‘Are you on good terms with them?’ he asked.
It was terrible but I couldn’t stop myself smiling, then regretted it instantly because Dr Bradshaw pounced. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Who’s on good terms with their exes?’ I asked.
Dr Bradshaw walked across the room, picked up a piece of paper from his desk and read it. ‘And yet one of them is your landlord. Miles Thornton.’
‘I take it you’ve read my statement?’
‘I’m part of the investigation. I read everything.’
‘I think you’re wasting your time.’
Dr Bradshaw replaced the paper on the desk and walked back towards me. He pulled a wooden chair across the floor and placed it opposite the wicker one in which I was sitting and just a few feet in front. He sat and faced me. ‘The police are bustling around,’ he said. ‘They’re knocking at doors. They’re stopping people in the street. They’re putting up those funny yellow signs asking for witnesses. They’re looking through microscopes at fibres and grains of dust and samples of skin. They’re checking phone records. Maybe they’ll find a match somewhere and make an arrest, but it’s looking less and less likely. On the other hand, I have this feeling that if we look at your life, at its details and its characters, at your hopes and your fears and your fantasies, then somewhere in there we’ll find the answer to all of this. So, what do you say to that?’
‘I wonder if you’re like the others,’ I said.
‘What others?’
‘I’m like a celebrity,’ I said. ‘I’m like someone who’s won the lottery or starred in a soap. People want to talk to me and take photographs of me. Reporters come up to me in the street. I’ve had notes pushed through the door by people saying they want to give me a chance to tell my side of the story. As if I even have a side of the story. A woman journalist phoned me up saying that I could use my experience to help other women and that it was my duty to give her an interview.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘I feel like I’m someone who’s been exposed to radioactivity,’ I said. ‘Except it’s a kind of radioactivity that everybody’s attracted to. I’ve been close to a murder and people think that by talking to me, by being close to me, they can feel some of its heat. Isn’t that a bit like what you were talking about when you said you needed to see me because you could somehow smell the murder on me? I’ve become a bit famous and people are attracted to it.’
‘I’m a scientist,’ said Dr Bradshaw. ‘A scientist who tells stories. I couldn’t care less about celebrity.’
‘What about your TV work?’ I said. ‘DCI Kamsky told me you did a series about famous murders.’
‘That was education,’ said Dr Bradshaw, evidently irritated. ‘Did you see any of them?’
‘No.’
‘They showed them ridiculously late at night. But don’t you want to help find this killer?’
‘Killers,’ I said.
‘Maybe,’ said Dr Bradshaw.
‘What do you want from me?’ I said. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘I want you to talk.’
‘What about?’
‘Everything. Leave nothing out. Spare me nothing.’
I thought for a moment. ‘Kamsky said that you do profiles for them,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t it be a good idea if you told me the sort of person you have in mind? Then if I know someone like that, I could tell you.’
Bradshaw stood up and a smile spread slowly across his face.
‘A white man,’ he said. ‘Early thirties. Over six feet tall, strongly built. Lives alone. Sexually isolated. Possibly with some sort of disfigurement. He works with tools: a carpenter or a plumber or a leather worker.’
‘Why a leather worker?’
‘Someone who works with incising tools – it was his natural way of expressing himself.’
‘How do you know the rest of it?’
He gave a shrug. ‘It’s just a hypothesis,’ he said. ‘Serial killers choose victims of the same racial group as themselves. I suspect that Margaret Farrell was opportunistic, but he chose Ingrid de Soto. She was his age but otherwise everything that he wasn’t: rich, beautiful, married. He was able to overpower Margaret Farrell and kill her in a matter of seconds in the street. That suggests a degree of physical strength.’
‘And the disfigurement?’
‘The way he cut Ingrid de Soto. That represented both his sexual frustration and, I suspect, his own sense of being mutilated. He wanted to make her like himself.’ Dr Bradshaw folded his arms with obvious satisfaction. ‘Even when they think they’re concealing themselves, they’re leaving traces, signatures, clues.’
‘Well, I don’t know any disfigured leather workers,’ I said.
‘I don’t want you to be a detective,’ said Dr Bradshaw. ‘I just want you to talk. I don’t want your theories. I want to know everything you know.’
I couldn’t stop myself sighing. It was clear that another Saturday was going to be wasted.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ said Davy. ‘I thought it might cheer you up.’
We were sitting in his room, which was on the floor above mine, overlooking the street. It was one of the few bedrooms in the house that felt restful to be in. When Davy moved in, he had painted it a grey-green colour, sanded the boards and put up shelves, though there weren’t many books on them. He had a futon, a large chest of drawers, which he had painted white, the swivel chair I was sitting on, and a square blue rug on the floor. The room felt light and airy. Since Mel had arrived on the scene, there was also a large wooden wind chime hanging from the ceiling, which gave out a liquid booming if you knocked into it, and flowers on the mantelpiece above the fireplace that was never used. Today, a giant red peony was wilting in its vase. It seemed a shame he’d put so much effort into making it so nice only to be moved on.
‘Do I seem like I need cheering up?’
‘If it was me, I’d need cheering up,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, it’s for me as well. I thought it would be a treat. These people I was putting a staircase in for – illegally, I might add, I’m sure it breaks safety regulations and they’re probably giving me this as a bribe – they had a pair of tickets going spare. For the Chelsea Flower Show. I thought we could go together. You like gardens.’
He beamed at me, pleased with himself.
‘Oh?’ I felt a bit taken aback. ‘Wow! Do I have to wear a hat?’
‘It’s not Ascot.’
‘That’s really lovely,’ I said, making myself smile hugely. ‘Thanks, Davy.’
On an impulse I kissed his cheek and saw him flush up to the roots of his wavy brown hair.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said.
‘When is it?’
‘About ten day’s time. Is that OK?’
‘Great,’ I said, though my heart was sinking at the thought. A day of having to spend time with someone I didn’t especially want to spend time with. A day of being on my best behaviour. It was like being a child again, visiting an unfavourite aunt.
‘Can you get time off work?’
‘If I warn Campbell.’
‘We can have a picnic first.’
‘Lovely. I really appreciate it, Davy.’
‘Well.’ He shrugged. ‘You’ve been having a tough time.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It’ll pass, I guess. I don’t want to think about it right now, though. I’ve had enough for one day.’
I picked up a beautiful glass paperweight that was on the mantelpiece, and passed it from hand to hand, looking at how the light caught in it. ‘Paperweights never have paper underneath them, do they?’
‘Oh,’ he said, apparently disconcerted. ‘I’ve never thought about it.’
‘Sorry, I’m changing the subject. The thing I really need, Davy, is to find somewhere else to live.’
‘No luck?’
‘No – which isn’t surprising, really, since I haven’t started looking. I keep putting it off. What about you?’
‘I’ve put out a few feelers.’
There was a silence, and I put the paperweight carefully back in its place. ‘I should be on my way, I guess. I’m going dancing.’