‘Andrew’s discovered a couple of hours later and it’s on the news and in every paper and Gòrach’s panicking for real now — they’re going to find him, they’re going to catch him and he’ll go to prison with the perverts and he can’t take that, he can’t, he’d rather kill himself than go to prison.’ She tilted her head to the other side. ‘It’s all so horrible and scary but, now that he’s done it, he can’t stop thinking about the power and he’s reassessing the experience; maybe it wasn’t so bad after all, maybe it was exciting, and he’s using it to reinforce the fantasy and he’s masturbating with the same hands he used to strangle a wee boy, and over the next two months he’s convincing himself that it’ll be perfect next time, because he knows what he’s doing now.’
PC Thingy shifted in her seat, face pulled down around the edges, as if she’d trod in something warm and squishy.
‘So now Gòrach’s looking for the next child to be perfect with and he sees Oscar Harris and this time he’s going to get it right and he abducts him and takes him deep into the woods and strangling Andrew with his hands was too scary to do it again and he doesn’t want Oscar looking at him, so he uses the boy’s own belt and he does it from behind and maybe he doesn’t do it right, and Oscar’s still breathing, so he tries again, but Oscar still won’t die — why won’t the little bastard die? — so one last time and this time Oscar’s dead and how did he manage to make such a mess of it and he’s ashamed, so Gòrach hides the body under a rhododendron bush and slinks away.’
Jacobson nodded. ‘So he’s experimenting?’
‘He’s learning. This time he goes home and watches the media and there’s Oscar Harris’s parents on TV crying because their son’s missing and maybe Gòrach likes that, likes seeing the pain in their eyes and knowing he’s the one who did that, that he’s got the power of life and death, not just over the children, but over their families too, maybe even the whole city? And he relives killing Oscar and Andrew, over and over, and he takes the best of both murders and puts them together to make a new and better fantasy that builds and grows till it’s all he can think of, which is when he goes out and abducts Lewis Talbot.’ Alice frowned at the whiteboard with the crime-scene photos on it, in all their horrible technicolour glory. ‘It’s not perfect, but then nothing ever is, but he’s in control this time, he takes the silk rope with him, probably carries it about in his pocket for days beforehand, running his fingers over it and daydreaming about that wonderful moment when he finally gets to use it, and when he finds Lewis he’s prepared, he takes him out to the middle of nowhere, deep in the woods, where no one will ever find them and Gòrach strangles and resuscitates him and strangles and resuscitates, because he has the power of death and life, and what’s one without the other, only now he knows he likes the look of fear in his victim’s eyes, he wants to see it as he kills and brings back and kills and brings back... that beautiful moment when the light flickers out, only to come back on again, so he can snuff it out one more time.’
Silence.
‘Andrew was a victim of chance. Oscar was on purpose.’ Alice let go of her hair. ‘Lewis was the culmination of the first two murders, a return to all the things he loved about killing those little boys.’
‘Yawn.’ Huntly stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle, exposing a swathe of bright-purple socks. ‘This is all very touchy-feely, but — and I hope I’m not speaking out of turn here — perhaps we could have some sort of revelation that actually helps us catch him?’
Tit.
Alice pointed at the map that took up Whiteboard Number Four: where brightly coloured magnetic buttons marked the site of each abduction and dead body. ‘Andrew Brennan was playing under the railway lines in Kingsmeath when he was murdered. For him to be a victim of opportunity, Gòrach had to be there too. But he went hunting for Oscar in Castleview — picked somewhere new to decrease his chance of getting caught — changing things up, going for a slightly older boy from a more affluent family, using the belt instead of his hands, trying new things. But Lewis Talbot is Gòrach’s return to form. His return to Kingsmeath. Gòrach’s comfortable there, it’s his patch. He either grew up there and moved away, or he’s never left. He knows this place.’
‘Hmmph.’ Huntly shrugged. ‘It’s a start, I suppose.’
‘He has access to a vehicle — otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to take Lewis to where they found the body. He’s confident in himself, otherwise he wouldn’t have transported his victim so far away from where he abducted him. See, there’s that pronoun thing again. Gòrach’s either self-employed, or he works shifts, or maybe some job where he’s got a lot of autonomy? Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to hunt children during the day, and during the week.’
Jacobson scribbled something down in his notebook, then looked up at her. ‘What about previous?’
Alice shook her head, setting the curls bouncing. ‘He’s not had an outlet for these feelings. They’ve been brewing inside him for years but he hasn’t dared do anything about them. That’s why he doesn’t sexually assault his victims — it’s not about them as sexual beings, it’s about him and his fantasies. He’d rather go home and replay the murder and masturbate than actually do anything with their bodies. Probably thinks that kind of thing is perverted: beneath him.’
‘Because what the world really needs is more child-murdering tosspots with a well-developed sense of moral rectitude.’
Alice’s shoulders curled up around her ears, eyebrows pinched. ‘One more thing: I think this two-month cycle he’s on is going to accelerate now he’s found what he likes. He took the time between Oscar and Lewis’s murders to learn. Lewis died in October, it’s November now, he’s probably already hunting for victim number four. And he’ll be a lot better at it, this time.’
‘Groan! Sigh. Wilt...’ Huntly pulled himself up to his full height, in the back seat, then slumped again. ‘Why are we going so slowly?’
I turned up the Suzuki’s radio — a boy band warbling their way through an autotuned cover of an old Led Zeppelin song. Awful, but with any luck it would drown him out.
Instead, the annoying pinstriped git got louder. ‘And why is this car so small? It’s like something that comes with a Barbie playset. And it positively reeks of wet dog.’
Henry’s glistening blackcurrant nose poked over the back seat, hairy eyebrows raised, mouth hanging open in a gaping grin, as if that’d been a compliment.
I gave Professor Bernard Huntly a scowl in the rear-view mirror. ‘No one asked you to come.’
‘I know. Sadly, it’s my burden to be so incredibly useful that none can cope without my genius. So when I see a fair maiden in need, how can I possibly refuse to help?’
Outside, the rush hour proved what an oxy-sodding-moron it was — nose-to-tail cars, vans, and lorries, crawling their way across Calderwell Bridge in the pelting rain, while an occasional taxi stuttered past in the empty bus lane. The thick grey river turned pewter by the thin greasy light.