Whispers of the Dead - Страница 30

That hadn’t occurred to me before. It was a disturbing thought.

Jacobsen pulled down the visor as a curve in the road threw the sun in her face. ‘Whatever the killer’s agenda is, I don’t think his victims’ physical characteristics play a part in it,’ she went on. ‘We’ve got a thirty-six-year-old white insurance clerk, a black male in his fifties, and—in all probability—a forty-four-year-old psychologist, with no apparent connection between any of them. That suggests we’re dealing with an opportunist who preys on random victims. Male or female, I doubt it makes any difference to him.’

‘What about Irving? He wasn’t random, he was deliberately targeted.’

‘Professor Irving was an exception. I don’t think he figured in the killer’s plans until he went on TV, but when he did the killer acted straight away. Which tells us something important.’

‘You mean apart from that he’s a dangerous lunatic?’

A quick smile softened her features. ‘Apart from that. Everything we have so far says that this is someone who deliberates and plans his actions carefully. The needles were planted in the body six months before he left Dexter’s fingerprints at the cabin. That shows a methodical, ordered mind. But what happened with Professor Irving shows there’s also another side. One that’s impulsive and unstable. Prick his ego and he can’t help himself.’

I noticed she wasn’t even trying to pretend any more that Irving might not be another victim. ‘Is that good or bad?’

‘Both. It means he’s unpredictable, which makes him even more dangerous. But if he acts on impulse then sooner or later he’ll make a mistake.’ Jacobsen squinted again as the sun reflected off the cars in front. ‘My sunglasses are in my jacket. Could you pass them, please?’

The jacket was neatly folded on the back seat. I twisted round and reached for it. A waft of delicate scent came from the soft fabric, and I felt an odd intimacy as I searched its pockets. I found a pair of aviator shades and handed them to her. Our fingers brushed as she took them; her skin was cool and dry, but with an underlying heat.

‘Thanks,’ she said, putting on the sunglasses.

‘You mentioned his agenda a moment ago,’ I said quickly. ‘I thought you’d already said that he craves recognition, that he’s a… what was it? A “malignant narcissist”? Doesn’t that explain it?’

Jacobsen inclined her head slightly. With her eyes concealed, she looked more unreadable than ever. ‘It explains the extreme lengths he’s prepared to go to, but not why he kills in the first place. He’s got to get something out of it, have some pathological itch he’s trying to scratch. If it isn’t sexual, then what?’

‘Perhaps he just enjoys inflicting pain,’ I suggested.

She shook her head. The small V was visible again above the sunglasses. ‘No. He might enjoy the sense of power it gives him, but it’s more than that. Something’s driving him to do all this. We just don’t know yet what it is.’

The sunlight was abruptly blotted out as a black pick-up truck drew up alongside. It towered over the car, a petrol-guzzling monstrosity with tinted windows, then quickly pulled ahead. It had only just cleared us when suddenly it cut into our lane. My foot stamped reflexively on to the floor as I braced for a collision. But with barely a touch on the brake, Jacobsen swerved into the other lane, as smoothly as though the move were choreographed.

It was a cool display of driving, all the more impressive because she appeared unaware of it. She flicked an irritated glance at the pick-up as it accelerated away, but otherwise dismissed it.

The incident broke the mood, though. She grew distant again after that, either preoccupied with what we’d said or regretting saying as much as she had. In any event there wasn’t any more time for conversation. We were already approaching the centre of Knoxville. My spirits sank further the closer we got. Jacobsen dropped me back at my hotel, her reserve now as unassailable as any wall. Her sunglasses hid her eyes as she drove off with the briefest of nods, leaving me on the pavement, stiff-muscled from hunching over in the pine woods.

I felt at a complete loss as to what to do next. I didn’t know if my exclusion extended to the morgue, and didn’t want to phone Tom to ask. Nor did I feel like going out to the facility, not until I’d a better idea of how things stood.

Standing there in the bright spring sunshine, with people bustling around me, the full extent of what had happened finally sank in. While I’d been with Jacobsen I’d been able to keep it at arm’s length, but now I had to face up to it.

For the first time in my career I’d been thrown off an investigation.

