‘What are you doing to protect us?’ someone yells from the back.
‘I got three kiddies,’ says another. ‘Their summer holidays begin next week. How am I going to keep them safe?’
A woman in front of me leans towards her husband, whispering: ‘Everyone knows it’s her ex-husband. He used to beat her up.’ She glances over her shoulder. Seeing me, she stiffens and her lips tighten into lines, as though challenging me to disagree with her.
Another woman comments, ‘I taught Harper at primary school – such a sweet thing – now I’m scared for my own children.’
There are more shouts and jeers. The undecided are being swayed. Terry Bannerman raises his arms. On the wrong side of obese, he has one of those deep, baritone radio voices that don’t require a microphone to reach the back of a room.
‘Calm down, people, we’re all friends here.’
I find myself cringing at his choice of words. The phrase annoys me – the fake bonhomie of it, the implied bond: how does he know we’re all friends? The killer could be in the crowd.
Bannerman lowers his arms. ‘Let’s allow this little lady to say her piece and then we’ll hear from someone who knows what they’re talking about.’
Cray gives him a ‘fuck you’ glance. Bannerman responds with a half smile.
The DCS begins again, trying a different approach. ‘Catching this killer is a job for all of us, not just the police. We need public support. You have to be our eyes and ears.’
‘Oh, we’ll catch him,’ says a man at the front. ‘And we’ll string him up.’
‘I’m not talking about vigilantism,’ replies Cray. ‘Look around you. Someone has likely given this killer an alibi. It could be a misguided wife, or disbelieving girlfriend, or a well-meaning mother or friend. If you have any suspicions, I urge you to call the Crimestoppers number. Your information will be treated with the utmost sensitivity and your identity will be protected.’
‘What about the attack on the coastal path?’ a woman yells.
I glance at Monk and give him a questioning look. He leans closer and whispers. ‘A woman was attacked on the outskirts of Clevedon, same day as the murders.’
‘Is it linked?’
‘Not that we can tell.’
Bannerman has grown impatient for his turn. ‘All I’ve heard so far are lots of fighting words and feeble excuses from the police,’ he says in a grandiose rumble. ‘Seems to me the DCS is feeding us a load of BS.’ The crowd laughs and heads nod appreciatively. ‘Now we have the police telling us that somehow we’re responsible for this. It’s our fault that nobody has been arrested.’
‘That’s not what I said,’ protests Cray.
Bannerman ignores her. ‘Do you know how long it took the police to catch Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper? Five years. In that time he killed thirteen women and attempted to murder another seven. Later we discovered they could have caught him much earlier, but the police failed to put the clues together. Sutcliffe bashed a prostitute six years before he ever killed one – but nobody thought he might be a suspect until it was too late. And do you know what the police told the community back then? “We’re doing everything we can. It’s under control. Trust us.” Sound familiar?’
Cray interrupts him. ‘You cannot equate this case with the Yorkshire Ripper.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ says Bannerman. ‘There’s a ripper on the loose. How many more women have to be attacked or murdered before you do your job? How many nights do these good, law-abiding citizens have to be prisoners in their own homes?’
‘We are doing everything possible to—’
‘You’re doing everything possible to protect your arse,’ says Bannerman. ‘You had your turn, DCS Cray. Let someone else have a say. We have our own expert – the man who blew the whistle on your incompetence – the psychologist who resigned from the investigation because the police were misinforming the public and putting us in danger. I want to welcome to the stage Emilio Coleman – better known as the Mindhunter.’
That’s when I see Milo. Dressed in skinny jeans, open-necked shirt and blue blazer, he’s not the same callow youth I remember from university. The cheap haircuts and math-nerd glasses have been replaced by designer stubble and blue contact lenses. Although always an assertive figure, he now seems to have refined his body language and become more than the sum of his parts.
