by Des Ekin
Hair dyed bright red for this job, Mary was wearing the sort of clothes that any young woman would wear to go clubbing on a Saturday evening – ideal for hot dance clubs, but pitifully inadequate for lengthy surveillance operations in unheated vans in the depths of winter. Silently she cursed her own foolishness for having left her padded parka jacket in the boot of her surveillance car.
However, Mary Smith would never complain about her working conditions. At twenty-eight, she was one of the fittest members of Sauvage’s élite unit – able to run five miles in battle gear with full kit on her back, and do it faster than any of her male colleagues. Intelligent enough to qualify for Mensa, she had spent six months training with the FBI and was a specialist in handling hijack, kidnap and siege situations. She could do this sort of job in her sleep.
And her name wasn’t Mary Smith, either.
‘I don’t know what they’re doing,’ Bernard Sauvage admitted. ‘I can’t get anything at all on the mike.’
‘So where are they, then? Could they have left by some other exit?’
The Bear shook his shaggy head. ‘No. There’s only one door, and we’ve got someone covering the fire exit. They’re definitely still in there.’ He checked the time display on the tape console. ‘Over four hours. What are they up to?’
‘Perhaps they’re going through the filing cabinets,’ Mary Smith suggested. ‘Photocopying incriminating documents to embarrass Addison.’
‘Perhaps. Serve the bastard right if they are.’
‘Should we put in an anonymous call to Uniform?’ Mary asked hopefully. ‘Tell them the place is being burgled?’
‘No. Remember, it’s important to us that Hunter’s free on the street. It wouldn’t help us at all if he ended up in jail.’ Sauvage patted her shoulder. ‘Patience, Mary. That’s what we need in this job.’
She raised her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me, Bear. You had to spend forty-eight hours in a wet ditch in the depths of December to catch the terrorist gang who kidnapped that businessman in 1988. Point taken.’
‘Forty-nine hours,’ said Sauvage. ‘And twenty minutes. And we got him back safe.’
‘Well, let’s hope that we can also get a good result with Mr TS Hunter.’ Mary lifted a monochrome photo from an open folder, and suddenly frowned. ‘What is his first name, anyway? I haven’t seen his file.’
Sauvage finished labelling a videotape. ‘He doesn’t talk about it much. And I can understand why.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Seems his mother’s maiden name was Thompson, and she passed that on to him as a first name – it was a sort of family tradition. And his middle name is Sebastian.’
Mary Smith stared at him in bewilderment until the penny dropped.
‘So his full name is Thompson S. Hunter,’ she said at last.
He nodded.
‘He’s a journalist called Thompson S. Hunter. As in …’
‘Yes, as in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Only backwards.’ He smiled for the first time that night. ‘If I was him, I’d try to keep it quiet too.’
Mary peered through the binoculars again, then rubbed her eyes. She thought she saw three shadows moving across the blinds, and for a moment she thought they were doing some sort of dance of celebration. But she couldn’t be sure.
UP in the office, the atmosphere was crackling with enthusiasm. The discovery of the snatch shot had acted like a catalyst, converting all their latent tensions into energy. All three of them were sparking with ideas.
They did several monochrome print-outs of the photo, refining the image until it was as sharp as they could possibly get it. Come morning, they’d take copies on disk to a processing centre and get large colour prints. One copy of the photo would go to Emma in Passage North; a second would go to Mark Tobey, to be shown around his police contacts. Martin would try his luck with other press photographers, and Hunter would check the red-light zones. Between them all, they were bound to find someone who’d recognise her.
‘Hang on,’ Martin said suddenly. ‘It mightn’t be as simple as that.’
Hunter stared at him. ‘You think this is simple?’
‘I mean, she might be in disguise.’ The cameraman pointed to the woman’s hair. ‘That’s obviously a syrup.’
‘Syrup?’ Hunter was lost.
