too far outside it, even when the profiler himself expressed doubts as to our conclusions.”
“Are you sure you’re not making the same mistake twice? Once again you seem to have formed some airy fairy theory—this time based on a work of detective fiction if I understand correctly—and the known facts all seem to point conveniently in the right direction.”
“Again,” Collison conceded, “maybe there’s something to that, but we won’t know that without speaking again to Barker.”
“You’re an intelligent man, Simon,” the ACC said slowly. “Your academic record shows that. But have you ever considered that perhaps you may be approaching this too intelligently?”
“I’m not sure I understand you, sir. How can a police officer, or indeed anyone, be too intelligent?”
“Perhaps I’m expressing myself badly,” the ACC said, fiddling with his reading glasses. “‘Intelligent’ may be the wrong word. ‘Rational’ might be better.” He broke off and put the glasses down on his desk on top of the report. “The best detectives I’ve worked with in my career were bright too, even though they didn’t have your sort of formal education. But they had something else; they had instinct, some sort of subjective awareness that came to them, apparently from nowhere.”
“Copper’s nose, sir?”
“Yes,” the ACC said flatly. “Let me give you an example, an extreme one certainly, but one that demonstrates what I mean. Someone I worked with early in my career was on the West Yorkshire force in 1976 when the Yorkshire Ripper’s first victim was found. Apparently the SIO stood beside the body for a while, looked around the surrounding area and then said ‘I think we’re looking for a lorry driver.’ Sadly he died shortly afterwards and other people took over the investigation. Suppose he hadn’t? A lot of innocent lives might have been saved.”
“It’s an interesting example, sir, but with respect I hardly think you can base a whole murder enquiry on intuition.”
What Would Wimsey Do? Page 21