Stuart MacBride - A Song for the Dying

‘But he’s impotent. He has to be, what he’s doing doesn’t make any sense otherwise. He can’t get a woman pregnant the normal way, so he’s got to cut her open to impregnate her. The power feeds the sexual fantasy, he’s potent and rampant, and gets women pregnant…’ She stole one of my chips. ‘Why isn’t he on Viagra or something? Why not go to see an erectile dysfunction specialist?’

I picked the plate up and placed it in front of her. On top of the letter about Laura Strachan. ‘If he’s impotent, how come he managed to rape Ruth Laughlin?’

Alice chewed for a bit, frowning her way through it. Then picked another chip from the pile. ‘Maybe attaining an erection’s not the problem, it’s the motility of his sperm?’ She arranged seven chips in a straight line on the plate, side by side like the posts of a fence. Then another two below that. Picked up the squeezy bottle of tomato sauce and dripped a blob onto each of the first four chips. Then one more on the first chip on the second row.

‘So, what: you want we should start with the fertility clinics? See if they’ve got anyone who matches the profile? We’d never get a warrant for that.’

Brad was back, holding a tray. If he was bothered by the post-mortem photographs and pictures of dead women, he hid it well. He handed out the drinks. Passed Alice a fresh tea-towel bulging with ice. Smiled. ‘Anything else, you just let me know, OK?’

Alice held up a finger, then knocked her Jack Daniel’s back in one go. ‘’Nother of those, thanks.’

Soon as he was back behind the bar, she stuck her tongue out between her teeth and frowned at the paperwork. ‘Dear Boss, or From Hell?’

‘Not this again.’

‘One has details that weren’t released to the public, the other arrives with half a human kidney… When did Dr Docherty come up with the profile?’

‘Not sure. Henry didn’t get called in till we’d found Tara McNab in the lay-by. So, after Holly Drummond?’

Alice stacked the victim sheets, PM photos, and letters for all the other victims into a pile and put it to one side, leaving the info for Doreen Appleton, Tara, and Holly in the middle of the table. ‘So the profile was based on these three victims.’ She placed one letter beside Holly’s photo. One beside Tara’s. ‘And Doreen didn’t get a letter…’ Frown, fiddle, twiddle. ‘Dr Docherty thinks it’s because she was just a dress rehearsal, but what if he just didn’t write one because he didn’t need to, I mean it’s not till the papers start calling him a sicko and the Caledonian Ripper that he has to defend his honour, before that he’s happy to just chunter along doing his thing in private.’

Brad was back with her drink. ‘Here you go.’

She necked it and asked for another.

His smile drifted a bit. ‘You sure?’

‘Positive.’

And he was gone again.

She gulped down a mouthful of lager. ‘What if none of the letters are Jack the Ripper? What if they’re two separate people claiming responsibility for something they didn’t do?’

‘You think the Inside Man letters are fake? They can’t be — they’re all postmarked the day before the victims are found.’

‘The letters are about power and control and look at me, I’m so special. The bodies are about trying to create life…’ She picked up the two letters and added them to the pile at the end of the table. ‘Remove the letters from the scene and he’s painting a very different picture.’

I poured a fresh cup of tea. ‘You can’t — they arrived, they’re there, and they’ve got info only the killer could know.’

‘Or anyone on the investigation.’

‘So, what: it’s a wannabe with a time machine? Hops back a couple of days and mails them off before we’ve found the body?’

She tapped her fingers against the post-mortem photos. ‘But the bodies tell a different story to the letters… What if…’ The frown deepened. ‘What if the letters are real, but at the same time they’re fake too? The Inside Man doesn’t write them because he wants to explain himself, he writes them to confuse the issue, I mean he knows we’re going to use them to try to catch him, so he writes fake letters that have nothing to do with what’s really going on, they’re there to make us look in the wrong place.’ Alice sat back and grinned at me. Then took a big gulp from her pint. Stifled a belch. ‘It’s him , but he’s lying to us.’

‘Pfff… Sounds a bit advanced, doesn’t it? Thought most serial nut-jobs weren’t meant to be all that bright.’

Brad was back with Alice’s drink in one hand and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s in the other. ‘How about I just leave this with you?’ Wink. ‘Staff discount.’ Obviously angling for a nice fat tip.

Alice downed her drink, topped up her glass, then went back into her satchel for a pad and a pen as Brad wandered off to clean something.

‘We need to rework the profile from scratch, ignore the letters, focus on the victims, the bodies, and the act.’ She drew nine boxes on the pad, filled each of them in with one of the victims’ names, then connected them with arrows. More lines with jobs and ages on them. More lines, keywords this time: SEX, PROCREATION, RAPE, LOVE, ANGER, PREGNANT, BABY, LOVE ME!!!..

She started adding dotted lines and circles. ‘Statistically, he’s going to be Caucasian — plus all the baby dolls are pink, not black or Asian and it’s not like you can’t buy ethnic dolls, I’ve seen them in the shops. And he’s at least mid-to-late twenties when he starts, because that gives him enough time to realize he’s sterile and work on his fantasy. He’s controlling, measured, narcissistic, very centred and sure of himself in public, but in private, or at home with people who know him, he’ll be shy and have trouble engaging socially.’ Alice doodled a baby’s dummy in the corner of the page. ‘I know that sounds counter-intuitive, but an inverted social anxiety disorder goes with the idea that he’s wearing a mask the whole time, he can be in control, because he’s someone else.’

Alice topped her Jack Daniel’s up again. ‘It won’t have been instant, he’ll have had to work at it, getting more controlled as he grows, more adept at burying the real him, hiding what he really is when other people are there.’

A shy, nervous young man, turning into a controlling tosspot who’s full of himself. Someone close to the police who knew how to manipulate the investigation. Someone who could send us all off on a wild bloody goose chase and make it look as if it was all our idea in the first place.

I sat back in my seat, drummed my fingers on the table top.

Someone who could write misleading letters, then make sure they were given centre stage. Someone who could sideline Alice’s input, because he had the ear of the King…

The Wizard’s Apprentice.

‘ He’s even got his own narrative arc, hasn’t he? From bumbling curly-haired sidekick to this slick TV personality in a suit, right? And we all know what Nietzsche says about staring into the abyss… ’

Someone like Dr Frederic Docherty.

Carriage lamps cast discreet golden blooms on either side of the front door. A little sign was screwed to the wall above the bell, telling residents to ring after eleven p.m. if they wanted in. So that’s what I did.

The Pinemantle Hotel sat two-thirds of the way down Porter Lane — less than five minutes from Division Headquarters — its concrete-and-granite bulk nestling amongst the crumbling grandeur of sandstone townhouses. A front garden, thick with rhododendron bushes and denuded beech trees, lurked in shadow behind Alice’s Suzuki.

She peered out at me from the passenger seat, one eye closed, swaying from side to side. Blinking in slow motion. She fumbled with her seatbelt and creaked the door open. Puffed out her cheeks. Slapped a hand over her mouth.