‘Syrup of fig. Wig,’ explained Martin. ‘She could look completely different in real life, know what I mean? What we need are photos showing her with different hairstyles – as a blonde, a brunette, a redhead; hair up, down, short, long. With glasses, without.’
Hunter disappeared to the office canteen and returned with three cans of Coke from the vending machine. ‘And how could we do that?’ he asked. ‘Draw the hair on with coloured pencils?’
Martin accepted a can and popped it open. ‘Sort of,’ he said. ‘Only the drawing would be done by computer. I’ve got this mate who works in an advertising agency art studio. They got equipment there you wouldn’t believe. Computers that would make this one’ – he gestured contemptuously towards his own machine – ‘look like a bargain-store calculator.’
‘So your mate could give our ghost different looks and hairstyles?’ said Hunter.
‘No problem,’ Martin agreed. ‘He could also sharpen up the image a bit. Only trouble is, he works in months, not days or hours. Whereas you want something by … by when?’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Hunter.
‘Bloody hell,’ exclaimed Martin. ‘Cost you.’
‘How much?’
‘Dunno. Maybe three hundred. On top of my own fee, of course.’
Hunter caught his breath and wondered how he’d find the money. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.
Only Claire had said it first.
HUNTER didn’t get home until 3.00am. There wasn’t much traffic around at that time of night, just a newspaper-delivery van that got stuck behind Claire’s car for a few blocks around the city centre. Then some woman driver dressed in full clubbing gear, with dyed carrot-red hair, drove slowly past them outside Hunter’s house.
‘I’m sure I’ve seen that face before,’ he said as she drove past.
‘Who?’
‘That woman who just passed us.’
Claire sighed and started the engine on her Fiat Brava. ‘Get some sleep, Hunter,’ she said. ‘You look as though you could do with it. And we’ve a lot to do tomorrow.’
Hunted nodded. ‘You’re right. I’m probably imagining things. Good night.’
‘Night. And remember – stay on solid ground.’
He smiled and nodded as she drove off.
Later, inside the house, he made himself a mug of tea and played back the messages on his answering machine. There was only one of any importance.
‘Hi, Hunter, sweetie. This is me. Naomi Scott.’
He recognised the loud, mumsy voice of the features editor of the Evening Report. Naomi was an old friend from way back. She was a talented writer who had a habit of talking to everyone in the loud, warm, reassuring tones of a kindly nurse addressing a patient in a home for elderly people.
‘I know I’m supposed to tell you the time I’m phoning at, but I’ve left my watch in the pocket of my suit, and it’s at the stupid dry-cleaner’s. Anyway, it’s around about now, and I’ve simply been seething about all those nasty things they’re writing about you, pumpkin, because I know they’re not true.’
Hunter raised his tea-beaker towards the answering machine in a pointless gesture of gratitude. ‘Thanks, Naomi.’
‘You see, I know you’re not making any of this up, sweetikins,’ Naomi continued, ‘because the same woman came into our newsroom with the same bizarre story. The hooker, I mean. The one who claimed she saw Valentia abducting the girl. Well, that’s about it, honeybun. Look after yourself, don’t let it get you down.’
Hunter was staring at the answering machine in disbelief.
‘Oh … and one other thing,’ said Naomi. ‘If you want to hunt her down and kill her for getting you into all this trouble,
poppet, have no fear. I’ve got her address and I’ll come along with you and give her a smack or two with my handbag. Night-night, honey-bunny. Sleep tight.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘ANGER Retaliatory,’ said Emma.
‘Pardon?’ said Hunter.
‘Anger Retaliatory,’ Emma repeated. ‘You asked what sort of a killer would select a series of victims who are completely unrelated, but match the same sort of description – in this case, red-haired single mothers. I know which sort – or, at least, I think I know. The technical term is Anger Retaliatory.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me,’ said Hunter.
Emma took a deep breath. ‘I’m no expert in criminal psychology,’ she said, ‘but my theory is that he’s the sort of attacker the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime might describe as Anger Retaliatory.’