Leaping on to the stage, he shakes hands with Bannerman and extends the same hand to DCS Cray, who ignores the gesture. Milo raises his eyebrows to the crowd and gives them a cheeky smile, getting the laughter he wanted. Then he walks to the edge of the stage and turns slowly, surveying every corner of the auditorium. I notice that he’s clenching and unclenching his left fist at five-second intervals. It’s more than a nervous mannerism.
Milo doesn’t speak until he has the room’s attention, starting quietly so that people lean forward to catch every word.
‘Elizabeth Crowe was stabbed more than thirty-six times with a seven-inch kitchen knife, with the killer focusing on her genitals,’ he says bluntly, aiming to shock.
I hear a collective intake of breath.
‘Even after she was dead, he kept stabbing her,’ says Milo. ‘It was an act of butchery worthy of Jack the Ripper.’
DCS Cray has jumped to her feet. ‘You have no right to reveal details of the investigation. You don’t work for the police. I could have you arrested—’
‘For what?’ asks Milo. ‘Telling people the truth?’
‘For hindering a murder investigation.’
‘Go on, then.’ Milo holds out his hands, wrists together. The DCS has been painted into a corner. Milo turns back to the crowd, knowing the audience is now ‘his’. ‘I think that proves my point,’ he says. ‘The police wish to keep these details from you. That’s why I withdrew from the investigation and that’s why I am here tonight – risking arrest – to tell you the truth.’
Terry Bannerman pipes up. ‘What else don’t we know?’
‘A pentagram was painted in blood on the wall and candles were found arranged around Elizabeth Crowe’s body, which leads me to believe there were ritualistic elements to these murders.’
‘Are you saying these were satanic killings?’ asks Bannermen, his voice rising.
‘There were certainly features normally associated with pagan sacrifice,’ replies Milo, ‘and a Bible was found with bloodstained pages. I can also reveal that Harper Crowe had an encyclopaedia of witchcraft and occult philosophy in her bedroom. She was also known to wear heavy eyeliner and dress in black.’
‘You think Harper Crowe was into the occult?’ asks Bannerman.
‘She clearly had an interest.’
‘That’s not true,’ yells a female voice, close to tears. Elizabeth’s sister, Becca, has leapt to her feet. ‘My niece was not a Goth or a witch.’ She jabs her finger at Milo. ‘Harper was a sweet girl. She did nothing wrong.’
Milo is momentarily shaken. ‘Of course, I understand, I’m simply pointing out how the police have failed to investigate this particular angle.’
Becca’s husband tugs at her hand asking her to sit down, but she ignores him. ‘You shouldn’t make accusations like that, Mr Coleman, not when people aren’t around to defend their reputations.’
Milo holds his right hand against his heart. ‘Please accept my sincerest apologies. I do not wish to cause offence or add to your grief.’
Becca is coaxed back to her seat and Milo continues. A part of me is appalled by his performance, but another part is mesmerised. He reminds me of a Pentecostal preacher on a US religious channel – a man who can cry as easily as he can summon a miracle and play a crowd like a cheap fiddle.
‘I have prepared a psychological profile of the killer, which I will release tonight in the hope that it will keep people safe and trigger memories that might help close this case and put a psychopath behind bars.’
Milo reads from the screen of his phone. ‘This was a targeted killing. He chose the farmhouse becaus
e it was isolated. He could well have been watching Elizabeth and Harper for weeks. He may have befriended them. He clearly had knowledge of the house, which suggests he may have visited it before.’
DCS Cray is still on stage but seems lost. If she arrests Milo there will be headlines all over tomorrow’s papers.
‘We also know that Elizabeth Crowe had been using a website to meet sexual partners,’ says Milo. ‘There is evidence that she took part in orgies in public places with random strangers.’
The information causes a buzz in the crowd. Becca jumps to her feet again. Tearful. Angry. ‘Liar! You’re calling my sister a … a…’ She can’t bring herself to use the word.
Francis joins in this time. ‘How dare you insult our family! We didn’t come here to listen to gossip and innuendo.’
‘Why did you come here?’ asks Milo, dismissing him with a sad-eyed smile. ‘You want answers, the same as everyone else. I’m not judging Mrs Crowe, but I cannot ignore the possibility that she met the killer at one of those locations where people gather to have sex or watch others.
