Cold Shoulder (28 page)

‘Of course, when the mood takes him. He must be feeling good — he has to know that the police have nothing. Even the press has died down.’ He paused, then went on, ‘This is his sex life, his action, and it’s connected to his own sexuality. He will get no pleasure from masturbation, he’s probably impotent so his masculinity is warped. He is both male and female, and he is killing as a man. We know this because the anonymous caller gave a good description of what he was wearing. So we’re not looking for a man who dresses as a woman and then kills. We’re looking for a man who consistently wants to kill. Just as you said, I too think he wants to kill the woman inside him.’

Fellows sat on the arm of his chair, swinging one leg. ‘You killed a boy, Rooney told me. He said you were drunk on duty.’

Lorraine felt as if she’d been punched. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her.

‘Do you remember what it felt like?’

He had to strain to hear what she said. ‘I had to kill a number of people in the line of duty and you never forget one of them.’

‘You did not answer the question. I asked if you recalled what it felt like to kill that boy.’

‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘of course I remember.’

He stared at her intently, knew she was lying but he was astonished at the way she held his gaze and didn’t flinch away.

‘But you were intoxicated.’

‘Yes.’

‘But you remember.’

She broke his gaze and he knew she was in trouble. Lorraine stood up, pulling her skirt straight. ‘It’s not something I’m likely to forget.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it must be fucking obvious why. The boy was innocent and I was drunk.’

‘Even though you were intoxicated, you remember. As you said, you never forget. What exactly don’t you forget?’

Lorraine sighed and lit a cigarette. ‘I don’t see the point of this.’ She inhaled deeply, let the smoke drift, was about to take another drag when she paused and, without any emotion, described the boy’s jacket, the yellow Superman stripe, the way he fell, as if in slow motion, the way his body folded, the way his head rested against his outstretched arm, the way his soft hair fanned out, the way his body jerked a few times before he became still. Once she had begun she couldn’t stop, remembering Rooney pushing past, ordering her into the patrol car, displaying in his filthy handkerchief the boy’s Walkman, the tape still in the deck. That there had been no gun, that she had fired six times. She fell silent. Fellows had expected her to break down and weep.

‘What about afterwards?’ he asked softly. She intrigued him.

Lorraine stubbed out her cigarette, becoming annoyed that he had swung their meeting over to her life rather than the killer’s.

‘I felt fucking angry, desperate, disgusted, and all I wanted was to forget it.’

‘How did you do that?’

‘With booze, of course.’

‘And did it block it out?’

She shook her head. ‘Yes. I suppose you want me to say no, that it was always there, that it always will be. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, I don’t think about it.’

Fellows picked up a paperweight. ‘But you were drinking before this boy. What made you dependent on alcohol?’

‘I was just addicted to it, like my mother. It’s supposed to be inherited, isn’t it?’

‘Why did you drink, Lorraine?’

‘I guess I liked the way it made me feel, the confidence it gave me — not having to think or feel. Now, can we get back to the reason I asked to see you?’

‘What main thing did you not feel?’ He looked into her eyes, with an expression of concern, almost apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’

She laughed. ‘Can’t help yourself, huh?’

He gently touched her cheek. ‘You’re a clever woman, a strong woman — possibly the strongest I’ve ever met. I’m sorry to delve into your private life but I’m trying to get you to think like him, understand him. Like you felt the compulsion to have another drink, he will feel this compulsion to kill. He will be in a kind of torment because maybe something happened to him that twisted him, hurt him, and the only way he is able to live in society and carry on in a state of apparent normality is like this. When this consuming pain takes hold of him like a rage, he will control it, contain it, and release it when he hammers a victim to death. Only then does the rage subside and calm or normality’ return.’

Fellows paced up and down his banks of books, all of which were serial killers’ histories, and slapped each in turn. ‘I have pinpointed the rage syndrome in so many of these cases. It manifests itself in an overpowering need to wound, to destroy, to hurt, to inflict pain. Time and again it is sexual: stalking, peeping, watching and knowing what they were about to commit will be exquisite, relished — and enjoyed. Many collect the newspaper cuttings to gloat over. The fact they are clever enough not to be detected adds to the overall feeling of enjoyment. And when it’s over they integrate back into their homes, their work. Their secret is like a lover, precious, nurtured, controlled until the pain starts again. It’s a horrific vicious circle that cannot be broken until the killer is caught.’