‘Go on.’ Hunter was making notes at the other end of the line.
‘The identifying factors are uncontrollable anger and an overwhelming urge to punish the victim in retaliation for some real or imagined offence,’ Emma said. ‘That’s all. There is no other motive.’
‘Let me get it straight,’ Hunter said. ‘He does this because he wants to get even with the victim for something?’
Emma nodded. ‘In his mind, yes. This is what distinguishes him from the sadist, who hurts primarily because he gets sexual pleasure from it. In that case, the behaviour would be chillingly controlled. But the Anger Retaliatory offender will attack in a blitz of violence – ripping clothes, grabbing rocks or branches or any other weapons he can find at the scene, using far more force than he needs to. The attack will be short and brutal and will often involve rape. The words he uses will be abusive, hostile, and intended to humiliate. The crime scene will reveal an explosion of fury. This is a man who’s totally out of control. He can’t curb his anger. He won’t kill every time he attacks, but every time he strikes, he’s a potential killer.’
‘But why? Why does he do all this?’
‘Revenge,’ Emma said. ‘He’s driven by the need for revenge. In his mind, he is getting his own back on the victim for something she’s done to him in the past.’
‘In his mind,’ Hunter repeated slowly. He was finally beginning to understand. ‘But the victim herself may not have done anything at all. She just reminds him of someone who has.’
‘That’s exactly it,’ she said. ‘In many instances, the victim is purely symbolic to him. She represents somebody who has wronged him – or who he believes has wronged him – in the past. She could simply be unfortunate enough to share the hate-figure’s name. Or it could be a matter of job description, uniform, or status in society. Anger Retaliatories have attacked nurses, students or prostitutes for no other reason than their occupation.’
‘You mean, like Jack the Ripper in Victorian England?’
‘Exactly. Jack the Ripper was arguably the most famous Anger Retaliatory killer in history. And there have been many more. One notorious killer murdered six elderly women – complete strangers – because they reminded him of his mother. I once treated a patient who nearly killed a tourist from Glasgow because the man’s accent triggered off his memories of sexual abuse at the hands of his Scottish teacher.’
‘Yes, I’ve read about cases like that.’
‘Or it could simply be her physical appearance. She could vaguely resemble his hate-figure in face, height, weight, shape, hair colour. Sometimes that’s all it takes to spark off a –’
‘Hair colour?’
‘What?’
‘You just said hair colour. Kate Spain, Frieda Winter … yes, and Karen Quinn as well. They all had strikingly red hair.’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions. That could be sheer coincidence.’
Hunter thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know if you’re right about all this, Emma,’ he said, ‘but since I can’t think of any other motive worth a damn, we’ll take this idea and run with it. Where do we go from here?’
‘Think about it,’ she said. ‘All three victims could be symbols of an original hate figure, a red-headed single mother from somewhere in Valentia’s past.’
‘So?’
‘Well, I don’t know about you,’ Emma said. ‘But I’d dearly love to find out who she is. And I know two people who might be able to help us. I’ll get on to it right away.’
GERALDINE sat down in her kitchen chair and dusted the flour from her hands. She’d just returned from church and was in the act of preparing brunch for her family.
‘I wouldn’t disturb you on a Sunday if it weren’t so important,’ Emma assured her.
‘That’s not a problem, Doctor.’ Emma’s secretary waved her hand dismissively. ‘Anything I can do, I’ll do, especially if it helps you to get your job back.’
Emma nodded her thanks. ‘I just thought that, since you grew up alongside Joe Valentia, you might be able to shed some light on this puzzle.’
Geraldine thought for a long time.
‘There were a lot of red-haired girls,’ she said at last, ‘but one of them really sticks in my mind. She had exceptionally red hair – poppy-red.’ She frowned, trying to remember. ‘Elizabeth. Elizabeth something.’
‘Who was she?’
