“You keep saying ‘he.’”
Jenny slapped his wrist playfully. “You know as well as I do that, statistically speaking, most psychopaths are men. And it might be pretty interesting to try to find out why. But that’s beside the point. That’s what the two crimes, what I know of them, have in common. There are other elements that fit the psychopath profile, too: the apparent coolness and bravado with which Gemma was abducted; the charm Chivers must have exhibited to her mother; the clever deceit he must have played to get Johnson out to the mill, if that’s what he did. And you can add that he’s also likely to be manipulative, impulsive, egocentric and irresponsible. You’re nursing your pint, Alan. Anything wrong?”
“What? Oh, no. I’m just preserving my liver. I have to meet Jim Hatchley for dinner in a couple of hours.”
“So he’s in town again, is he?”
“Just for a little job.”
Jenny held her hand up. “Say no more. I don’t want to know anything about it. I can’t understand why you like that man.”
Banks shrugged. “Jim’s all right. Anyway, back to Chivers. What if he committed the Carl Johnson murder out of self-preservation?”
“The method was still his choice.”
“Yes.” Banks lit another cigarette. “Look, I’ll tell you what I’m getting at. Just before you arrived, I talked to my old friend Barney Merritt at the Yard, and he told me that Criminal Intelligence has got quite a file on Chivers. They’ve never been able to put him away for anything, but they’ve had reports of his suspected activities from time to time, and they’ve usually had some connection with organized crime. The closest they came to nabbing him was four years ago. An outsider trying to muscle in on a protection racket in Birmingham was found on a building site with a bullet in his brain. The police knew Chivers was connected with the local mob up there, and a couple of witnesses placed him with the victim in a pub near the site. Soon as things got serious, though, the witnesses started to lose their memories.”
“What are you telling me, Alan, that he’s a hit man or something?”
Banks waved his hand. “No, hold on, let me finish. Most of the information in the CI files concerns his suspected connection with criminal gangs in London and in Birmingham, doing hits, nobbling witnesses, enforcing debt-collection and the like. But word has it that when business is slack, Chivers is not averse to a bit of murder and mayhem on the side, just for the fun of it. And according to Barney, his employers started to get bad feelings about him about a year ago. They’re keeping their distance. Again, there’s nothing proven, just hearsay.”
“Interesting,” said Jenny. “Is there any more?”
“Just a few details. He’s prime suspect — without a scrap of proof — in three murders down south, one involving a fair amount of torture before death, and there are rumours of one or two fourteen-year-old girls he’s treated roughly in bed.”
Jenny shook her head. “If you’re getting at some kind of connection between that and Gemma, I’d say it’s highly unlikely.”
“But why? He likes his sex rough and strange. He likes them young. What happens when fourteen isn’t enough of a kick any more?”
“The fact that he likes having sex with fourteen-year-old girls in no way indicates, psychologically, that he could be interested in seven-year-olds. Quite the opposite, really.”
Banks frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“It was something else I discovered in my research. According to statistics, the younger the child, the older the paedophile is likely to be. Your Chivers sounds about the right age for an unhealthy interest in fourteen-year-olds, but, you know, if you’d given me no information at all about Gemma’s abduction, I’d say you should be looking for someone over forty, most likely someone who knew Gemma — a family friend, neighbour or even a relative — who lives in the area, or not far away, and probably lives alone. I certainly wouldn’t be looking for a young couple from Birmingham, or wherever.”
Banks shook his head. “Okay, let’s get back on track. Tell me what you think of this scenario. We know that plenty of psychopaths have found gainful employment in organized crime. They’re good at frightening people, they’re clever, and they make good killers. The problem is that they’re hard to control. Now, what do you do with a psychopath when you find him more of a business liability than an asset? You try to cut him loose and hope to hell he doesn’t bear a grudge. Or you have him killed, and so the cycle continues. His old bosses don’t trust Chivers any more, Jenny. He’s persona non grata. They’re scared of him. He has to provide his own entertainment now.”
“Hmm.” Jenny swirled her glass and took another sip. “It makes some sense, but I doubt that it’s quite like that. In the first place, if he’s hard to control, it’s more likely to mean that he’s losing control of himself. From what you told me, Chivers must have been a highly organized personality type at one time, exhibiting a great deal of control. But psychopaths are also highly unstable. They’re prone to deterioration. His personality could be disintegrating towards the disorganized type, and right now he might be in the middle, the mixed type. Most serial killers, for example, keep on killing until they’re caught or until they lose touch completely with reality. That’s why you don’t find many of them over forty. They’ve either been caught by then, or they’re hopelessly insane.”
Banks stubbed out his cigarette. “Are you suggesting that Chivers could be turning into a serial killer?”
Jenny shrugged. “Not necessarily a serial killer, but it’s possible, isn’t it? He doesn’t fit the general profile of a paedophile, and he’s certainly changing into something. Yes, it makes sense, Alan. I’m not saying it’s true, but it’s certainly consistent with the information you’ve got.”
“So what next?”
Jenny shuddered. “Your guess is as good as mine. Whatever it is, you can be sure it won’t be very pleasant. If he is experiencing loss of control, then he’s probably at a very volatile and unpredictable stage.” She finished her drink. “I’ll give you one piece of advice, though.”
“What’s that?”
“If it is true, be very careful. This man’s a loose cannon on the deck. He’s very dangerous. Maybe even more so than you realize.”
III
“Congratulations,” said Banks. “I really mean it, Jim. I’m happy for you. Why the hell didn’t you tell me before?”
“Aye, well… weren’t sure.” Sergeant Hatchley blushed. A typical Yorkshireman, he wasn’t comfortable with expressions of sentiment.
The two of them sat in the large oak-panelled dining-room of the Red Lion Hotel, an enormous Victorian structure by the roundabout on the southern edge of Eastvale. Hatchley was looking a bit healthier than he had on his arrival that afternoon. Then the ravages of a hangover had still been apparent around his eyes and in his skin, but now he had regained his normal ruddy complexion and that tell-me-another-one look in his pale blue eyes. Just for a few moments, though, his colour deepened even more and his eyes filled with pride. Banks was congratulating him on his wife’s pregnancy. Their first.
“When’s it due?” Banks asked.
“I don’t know. Don’t they usually take nine months?”
“I just wondered if the doctor had given you a date.”
“Mebbe Carol knows. She didn’t say owt to me, though. This is a good bit of beef.” He cut into his prime-rib roast and washed it down with a draught of Theakston’s bitter. “Ah, it’s good to be home again.”