‘What isn’t in doubt is that someone attacked and overpowered Elizabeth. The assault was frenzied, yet efficient, carried out by someone with forensic awareness. He took care to clean up afterwards. This man is ruthless, confident and able to carry out his plans with precision. This suggests he may have a military background or be involved in a job that requires organisational skills.
‘I believe the killer is most likely aged between twenty-five and fifty-five. He was strong enough to have overpowered a fit and healthy woman and suffocate her teenage daughter. He will have a fascination with violent pornography and also the occult.’
Cray has heard enough. She leaves the stage, flanked by the two constables. Monk turns to me. ‘Are you coming?’
‘I’ll stay.’
‘Suit yourself.’
On stage, Milo seems to be growing in stature, his face lit with evangelical zeal. This is his moment in the spotlight. ‘I don’t want to antagonise the police,’ he explains. ‘They do an important and difficult job, but sometimes detectives lose sight of the salient points of an investigation. They stare at the murder map for so long they are blind to its elements – unable to see the wood for the trees.
‘Now I want you all to remember back to the night of Saturday June sixth, and the early hours of the following morning. The killer would have been covered in blood – his clothes, his face, his hands and his shoes. Do you know of anyone who came home that night in a different set of clothes; someone who acted suspiciously or who has taken an unhealthy interest in the coverage of the murders? It could be a neighbour, a friend, or somebody who lives under your roof, or drinks at your local pub or works in your office. He might even be here tonight.’
The audience has fallen silent, shifting uncomfortably in their seats, some purposely avoiding eye contact while others focus upon me – a stranger in the room.
‘This is not about living in fear or being paranoid,’ Milo says. ‘It’s about searching your memories.’ He glances towards the door. ‘It’s a shame that DCS Cray has gone because I do not blame the police. They are still our best hope for solving this shocking crime. So if you do have information, feel free to come to me. I will treat it confidentially and pass it on to the right people. Thank you.’
Milo steps down from the stage. He makes a point of going straight to Becca and Francis, offering his condolences and apologising. Becca refuses to shake his hand. Francis seems more protective than angry, telling Milo to leave them alone.
Meanwhile people are pushing past me as they leave the hall. I can hear snatches of their conversations.
‘Sex in public … who’d have thought…’
‘I always said there was something odd about her.’
‘Some of those clothes she wore…’
‘I didn’t like the way she looked at my husband.’
‘Did she flirt with him?’
‘All the time.’
‘Divorce can do that to some women.’
‘Well, I feel sorry for her daughter.’
‘She’s dead!’
‘But apart from that, you know.’
5
Milo is surrounded by people who want to shake his hand, pose for photographs or ask him questions.
‘That was quite a performance,’ I say.
‘I just tell it as I see it,’ replies Milo, smiling for another camera. He turns and recognises me. ‘Professor O’Loughlin! Long time no see.’
‘Hello, Milo.’
My left arm trembles.
‘So how’s it shaking?’ he asks.
‘Rattling and rolling.’
‘Good to hear. You caught the show?’
‘I thought it was a public meeting.’
‘Whatever.’
Harper’s two girlfriends pass nearby and Milo seems to drink in their curves as though committing every detail to memory.
‘So what brings you to Clevedon?’ he asks.
‘Same thing as you.’
‘I thought you’d retired.’
‘Not yet.’
Milo signs an autograph for a middle-aged woman whose daughter is waiting at the door. ‘We really appreciate what you’re doing,’ she says. ‘You’re an angel.’
He bows. ‘You give me far too much credit.’
‘They treat you like a rock star,’ I say, when the woman has gone.
‘Just doing my bit,’ Milo replies. ‘I have my own business now.’ He hands me a black, gilt-edged business card with the word MINDHUNTER written in cursive script. On the next line is his name, followed by several initials, most of which mean nothing. The smaller print details his services: Criminal profiler, police consultant, employee vetting and psychological testing.