‘She was a sort of second cousin to Joe. Her parents died together in an accident, and she was adopted by the Valentia family as a nanny. She was a lovely girl – not what you’d call attractive, but great fun, very popular. And she seemed extraordinarily happy in Passage North. That’s why we were all so surprised when she left town so suddenly.’
‘What age was she?’
‘Eighteen, nineteen, maybe. I didn’t know her all that well.’
Emma leaned forward. ‘Any idea why she left?’
Geraldine shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Nobody was allowed to talk about it. I was only a kid myself, don’t forget. But I do know one thing. When Lizzie disappeared from his life, young Joe was absolutely devastated.’
THE rickety old parochial house had several missing tiles and a definite sag in its roof. It looked as though it was about to fall down in the next breeze.
The building authorities had condemned it years before, but its only occupant, Monsignor Jerome Mason, refused to move out. He was a bit eccentric, Geraldine had told Emma, but he just might have some useful information. ‘He has a passion for collecting books,’ she said. ‘They say he’s got so many of them in there that you can hardly move.’ Other townspeople put it less tactfully: they said that he was off his rocker.
The large garden was surrounded by a tall granite wall, and as Emma walked past she could hear the rhythmic sound of a spade scraping into tough, stony soil.
She knocked on the ancient iron door knocker. It seemed an age before the catch turned on the door. It opened only a few inches, barely enough to reveal a shock of white-grey hair and a pair of old-fashioned social-welfare spectacles patched together by generous layers of adhesive tape. Behind the strong lenses, intense blue eyes stared at her suspiciously.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Monsignor,’ said Emma. ‘My name is Dr Emma Macaulay, and –’
She got no further.
‘I don’t care what you’ve been told by the Bishop,’ the old priest hissed. ‘I’m perfectly healthy, and I’m certainly not mad. I don’t need a doctor. I’m just an old man who wants to be left alone. Now go away.’
He was about to slam the door, but appeared to think better of it and closed it gently but with an air of firm finality.
‘That’s not why I came,’ Emma shouted.
‘Go away,’ said the muffled voice. ‘And leave me alone.’
Defeated, she turned and walked back down the overgrown path towards the roadway. The sound of digging resumed.
Chapter Seventeen
IN Dublin, it was a beautiful winter’s morning, crisp and cold and sunny. Hunter could hear a robin singing its heart out from somewhere within a clump of frosted hawthorn trees in a neighbouring garden, and, for some reason, he found the
sound immeasurably uplifting.
He carried out a thorough search of his house and found enough loose cash, mostly coins, to keep him going for the day. And in one single momentous discovery, he unearthed a hundred-dollar note which he’d lost after a trip to the USA years ago.
But money wasn’t his only problem. Lack of transport had become a major headache. He had to do a lot of travelling around town, but the city bus service was running on a Sunday schedule and half his day would be wasted hanging around bus stops.
Then a crazy idea occurred to him. Why should he squander valuable hours making bus connections when he already had a form of transport available? An unusual form of transport, admittedly, but …
With mounting excitement, he rummaged in the wardrobe and pulled out a padded suede jacket with a zip-up front, warm enough to keep out the winter winds. He slammed the door and hurried across the frosty grass to the garage.
For a few moments he walked slowly around her, forgetting everything else as he admired her smooth lines, her sumptuous curves, her shining paintwork and gleaming chrome wing-mirrors.
She was his secret Latin love, his pride and joy – a fully restored 125cc Vespa Gran Turismo from 1963, styled by the great Corradino d’Ascanio and now regarded as a classic of modern Italian design.
Hunter had found her, rusting and abandoned, in a wrecking yard. It had taken him nearly four years to restore this faded Italian goddess to her original glory, cannibalising spare parts from scrapyards, buying rare replacement components from specialist garages all over the world, using sheer hard graft and sweat to remove decades of rust and neglect, all to re-awaken the original vision of d’Ascanio and his determination that a utilitarian object should also be something quite beautiful.
