A serial killer produces signals and indicators in the commission of his crimes. Everything he does is intended, consciously or not, as part of a pattern. Discovering the underlying pattern reveals the killer’s logic. It may not appear logical to us, but to him it is crucial. Because his logic is so idiosyncratic, straightforward traps will not capture him. As he is unique, so must be the means of catching him, interviewing him and reconstructing his acts.
He read it through, then deleted the second paragraph. As far as they knew, this killer wasn’t serial yet. If Tony could help Ambrose and Patterson do their job, the killer might not get to the crucial ‘three plus’ that officially made him a serial. In Tony’s world, that was what passed for a happy ending.
On the other hand, if they didn’t succeed, there would be more. It was all a question of time. Time and skill. Just because they were in at the start didn’t mean this wasn’t a serial killer. With a sigh, he reinstated the paragraph then continued.
His fingers flew over the keys as he outlined in detail the conclusions he’d already run through with Ambrose at the body dump and earlier in the car. He paused for thought, then got up and explored the galley. He found instant coffee and creamer in jars and when he turned the tap on, water emerged. Cautiously he tasted it and decided it was fit to drink. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he searched for a mug and a spoon. The second drawer he opened contained cutlery. As he reached in to get a teaspoon, his thumb snagged on something. He looked more closely and found a thick white envelope the size of a postcard. When he turned it over, he was shocked to see his name on the front in neat block capitals. Arthur had written DR TONY HILL on an envelope and stuffed it in the cutlery drawer of his boat. It made no sense to him. Why would anyone do that? If he wanted Tony to have something, why leave it here, where it could so easily be missed, and not with the lawyer? And did Tony really want to know what the envelope contained?
He felt the envelope. There was something more than paper inside. Something light but solid, maybe ten centimetres by four, about the thickness of a CD box. He put it down while he made his coffee, constantly aware of its presence in his peripheral vision. He took the coffee and the envelope back to the table where he’d been working and set them down. He stared at the envelope, wondering. What had Arthur chosen to leave in so uncertain a way? And how would it help Tony to know what it was? He was sure there were things he didn’t want to know about Arthur, but unsure what knowledge he did want to possess.
In the end, his curiosity won over his doubt. He ripped open the envelope and shook out its contents. There was a sheet of A4 made from the same heavy paper stock as the envelope. And a tiny digital voice recorder, the type Tony used himself these days when he was dictating patient notes for his secretary. He pushed at it with one finger, as if expecting it to burst into flames. Frowning, he unfolded the paper. Across the top, Arthur Blythe’s name was engraved in copperplate script. He took a deep breath and started to read the neat handwriting that covered the page.
Dear Tony, it began.
The fact that you’re reading this means that you’ve chosen not to ignore your inheritance. I’m glad about that. I failed you while I was alive. I can’t make up for that, but I hope you can use what I’ve left you to give yourself some pleasure. I want to explain myself to you but I understand that you owe me nothing and you might not want to hear my self-justification. For a long time, I never knew you existed. Please believe that. I never intended to abandon you. But since I found out about you, I’ve watched your progress with a pride I know I have no right to. You’re a clever man, I know that. So I leave it up to you whether you choose to hear what I have to say.
Whatever decision you make, please believe that I am sincerely sorry you grew up without a father in your life to help and support you. I wish you all kinds of happiness in the future.
Yours truly,
(Edmund) Arthur Blythe
In spite of his determination not to be moved, emotion closed his throat. Tony struggled to swallow, touched by the simple honesty of Arthur’s letter. This was far more than he’d expected and he thought it might be more than he could bear. At least for now. He reread the letter, taking it line by line, feeling the weight of the words, imagining Arthur putting it together. How many drafts had he taken to get it right? His precise engineer’s hand crossing out first and second and third attempts, trying to strike the right note, making sure he said what he meant, not leaving room for misunderstanding. He could picture him in the house, at the desk in his study, the lamp casting a pool of light over his writing hand. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no clear idea what Arthur had looked like. There had been no photographs on display in the house, nothing to indicate whether father and son shared any physical resemblance. There must be some; he made a mental note to look next time he was in the house.
Next time. As soon as he had the thought, Tony understood its significance. There would be a next time. Something had shifted inside him in the previous twenty-four hours. From wanting to maintain the distance between him and Arthur, he now wanted connection. He didn’t know yet what form that would take. But he’d know when he got there.
What he did know was that he wasn’t ready for Arthur’s message yet. He might never be. But right now, he had work to do. Work that was more important than his own emotional state. He turned back to his laptop and started typing again.
‘The killer is likely to be white,’ he wrote. Almost invariably this kind of killer stayed within their own ethnic group. ‘He is aged between twenty-five and forty.’ Twenty-five, because it needed a level of maturity to engage in this degree of planning and to sustain the plan once the killing started. And forty, because the rule of probabilities stated that by then they’d either been caught, killed or calmed down.
He is not a lorry driver - several of the locations where he has used public-access computers are not convenient for lorry parking, e.g. Manchester Airport and the shopping centre in Telford. But he certainly owns his own vehicle - he would not risk leaving traces in a vehicle owned by a third party. It’s likely to be a reasonably large car, probably a hatchback. I don’t think he’s a commercial vehicle driver, even though that is a hypothesis that has some attractions. It would certainly account for his movements up and down the motorway network. But given the tight schedules of commercial drivers, I doubt whether this would give him the degree of flexibility or free time to have set Jennifer up then abducted her.
He is likely to be educated to university or college level. His awareness of computer technology and his level of familiarity with its possibilities indicates a high level of skill in this area. I believe he is an ICT professional, probably self-employed. The electronics industry is a loosely knit community of consultants who have a great deal of flexibility in their working hours and the locations of the companies they contract to.
In terms of personality, we’re looking at a high-functioning psychopath. He can mimic human interaction but he has no genuine empathy. He’s likely to live alone and to have no deep emotional ties. This will not mark him out as particularly unusual in his work community, since many ICT professionals appear similar although in fact many of them are perfectly capable of emotional interaction. They just prefer their machines because that takes less effort.
He may well be addicted to computer gaming, particularly to violent online multi-user games. These will present him with an outlet for the nihilistic feelings he has towards other people.