Lorraine put her cigarettes and lighter into her purse. ‘I really must go. Would you call me a cab?’

Fellows reached for the phone, and started to punch the buttons. Seemingly intent on his task, he asked calmly why, if she wanted to assist in the inquiry, she hadn’t admitted that she was the woman the killer picked up.

‘Because, Professor Fellows, I am not.’

He ordered the cab and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘I know you were a prostitute, I know the address you’ve just given to me for the cab tonight was also close to the area where the witness was dropped off by a cab driver. Ex-cop, it was you who called the station, you who gave the description. I just don’t understand why you’re lying.’

‘I’m not.’ She stared at him.

‘He said you were one of the best he’d ever worked with.’

Lorraine snapped that Rooney had a big mouth, but he knew nothing about her life since she’d left the force.

Fellows became equally tetchy, opening a file and pushing it across the desk. ‘I’d say this is pretty informative.’

She pursed her lips as she saw the copy of her record. ‘The bastard,’ she said, and then she deflated, slumping into the big leather chair. ‘Does he know? Rooney?’

‘No, in fact
I
wasn’t sure, until I met you, talked with you. You’re in a very precarious position, my dear.’

‘How did you work it out?’

‘I just took one almighty guess.’ He snickered. ‘I threw in a wild card.’

She laughed, tilting her head back, a deep, warm laugh that made him smile.

‘The description in the files fits — tall, blonde — except the missing tooth.’

‘I had it capped.’

Fellows sat on the arm of her chair. ‘I can’t see any need to tell Rooney, unless you’re holding anything else back?’

Lorraine took hold of his hand, gave it a squeeze, and then looked up into his face. ‘I’m not holding anything back, Prof. Just wish I had something else to get me fifty bucks a day when Rooney’s off the case. I doubt if anyone else would trust me.’

‘They’re fools. Does that mean the FBI will take over?’

‘Yes, within the next forty-eight hours. What about dates? Is there anything in the dates the killings took place?’

Fellows frowned. ‘I doubt it. He just kills when he feels the urge, no specific date code.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help but if I sift through the files again, find something, can I call you?’

She nodded.

‘Good, and will you call me if you find anything? It’s interesting to me or I wouldn’t have spent so much time on it already, and, I might add, with no fifty bucks a day.’

The doorbell rang. He walked her to the cab. ‘It’s paid for, so don’t worry. And if you need me, call me.’

She smiled her thanks and he remained watching her until the cab turned out of the drive.

Back in the den, he picked up the dirty ashtray piled high with cigarette stubs — fifteen. He tipped it into the waste basket, then straightened the leather cushions, and went upstairs to the bedroom.

Dilly was sleeping, her arms entwined round a pillow. She hardly stirred when he slipped into bed and turned off his bedside lamp. He rested his head on his arms and thought about Lorraine. There was an arrogance about her that attracted him and a directness he admired. There was also, he detected, a deep, hidden pain which, in his professional opinion, was about to erupt.

L
ORRAINE ASKED the cab driver to take her to Beverly Glen. She would meet any extra costs. By the time they parked outside Janklow’s house, she was already annoyed with herself for not asking Fellows if the name meant anything to him or had any connection to Brad Thorburn. She was also confused as to why she had told the cab driver to take her there.

She stood a short distance from the gates. The dog was still loose, sleeping about ten feet inside. He woke and growled, his tawny eyes daring her to lay so much as a hand on the gate. As the rental car had been towed away, nothing indicated that Rosie had been back. The house was in darkness, shutters closed on the lower-floor windows, and the drive was empty. It seemed ominously quiet and yet there was nothing creepy about the property, quite the opposite. Lorraine stepped closer and her body set off the automatic security lights. The gardens, the lower storey of the house, the gates, even the road she was standing in, were suddenly bathed in brilliant light.

She started back to the taxi when she heard someone calling. She paused and looked back.

‘Bruno must have set the security lights off again.
Bruno?