‘How’s business?’
‘Booming! Crime is a growth industry. You were really on to something with this profiling gig.’
‘It’s not a gig,’ I say, trying to hide the harshness in my tone.
Milo hears it anyway. ‘You’re right. It doesn’t pay very well, but the publicity is priceless. I’m thinking books, maybe my own crime TV show. I could look at cold cases or reinvestigate old crimes.’
‘Like a modern-day Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Yeah,’ he replies, ignoring my sarcasm.
‘You used my name,’ I say.
He shrugs. ‘I told people that I studied under you.’
‘I want you to stop.’
‘Why? You’re getting some of the credit. You taught me everything I know.’
‘I taught you nothing.’
He sighs. ‘Listen, Professor – can I call you Joe?’
‘No.’
Amusement sparks in his eyes. ‘OK, Professor, I hope you don’t feel as though I’m muscling in on your territory. I mean, it’s not as if you have a monopoly on this business. Murder is the second oldest profession – or is that politics? – I can never remember. Anyway, there’s plenty of room for healthy competition.’
‘I’m not competing with you.’
‘Exactly. I’m a forensic psychologist. You’re a clinical psychologist. You stick to treating phobias and OCD and I’ll handle the sharp end.’
‘You have no idea what you’re doing.’
‘Sure I do. I’m making money out of something you couldn’t. I’m a professional profiler. You’re an amateur. Have you ever been paid for profiling?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘I think it is. I think you’re jealous. I also think you’re old. Go home. Take a pill. Leave this to me.’
I should ignore him, I should walk away, but stiff-upper-lip stoicism and turning the other cheek won’t put Milo back in his box. He is dangerous and delusional and he has jeopardised a murder hunt by treating it like some sort of intellectual parlour game or Agatha Christie puzzle. In the same breath I realise that Milo won’t listen to reason or be convinced of his failings because he doesn’t admit to any. And he can’t be motivated to moderate h
is behaviour or tone down his message because such subtleties are lost on him. Where does this leave me?
‘Hey, Milo, remember that term we studied personality disorders and you chose to write your assignment on narcissism?’
He nods.
‘That was the finest paper you ever penned. I mean, you nailed it, Milo. It was almost autobiographical.’
He smiles at me serenely. ‘Is that the best you can do?’
I feel something small and fragile break in my mouth, as though a tiny glass vial has cracked between my teeth, leaking poison into my bloodstream. ‘How often are you seeing a therapist?’ I ask.
Milo’s mouth opens but he doesn’t speak.
‘That little thing you do – clenching and unclenching your fist – you were counting to five and telling yourself to breathe. Someone taught you to do that to relieve stress – a therapist or a psychologist. What makes you anxious, Milo? Is it the crowd or your own doubts? You’re not the type to worry about what other people think of you. You’re brighter than they are. You’re brilliant. There must have been someone else here that you were trying to impress – a woman, standing near the back. She was filming you. You wanted a record of tonight so you can replay it later. Watch yourself. Pick up any mistakes. Or maybe you get a sexual charge out of seeing yourself on stage.’
Milo’s eyes slightly glaze over and colour flushes into his cheeks. He wants to hit me. Maybe I’m the bully.
Terry Bannerman has dragged himself away from a cluster of fans. He slaps Milo on the back, congratulating him. He looks right past me, almost dismissively, and then refocuses on my face.
‘You’re that professor,’ he says, excitedly. ‘You must be very proud of your protégé.’
‘Yes, he’s come a long way,’ I reply. ‘Let’s hope he finds his way back.’
6
Halfway down Mill Hill Lane, opposite the cottage, there is a huge chestnut tree that is famous among local children for the size and strength of its conkers. I am parked beneath the lowest branches. The dashboard clock reads 9.45. There are lights on upstairs. Charlie is still awake but Emma will be asleep by now, curled up under a small mountain of stuffed rabbits, bears and dogs arranged in a specific order, smallest to largest, or alphabetically, or by colour, depending upon her whim.
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