The first five had been his apprenticeship. The next fifteen would perfect his art. One for every wasted year. And then, only then, would he allow Jay Schumann to come face to face with her personal and professional nemesis.
There was a long way to go before then. But now Jay Schumann was on the case. At last the revenge proper could begin.
FOURTEEN
Fiona gave a final glance at her notes then looked out across the half-empty lecture theatre. “To sum up. That dreadful old misogynist St. Paul says, ‘When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.’ As do most of us. But the sociopath is different. Most of us come to comprehend that we are not the centre of the universe, and that other people can share centre stage in the narrative of our lives. The sociopathic personality never makes that adjustment. In his limited world view, others exist at a less than human level. Their only valuable function is to meet the needs and satisfy the desires of the sociopath himself.” She gave a sly grin. “That’s why they make such good captains of industry.” Depressingly few answering smiles, she thought ruefully. Probably because half of them had their hearts already set on such a career. So serious, the modern student.
“So if we are to develop any sort of empathetic understanding of the criminal psychopath,” Fiona continued, “we must learn to step back in time. I leave you with this thought, also from that fascinating psychological text, the Bible. “Except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter the kingdom of heaven.” Or, as we so often find in our line of work, the kingdom of hell.” She gave a brief, courteous nod. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Same time, next week.”
Head down, Fiona gathered her papers together as the students shuffled out, their muted mumblings drifting back towards her. She wondered how much she disappointed them. She was certain a significant proportion of them signed up for her courses on the Criminal Mind because their imaginations had been fired by The Silence of the Lambs. Expecting some Jodie Foster fuelled by instinct and intuition, instead they were confronted with seminars on statistics and required to produce essays driven by intellectual rigour. The drop-out rate disturbed her departmental administrator, but not Fiona. She’d never been interested in woolly minds.
Some sixth sense made her look up and an unselfconscious smile spread across her face as she took in Kit’s burly frame strolling down the aisle between the ranks of seats. He returned her smile and leaned his forearms on the edge of the platform while she finished tidying her lecture notes into her briefcase. “Nice close,” he said. “I like the image of the sociopathic killer as Peter Pan. The boy who never grew up.”
“Now, that’s an interesting comparison. With a bit of work, I could make something of that. Captain Hook and the Lost Boys. Wendy as mother figure…Thanks, Kit, I think I’ll steal that. So, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Fiona asked, descending to his level and brushing his cheek with a kiss.
“I’ve been going like a train today, and I ran out of steam about an hour ago. And I remembered that there’s a launch party for Adam Chester’s new book at Crime in Store at six. I thought I’d swing by on the off-chance that you fancied joining me there.” Kit fell into step beside her.
“You haven’t forgotten we’re having dinner at Steve’s tonight?” Fiona asked.
“We’re not due there till eight, I thought we could swag a few glasses of publisher’s plonk on the way. Show my face and remind everybody that I’m still a contender. Up to you, love. If you’ve got too much on, I’ll meet you at Steve’s later.” Kit put his arm round her waist and gave her a quick squeeze before they emerged in the atrium of the psychology faculty building.
Fiona considered for a moment. Nothing more pressing than marking essays should lie in store for her, and those could wait until morning. “Let me check my office, and if nothing urgent’s come up in the last hour, you’re on.”
The mystery bookshop was crowded with a mixture of authors, collectors and fans of Adam Chester’s complex and beautifully written 1950s police procedural novels. For this, the tenth in the series, his publishers had reprinted all his previous paperbacks with new jackets, the misty photographs evoking the dark and brooding ambience of the books. His editor and publicist stood proudly beside a display of the covers, flashing encouraging smiles at the potential buyers.
As soon as he walked in the door, Kit was immediately surrounded by an enthusiastic trio of women who turned up at every crime fiction event in the capital and who apparently adored him above all other writers. Fiona left him to it, edging through the crowd and helping herself to a glass of white wine. Kit was a professional; he’d give the women enough of his time to reinforce their view of him as approachable and amusing before disentangling himself and settling in for a good gossip with friends and colleagues. For herself, she was happy enough to take a back seat and watch him work the room.
“He’s such a pro,” an admiring voice murmured in her ear. Fiona immediately recognized the genteel Edinburgh tones of Mary Helen Margolyes and turned to greet her with a kiss.
“Mary Helen, what a delightful surprise,” she said, meaning it. In spite of hating her melodramatic Jacobite historical mysteries featuring Flora Macdonald’s younger sister, Fiona had a soft spot for Mary Helen, not least because of her acerbic tongue. “What drags you away from the Highlands?”
“Oh, I had to come down to talk to some dreadful wee man at the BBC who’s making a TV series out of the Morag Macdonald books.”
“But that’s good news, isn’t it?”
Mary Helen’s face puckered as if she’d bitten a sour apple. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew who they’ve cast as Morag.”
“Tell me the worst.” Fiona had spent enough time around writers to know exactly what was required.
“Rachel Trilling.” Mary Helen’s voice was fat with disapproval.
“Isn’t she…?” Fiona struggled to make sense of the name. “She’s the lead singer with Dead Souls, isn’t she?”
Mary Helen’s eyebrows rose. “My God!” she exclaimed. “At last I’ve found somebody who’s heard of her. But then, what can you expect from a producer who thinks a white cockade is a tropical bird?”
“Oh, Mary Helen, I am sorry,” Fiona said.
“I’ll just have to follow Kit’s perennial advice and take the money and crawl,” Mary Helen said with a grim little smile.
“Apart from that, how’s life treating you?”
“It would be infinitely better if you’d pass me another glass of wine,” Mary Helen said. Fiona obliged, but before they could say more, the shop manager began his introduction to Adam Chester. Adam spoke briefly and wittily about his new book, then read a fifteen-minute extract. A few questions from the floor followed, then it was time for the signing.
As the purchasers formed a queue by Adam’s chair, Kit glanced across the room. “Uh-oh,” he said to Nigel Southern, the twenty-something writer of comic noir short stories he’d been talking to. “I better go and rescue Fiona from the clutches of Mad Mary Helen.”
Nigel raised his perfectly groomed eyebrows. “I’d have thought your lady was more than a match for the Highland Harpie. What’s it like, anyway, living with somebody who spends her days poking around the perverted fantasies of psychopaths?”
“Funnily enough, we don’t talk about it that much. We’ve got a life,” Kit said. “Anyway, that’s not what she does. She uses computer analysis, not psychoanalysis.”
Nigel shook his head pityingly. “I couldn’t be doing with that. I mean, it must be like living with the control freaks’ control freak. Isn’t she always telling you you’ve got it wrong?”