Brad Thorburn, wearing shorts and flip-flops, appeared at the front door. The dog ran to him, standing on its hind legs to lick his face. Brad ruffled its fur and scanned the garden for an intruder, but his voice was mocking when he clapped his hands and said to the dog, ‘See them off, go on, good boy.’

Lorraine whipped round as the cab driver tooted his horn. ‘You want to stay here much longer? Only I got another fare to pick up.’

She had her hand on the door when the gates opened. Thorburn looked over the road and was about to close the gates, when he looked again. ‘Hey! Were you at the college earlier?’

‘Sorry,’ Lorraine said innocently. ‘Are you talking to me?’

He nodded. ‘I was playing with Andrew Fellows.’

Lorraine smiled. ‘What a coincidence.’

She turned back to the driver. ‘Give me five minutes.’

‘You got a problem?’ Thorburn asked.

Lorraine walked over to join him. ‘No, not really. I was supposed to drop in to collect something for a friend of mine. I thought it was number three eight hundred but I must have been mistaken.’

‘Do you need to make a call? You can use my phone.’

‘I won’t be a second,’ she called to the driver, who gave a surly nod. She grinned at Thorburn. ‘My drivers fed up as we’ve been up and down the Glen. I didn’t like to start ringing doorbells, with all the security around here.’

Thorburn pressed the gates closed and released the dog, which immediately launched itself at Lorraine, wagging its tail and slobbering. ‘He’s not quite got it together yet, he’s only a puppy. This way…’

The hallway alone took her breath away. It was an antique mixture of Baroque furniture, massive chandeliers and gilt mirrors, but it was not oppressive because the pieces were not crowded together. The hallway was of such a grand scale, it could easily have accommodated a number of vehicles parked side by side.

‘Phone’s on the table just through that arch. I’m Brad Thorburn.’

‘Lorraine Page.’

He walked off and Lorraine went towards the wide archway. The room was sunken, with deep white sofas and a single glass-topped coffee table with a basket of flowers the like of which Lorraine had only seen in magazines. The paintings were all huge and the white telephone was the smallest object in the room. She called Rosie.

‘Hi, it’s me.’

Without a pause for breath, Rosie gave her a tongue lashing — how worried she was, that she was just about to call Jake and get a search party out looking for her.

‘I’m sorry, I got lost. I’ll come straight home now.’

Rosie tried to tell her about the photo session but Lorraine could hear the sound of the flip-flops across the white marble hallway.

‘I won’t bother tonight, I’ve got a taxi waiting. Goodnight.’

She replaced the receiver before Rosie could utter another word.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ He had put on a loose white caftan over his shorts.

‘Ah, no, I’d better go, but thanks for the offer and the use of your phone.’ She could feel herself blushing, so she dipped her head.

‘Did you go over to Andrew’s?’

‘Yes, we had a relaxed dinner, just Dilly and Andrew.’

He smiled. ‘I’ve offered her money to take that painting down. I know you’ve seen it because you won’t look at me.’

She hadn’t even thought of the painting, it was him she couldn’t look at. They walked towards the front door, which was still ajar. As they stepped onto the porch, her taxi drove off.

‘Since your transport has departed, will you change your mind?’

‘No, thanks all the same, but if you could call me another cab…’

‘Don’t you drive?’

‘Yes, I do but I also used to drink. The two didn’t go together. Now I don’t drink or drive.’

He took her elbow. ‘Come and sit down. Let me fix you a soft drink, or tea or coffee, if you’d prefer?’

Brad took her into the kitchen. It was like a movie set — more appliances and high-tech equipment than she’d seen in any restaurant. He poured her a glass of iced water, then crossed to a wall phone, asking her what she did for a living. She told him she worked part-time for an art gallery. He turned to look at her. ‘Anyone I’d know of?’

‘I doubt it, it’s not very successful.’ She knew she had to concentrate on using this situation and told herself to stop acting like a tongue-tied teenager. This was too good an opportunity to pass over. Maybe she did fancy him but she had to ignore it. It was unlikely he’d have any interest in her — Dilly had said that all his women were young, perfect beauties. But she was sure, unless she was kidding herself, that — wasn’t he putting out signals? She gave him a hooded glance as he picked up the receiver but he turned and caught her looking at him. He didn’t smile but met her eyes and then his attention was drawn to the phone.