Duvall’s lips tightened in silent agreement.
“So how do we proceed from here?” Steve asked, anxious to move away from the edginess between the women to more productive territory. “I can’t see you getting a warrant to search Smithfield Market on the basis of what Fiona’s given you.”
Duvall took another sip of her coffee. A technique designed to give room for thought, Fiona decided. “I can try,” she said eventually. More coffee. “We have one or two very understanding magistrates in the City. And we do have a very good relationship with the market authorities. We actually have a squad of officers based in Smithfield itself. What might help me, Doctor, is if you could tell me a little about what sort of person you believe is committing these crimes and whether they are likely to strike again.” She gave a tiny, tight smile. “Prevention is always a good note to strike with magistrates.”
“I’m not a behavioural psychologist,” Fiona said. “I’m an academic. I don’t do profiling based on stuff about whether your killer wet the bed or was abused by a drunken father. I leave that to the clinicians who have a range of experience to draw on.”
Duvall nodded. “I know. Personally, I prefer a little intellectual rigour in criminal investigation,” she said wryly. “But based on what you know of this sort of killer, is there anything you can tell me?”
“These killings are fuelled by rage. Most serial homicides are sexual in their nature, but occasionally there are other motives. For example, the missionary type, who sees his goal as ridding the world of a particular group of people who don’t deserve to live. I’ve recently been working on such a case with the Spanish police. In that instance, I’d characterize the motivation as loss.”
“Loss?” Duvall interrupted.
“Most adults develop their sense of self as a complex matrix of interlocking factors,” Fiona explained. “So if we lose a parent, if our lover leaves us, if the career we had worked so hard for is shattered, we feel bereft and upset but we don’t lose our sense of who we are. But there are some people who never achieve that sort of integration. Their sense of self becomes entirely bound up with one aspect of their lives. If they lose that element, they are entirely cast adrift from the normal checks and balances. Some commit suicide. A smaller group turn the rage and pain outwards and seek their revenge on those they perceive to be somehow responsible.”
“I see,” Duvall said. “And you think that’s what may have come into play here?”
Fiona shrugged. “That’s what my experience would lead me to think.”
Steve leaned forward. “So what sort of person would see serial killer thriller writers as his nemesis?”
“Or her nemesis,” Duvall interjected. “We’re equal opportunity coppers in the City, Steve. Unlike the Met.” Again that thin, tight smile behind the barb.
Steve shook his head. “If it’s a serial, it’s a man. Drew Shand was a gay man who was last seen leaving a gay pub with another man who has not come forward as a witness. So we have to assume he was the killer.”
Duvall inclined her head in concession. “I’ll grant you that. For now, at least.” She turned to Fiona again. “Humour us, Doctor. What sort of person would want to kill these writers?”
Fiona refused to allow herself to feel patronized or intimidated. She had a point to make and Sarah Duvall wasn’t going to keep her from making it. “Creative writing. It’s a field where passions run high. I know, I live with a writer. I suppose it could be a deranged fan stalker out to make a name for himself, a Mark Chapman type of killer. But they mostly stop at one. That’s enough to make the statement. And they’re not usually sophisticated enough to develop so complex a killing structure.
“It could be a wannabe writer who is eaten up with resentment at the success of others. In his parallel universe he might believe they’ve ripped off his plots, stolen his ideas, either by conventional means or by creeping into his mind while he’s asleep. I would characterize the writer of the death threat letters as being most likely to fit in that category, based on their content.
“Or it could be a writer whose career has gone into terminal decline. Maybe someone who sees those particular writers as having snatched the success he should have had.” Fiona spread her hands. “I’m sorry, I can’t be more specific than that.” Duvall, she noticed, was looking sceptical.
“I’d never have imagined that anyone could feel so threatened by writers that they’d want to kill them,” Steve said.
“Whoever is doing this has become obsessed with the notion that this particular group of writers has somehow done him a deep and destructive wrong. And this is his way of righting that wrong,” Fiona said.
Duvall frowned. “It’s not as if writing books changes anybody’s life.”
“You don’t think the pen is mightier than the sword, then?” Fiona asked.
“No, I don’t,” Duvall insisted. “Book are just…books.”
“Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never harm me? That’s what you think?”
Duvall considered. “I don’t think I’ve ever read anything that changed my life. For good or ill.”
“‘Poetry makes nothing happen’,” Fiona said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Something W.H. Auden wrote. Do you think the same thing is true of film and TV?” Fiona asked Duvall. This was between them now, Steve sidelined as they stared intently at each other.
Duvall leaned back in her chair, considering. “We’re always being told by your colleagues that when kids watch violence on TV, they copy it.”
“There’s certainly anecdotal evidence of that. But whether it influences our behaviour directly or not, I think what we read and what we watch alters our view of the world. And I can’t help wondering if this killer is someone who doesn’t like the way that these writers and the adaptations of their books have presented the world,” Fiona parried.
“Sounds a bit far-fetched to me.”
Fiona shrugged. “But strange as it seems, logic seems to dictate that if Georgia is dead and if these killings are linked, the motive lies in what the victims have written.”
Duvall nodded. “The victim as teaching aid.”
“Read the scene, learn the killer,” Steve said. “Rule one of stranger murder.”
“And he is going to kill again,” Duvall stated baldly.
It was the issue that Fiona wished she could avoid, the question that had been haunting her since she’d found the key passages in And Ever More Shall Be So. “Yes. Unless he’s stopped, he’ll kill again. And what you need to do now is draw up a list of potential victims and see they’re protected.”
Duvall’s composure slipped momentarily and she looked at Steve for guidance. This time, it was his face that remained impassive. “I don’t see how we can do that,” Duvall stalled. She clearly objected to being told how to do her job by someone she perceived as an outsider.
“I’d have thought it was pretty straightforward,” Fiona said crisply. Now she was dealing with Kit’s fate, her normal assertiveness was back in the driving seat with a vengeance. “You’re looking for award-winning crime writers who have written serial killer novels that have been adapted for film or TV. Get in touch with the Crime Writers’ Association. They’ll be able to put you in touch with one or other of the crime buffs who will be able to give you chapter and verse.”
“But there must be dozens,” Duvall protested. “We couldn’t possibly offer them all protection.”
“At the very least, you should warn them.” Fiona’s voice was as implacable as her face, her hazel eyes intense in the gloom of the café.
Duvall’s face had closed down. “That’s impossible. I don’t think you’ve thought this through, Dr. Cameron. The last thing we want is to start a panic. There’s enough of a media circus as it is and we don’t even know yet whether Georgia Lester is alive or dead. It would be totally irresponsible to go public at this stage.”