‘…Some form of precipitating stress,’ he continued, noteless but unerringly exact in what he wanted to say. ‘You may wonder what I mean by that?’
He studied his audience, but in the absence of a reply or a raised hand he carried on. ‘What I mean is something like a breakdown in a marital relationship, the loss of a job, that sort of thing.’
He paused again, evidently thinking. ‘Perhaps I should say something about classification. I could tell you about Jenkins and the unpredictable and respectable types but -’ He stopped again, looking quizzically at Elaine Bell. ‘Maybe I should just plump for the revived Holmes and De Burger classification. Let me see, of their retained five types I only need to trouble you with, I believe, the missionary serial killer – the man or woman who appears to believe that they have responsibility or a special mission to cleanse the world of a certain category of human being, for example, whores or clergymen. Then again, perhaps, you should know too of the visionary serial killer – the person, usually psychotic or schizophrenic, who hears voices instructing them to kill other human beings. But maybe,’ he paused, ‘we are getting unnecessarily complicated. What I can say is that almost all serial killers are Caucasian males between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. Some take “mementoes” or “trophies” from their victims, hanks of hair, pieces of jewellery, that kind of thing. Fred West, for example, retained body parts from all…’
‘Sorry, sir, but just to understand the essentials – we should really concentrate on the organised/disorganised… umm… division?’ Tom Littlewood asked, bemused.
‘Certainly, but exercise caution. Douglas et al, in 1992 I think, introduced a third category into the taxonomy, the “mixed” offender. The introduction of this additional, intermediate category does, obviously, highlight a fundamental question, i.e. whether any empirical support for the basic dichotomy can be found. Does it not?’
Embarrassed silence greeted this enquiry, broken eventually by a question posed by Alice Rice.
‘Professor, do you think that human beings fall into distinct types? Because unless they do, templates for defining the characteristics of any distinct type won’t be of any use?’
‘Indeed I do. However, in Canter’s paper “The Organised/Disorganised Typology of Serial Murder: Myth or Model?” The learned author casts doubt upon the utility of -’
‘Thank you, Professor,’ Elaine Bell said, smiling broadly, raising her hands and beginning to clap loudly, ‘for a most helpful talk.’
The frail academic managed a stiff bow and then walked out of the room, his body bent forwards and taking little hurried steps as if to catch up with himself. Once the door had closed, Elaine Bell turned to face the small gathering. ‘Any questions?’
‘Yes. What are we supposed to make of that? Apart from anything else, the priest left his blood on the first victim, didn’t he? That’s a “forensic trace” of himself, surely?’ It was DC Ruth Lindsay, looking genuinely puzzled.
‘Yes, but that was all. Much more could have been left… is often left. All you need to remember, I think, is that the killer may, and I emphasise may, as he may well not, be an elder or only child who loathes his parents or parent, and may, despite his cleverness, have a sporadic work history. What else? Er…’
‘A Caucasian male between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five,’ Tom Littlewood prompted.
‘Aha,’ Elaine Bell replied, stroking the end of her inflamed nose. ‘And he may have just lost his job or had his marriage crash or whatever.’
‘That’s ok then,’ Eric Manson said, leaning back on his chair with his hands behind his head. ‘We’ll have reduced it to a mere tenth or so of the population. In this room, for example, only Tom, Jimmy and Simon are left.’
‘I’m off the hook, sir,’ DC Littlewood said smugly. ‘I’m the youngest in my family.’
‘Me, too, I’m innocent. I love my mum and dad,’ Jimmy Galloway said.
‘Simon?’ Eric Manson demanded. ‘That only leaves you!’
‘Well… I am an only child and I didn’t like my mum much, but – well, I’m a woman, sir.’
‘Enough of this drivel,’ Elaine Bell ordered, her mind already on the cup of coffee she intended to brew in the privacy of her room.
Google. There could be nothing to lose and something to gain. Alice typed in ‘Francis McPhail’ and waited for the entries to appear. And there were a surprising number of them, centring around three obscure publications – Sacred Spy, The True Path and Catholic Light, all editions produced in 2006. The first one, she noted, seemed to be little more than a collection of articles gleaned from other sources, all discreditable to the Catholic Church. They had titles such as ‘Celibacy: The Quick Route to Sexual Abuse’, ‘Bishop Gorged on Kiddie Porn Feast’ and ‘Sex and the Soutane’. McPhail’s name was only included as he had produced a commentary on a matter described by the rag as ‘One of the False Doctrines of Rome’. The True Path consisted of an extended diatribe against the evils of the modern world and any priests foolish enough to keep in touch with it. Such men were excoriated as ‘heretics, apostates, closet homosexuals, stunted adolescents and wrong heads’. McPhail had managed to draw the author’s ire by blessing a homosexual couple celebrating their twenty-fifth year together. For such an act he was labelled as ‘a Promoter of Sodomites and a Destroyer of the Family.’
A longer article about him, however, was unearthed in Catholic Light, a publication that made Alice feel queasy even as she ploughed through it. It was evidently no more than a semi-literate scandal sheet, peddling rumour and innuendo as news. Its creators had adopted the cheery language of the tabloids, and gave every impression of enjoying their self-appointed task. It, too, seemed to specialise in lurid headlines, such as ‘Priest’s Pants Off’ and ‘The Laity’s Love Machine’. The first half of this particular issue was given over to a justification of their current witch-pricking activity, a crusade to root out the ‘Evils of Homosexuality’ from within the Catholic Church. However, on page three, Father McPhail had been accorded a paragraph to himself entitled ‘Can of Worms’:
‘The insatiable Parish Priest of St Benedicts, Father Francis Xavier McPhail, has, we hear from reliable sources, become very close to yet another of his lady parishioners, this time a married mother of one. He used his position as her Parish Priest to “befriend” her, regularly “counselling” her on his own. Well, Father McPhail, lay your hands off ____________________ right now, or we’ll use our organ to expose you much more fully!!’
No other mention of McPhail appeared in the online version of the magazine, its last few pages being devoted to another chosen cause, this time the exposure of any Parish Priests who had expressed concern over the church’s teaching on contraception, with guarantees of anonymity expressly provided for informers. Reading Catholic Light, Alice was reminded of her schooldays and a rare breed of adherent she had then encountered, one she had thought extinct and whose passing she had not mourned. This was the passionate believer who knew the name of every Saint and Blessed from Aaron to Zita and the dates of their feast days; who lunched on haddock on Fridays, but saw no place in their lives for Christ’s teachings in the New Testament – love, forgiveness and other such peripheral matters – content that they were constantly in tune with the Magisterium of the church.
Eric Manson’s loud knocking on Mrs Donnelly’s door got no reply. So he went instead in search of Thomas McNiece. He discovered him sitting alone in The Severed Head, a pub off Portobello High Street. He was at a table by himself, hunched over his pint, eyes shut, and his head swaying to some internal tune. An untouched bowl of soup was by his elbow, puckered skin covering the thick, green liquid. When the policeman sat down next to him, McNiece moved down the bench seat, unconcerned who his neighbour might be, head still swaying in time to his own music.