psychologist, by involving this television programme, he was not admitting any inability on his own part or that of his department. It was necessary to cast a wider net than he alone could wield in order to catch this killer, and Solomon had told him that it was highly likely the man they were after would watch the programme.
‘He won’t know beforehand that there will be any reference to his killings, but he will
expect
some sort of recognition. The obsession with self will make him glory in his deeds and want to see them displayed,’ the psychologist had said.
Lorimer knew a lot about killers and their utter conviction that they were invulnerable. They all believed that they could never be caught. Some of them had appeared shrunken and bewildered when the law had finally put a stop to their evil progress. Others continued to display an arrogant bravado until the day a judge sentenced them to a suitable term of imprisonment. What about this man? A vision of his photofit face came to Lorimer’s mind. Unsmiling, clean shaven, with close-cropped hair, he could be a soldier, a policeman even, or any ordinary respectable citizen. It was frightening how normal-looking appearances hid such evil within. With a shudder Lorimer remembered the benign, smiling face of Thomas Hamilton, the warped murderer of that class of infants and their teacher in Dunblane.
‘Chief Inspector?’
A small woman withdyed red hair and round black spectacles stood in front of him.
‘A telephone call for you.’
Still cradling his glass, Lorimer followed the woman out into the corridor. They walked along until she stopped by the door of a well-lit office.
‘You can take it in there. That’s a separate line.’
Lorimer nodded and the woman closed the door softly behind her.
‘Hello. Chief Inspector Lorimer speaking.’
‘It’s Solomon.’
Lorimer’s heart sank. Somehow he had hoped for a respite from cowboys and indians.
‘I want you to do something for me.’ Lorimer waited, curious despite himself. ‘Can you ask the presenter not to mention the case in his update?’
‘
Not
to mention?’ Lorimer’s voice was incredulous.
‘Yes.’ There was the usual pause that Lorimer had come to expect between Solomon’s statement and elucidation. ‘He’ll be expecting to hear more about himself. I want you to provoke his vanity by keeping him guessing. If he hears nothing it will seem to him that his case is not important any more, despite the earlier programme.’
‘But if there
is
real information coming through …’ Lorimer hesitated. He felt, like Solomon, the delicate control that this television show was exercising over their unknown killer.
‘You don’t want him to go to ground?’
‘I don’t want any more dead bodies either!’ Lorimer snapped back.
There was another pausein which Solomon’s sigh was just audible.
‘If no one appears to have telephoned it’s just possible that he will dial that number himself.’
Yes, thought Lorimer, from a call box. The bastard isn’t a fool.
‘Chief Inspector,’ Solomon’s voice sounded almost wistful, ‘I really would like to hear his voice.’ He paused again and when Lorimer did not reply he continued, this time adopting the manner of a teacher speaking to a stubborn child. ‘There are certain aspects of this case I’d like to discuss with you. May I see you about four o’clock tomorrow?’
Lorimer was suddenly torn between annoyance at the man’s presumption and a desire to laugh at the absurdity of taking orders from him.
‘Chief Inspector?’
‘All right. I’ll see what I can do. Tomorrow at four then.’
As he put down the phone he could just imagine Solomon’s wide smile.
Nick Ross was not smiling when Lorimer suggested that the update should make no mention of the St Mungo’s murders.
‘But we have all these calls giving possible names!’
‘And we both know that it’s going to take days to corroborate them. By that time he could be
‘He won’t know beforehand that there will be any reference to his killings, but he will
expect
some sort of recognition. The obsession with self will make him glory in his deeds and want to see them displayed,’ the psychologist had said.
Lorimer knew a lot about killers and their utter conviction that they were invulnerable. They all believed that they could never be caught. Some of them had appeared shrunken and bewildered when the law had finally put a stop to their evil progress. Others continued to display an arrogant bravado until the day a judge sentenced them to a suitable term of imprisonment. What about this man? A vision of his photofit face came to Lorimer’s mind. Unsmiling, clean shaven, with close-cropped hair, he could be a soldier, a policeman even, or any ordinary respectable citizen. It was frightening how normal-looking appearances hid such evil within. With a shudder Lorimer remembered the benign, smiling face of Thomas Hamilton, the warped murderer of that class of infants and their teacher in Dunblane.
‘Chief Inspector?’
A small woman withdyed red hair and round black spectacles stood in front of him.
‘A telephone call for you.’
Still cradling his glass, Lorimer followed the woman out into the corridor. They walked along until she stopped by the door of a well-lit office.
‘You can take it in there. That’s a separate line.’
Lorimer nodded and the woman closed the door softly behind her.
‘Hello. Chief Inspector Lorimer speaking.’
‘It’s Solomon.’
Lorimer’s heart sank. Somehow he had hoped for a respite from cowboys and indians.
‘I want you to do something for me.’ Lorimer waited, curious despite himself. ‘Can you ask the presenter not to mention the case in his update?’
‘
Not
to mention?’ Lorimer’s voice was incredulous.
‘Yes.’ There was the usual pause that Lorimer had come to expect between Solomon’s statement and elucidation. ‘He’ll be expecting to hear more about himself. I want you to provoke his vanity by keeping him guessing. If he hears nothing it will seem to him that his case is not important any more, despite the earlier programme.’
‘But if there
is
real information coming through …’ Lorimer hesitated. He felt, like Solomon, the delicate control that this television show was exercising over their unknown killer.
‘You don’t want him to go to ground?’
‘I don’t want any more dead bodies either!’ Lorimer snapped back.
There was another pausein which Solomon’s sigh was just audible.
‘If no one appears to have telephoned it’s just possible that he will dial that number himself.’
Yes, thought Lorimer, from a call box. The bastard isn’t a fool.
‘Chief Inspector,’ Solomon’s voice sounded almost wistful, ‘I really would like to hear his voice.’ He paused again and when Lorimer did not reply he continued, this time adopting the manner of a teacher speaking to a stubborn child. ‘There are certain aspects of this case I’d like to discuss with you. May I see you about four o’clock tomorrow?’
Lorimer was suddenly torn between annoyance at the man’s presumption and a desire to laugh at the absurdity of taking orders from him.
‘Chief Inspector?’
‘All right. I’ll see what I can do. Tomorrow at four then.’
As he put down the phone he could just imagine Solomon’s wide smile.
Nick Ross was not smiling when Lorimer suggested that the update should make no mention of the St Mungo’s murders.
‘But we have all these calls giving possible names!’
‘And we both know that it’s going to take days to corroborate them. By that time he could be
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