Christopher Fowler - White Corridor

“Hang on,” said May, “exactly how many of those do you own?”

“Forty-six,” Bryant answered matter-of-factly. “I was going to quote from a few during my convention speech.” He riffled the pages. “Ah, listen to this. Did you know that seventy-seven percent of all serial killers are American citizens, and only sixteen percent are European? Eighty-four percent are white, sixteen percent are black. Ninety percent are male heterosexuals. Sixty-five percent of the victims are female, and ninety percent of all victims are white. A quarter start killing when they’re teenaged, half start in their twenties, the remaining quarter begin in their thirties. But then we have the anomalies, like the elderly Dr Harold Shipman, the world’s worst serial killer with at least four hundred attributable deaths to his name who injected lethal doses of Pethidine into vulnerable English ladies who loved and trusted him. He fitted the pattern of being arrogant and violent-tempered, but many of his crimes remained undiscovered for decades. His wife Primrose supposedly never guessed the truth. Dozens of questions about him remain unanswered, and the authorities are still not sure if they’ve found all the victims.

“A lot of serial killers are boring, mentally subnormal and inadequate as human beings, which rather mitigates against the image of the superior intellectual usually portrayed in films. We’ve never really dealt with psychopathic brutality before. My wits can’t protect me against such an opponent, and this hostile environment makes me realise how vulnerable I’ve become. How do you find, let alone stop, someone like this? The PCU isn’t equipped to locate such people. There are special units to deal with them, I remember, because I took Alma to see The Silence of the Lambs. If I were to speculate on how such people are created, I’d guess that geography plays a part, just as much as family upbringing and rogue chromosomes. Europe can be just as lonely as America. Think of all the desolate landscapes that are barely populated for most of the year, places where no-one remembers you.”

“But the same things happen in cities, where alienation and hardship are just as rife,” argued May. “Look at London, and how conducive its society has been to cruel practises. Children are raised in a paradoxical environment of decadence and restriction. How many of them truly learn to think and behave like rational adults? What are we breeding in our schools and on our streets now that traditional society has been so radically transformed?”

“For once I must agree with you,” said Bryant. “I think the science of rationality is being pushed aside to make way for new superstitions. Look at the move to teach the mysteries of God’s will beside Darwinism under the term ”intelligent design,“ or the reliance on discredited homeopathic drugs to treat cancers we know to be caused by poor diet and cigarettes, or the rise of pyramid-selling religions sold under the guise of lifestyle-improving courses, the blurring of boundaries between greed and honesty. It’s obvious when you think about it. Through the proliferation of deliberately obscuring clutter, our access to hard information is being radically reduced. If you take away knowledge you create myth, not the old myths that help to underpin and elucidate the human condition, but ones with the more sinister purpose of increasing commercial gain.”

May shook his head sadly. “I thought the Internet would transform the world, but it’s fast proving to be just another method of spreading disinformation. This isn’t our field, Arthur. Look how the Highwayman had us fooled, simply because we refused to believe the truth that was right in front of us.”

“Some changes in society are too painful to accept easily,” Bryant admitted, his eyes downcast. “The power of the human mind remains inexplicable.” He was thinking of May’s guarded reaction to the spirit writing. “Where does that leave us now?”

“We may be isolated in a hostile environment, but we have a world of help at our fingertips. He’s just one man working alone in a limited space, and we will catch him. Now, you call Harold Masters, and I’ll call the Bureau.”

“There’s something I have to tell you,” said DC Meera Mangeshkar. “Let’s grab a sandwich.” Meera and Colin were returning from a fruitless visit to Owen Mills’s neighbours, who had treated the officers with a mixture of disdain and mistrust. “My sister Jezminder works here.”

Bimsley noted the family resemblance the minute he saw the girl behind the counter of Cafe Nero in Camden High Street. Jezminder was older and taller than her sister, more graceful of limb, more downcast of eye, although, he noted, she wore Meera’s trademark toe-capped boots and men’s baggy jeans. They ordered tea and toast as Meera circled sections of her copious notes. “That girl on the top floor fancied you,” she remarked with studied casualness.

“The one with the blond plait?” He folded a whole piece of toast into his mouth and couldn’t speak for a minute while he tried digesting it. “I didn’t notice,” he finally managed.

“Oh, come on, all that guff about why you weren’t in uniform and where you go in the evenings. She didn’t answer any of your questions properly, and kept watching you from the corner of her eye.”

“She didn’t know Owen Mills.” Bimsley dunked his second piece of toast in his tea, filling the saucer. “She was just a time-waster.”

“Then you shouldn’t have kept on asking her questions. If you fancy her, you can go back there on your own time, not the unit’s.” Meera pointedly tore the girl’s interview form into quarters.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” he complained. “I can never do anything right.”

“Let’s just drop it.”

“Is this what you wanted to talk to me about? Or did you just want to have a good old go at me somewhere warm, where your mouth could work properly?”

“No, it’s about Finch. You know I admitted I was there on Tuesday morning.”

“I heard. You wanted to sit in on the autopsy.”

“Yeah. Actually, I had a bit of a row with him. He wouldn’t let me stay, said it violated the privacy rights of the victim. Started going on about dignity in death, and how I didn’t have the proper qualifications. I answered back, you know how I do, and he virtually started pushing me towards the door. It wasn’t like him. He was agitated, sweating and red in the face, really angry, and the room was really warm, like he’d had the wall heaters going full blast, but he always says how much he hates the heat in there.”

“Why didn’t you tell Raymond all this?”

She looked sheepishly down at her tea mug. “I was upset. I get treated like the office junior even though I’ve got years of experience in some of the toughest cop shops in London. Even May’s granddaughter gets more respect, and she’s got no formal training. I didn’t go for sergeant because it would have meant I couldn’t stay at the unit, with Janice already occupying that position. I just want to be taken seriously.”

“For what it’s worth, I take you seriously,” said Bimsley. “You’re a true professional, Meera. You’re just too hard on yourself. All you need to do is lighten up a bit. But you need to tell the others about arguing with Oswald.”

“I’ve a feeling some of them suspect me,” she said miserably. “I haven’t exactly made friends at the unit.”

“It’s never too late to start,” said Bimsley, giving her an encouraging smile.

He thought about the young Indian detective constable while she went to speak with her sister; perhaps the fault had lain with him. He had assumed that her anger was an issue connected with race and class, some kind of attitude she was working through. Now he saw that she simply wanted to be accepted as a team player.