I showered and changed, then bought a sandwich and ate lunch at the side of the river, watching the tourist-carrying paddleboats churn past. There’s something about water that’s primordially soothing. It seems to touch some deep chord in our subconscious; stir some gene memory of the womb. I breathed in the faintly swampy air, watching a flight of geese heading upriver, and tried to tell myself that I wasn’t bored. Objectively, I knew I shouldn’t take what had happened at the cemetery personally. I’d been caught in Hicks’s crossfire, collateral damage of professional politics that didn’t concern me. I told myself that I shouldn’t regard it as a loss of face.

It didn’t make me feel any better.

After lunch, I wandered aimlessly around the streets, waiting for my phone to ring. It was a long time since I’d been in Knoxville, and the city had changed. The trolley cars were still there, though, and the golden mirror-ball of the Sunsphere remained an unmistakable feature on the skyline.

But I wasn’t in the mood for sightseeing. My phone remained stubbornly silent, a dead weight in my pocket. I was tempted to call Tom, but I knew there was no point. He’d ring me when he could.

It was late afternoon when I finally heard from him. He sounded tired as he apologized for what had happened that morning.

‘It’s just Hicks trying to stir up a fuss. I’m going to talk to Dan again tomorrow. Once the dust has settled I’m sure he’ll see sense. There’s no reason why you can’t carry on working with me at the morgue, at least.’

‘What are you going to do in the meantime?’ I asked. ‘You can’t manage by yourself. Why don’t you let Paul help?’

‘Paul’s out of town today. But I’m sure Summer will lend a hand again.’

‘You need to take it easy. Have you seen a doctor yet?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, in a tone of voice that told me I was wasting my breath. ‘I’m really sorry about this, David, but I’ll sort it out. Just sit tight for now.’

There wasn’t much else I could do. I resolved to try to enjoy the rest of the evening. A little leisure time won’t kill you. The bars and cafes had started filling up, office workers stopping off on their way home. The murmur of laughter and conversation was inviting, and on impulse I stopped at a bar with a wooden terrace overlooking the river. I found a table by the railing and ordered a beer. Enjoying the last of the afternoon sun, I watched the slow-moving Tennessee slide by, invisible currents forming dimples and swirls on the gelid surface.

Gradually, I felt myself begin to relax. By the time I’d finished my beer I couldn’t see any pressing reason to leave, so I asked for the menu. I ordered a plate of seafood linguine and a glass of Californian Zinfandel. Just the one, I vowed, telling myself I should make an early start next day, regardless of whether I was helping Tom or not. But by the time I’d finished the rich, garlic-infused food, that no longer seemed quite such a compelling argument.

I ordered another glass of wine. The sun sank behind the trees, but it was still warm even as dusk began to settle. The electric lights that lit the terrace drew the first of the evening’s moths. They bumped and whirred against the glass, black silhouettes against the white globes. I tried to recall visiting this stretch of river when I’d first come to Knoxville all those years ago. I supposed I must have at some point, but I’d no recollection of it. I’d rented a cramped basement apartment in a different—and cheaper—part of town, on the fringes of the increasingly gentrified old quarter. When I’d gone out I’d tended to go to the bars round there rather than the more expensive ones on the riverfront.

Thinking about that shook loose other memories. Out of nowhere the face of a girl I’d seen for a while came back to me. Beth, a nurse at the hospital. I hadn’t thought of her in years. I smiled, wondering where she was now, what she was doing. If she ever thought about the British forensic student she’d once known.

I’d returned to England not long after that. And a few weeks later I’d met my wife, Kara. The thought of her and our daughter brought with it the usual vertiginous dip, but I was used enough to it by now not to be sucked in.

I picked up my mobile from the table and opened my list of contacts. Jenny’s name and number seemed to jump out at me even before I’d highlighted them on the illuminated display. I scrolled through the options until I came to Delete, and held my thumb poised over the button. Then, without pressing it, I snapped the phone shut and put it away.

I finished the last of my wine and pulled my thoughts from the track they’d been following. An image of Jacobsen sitting in the car earlier replaced them, bare arms toned and tanned in the short-sleeved white top. It occurred to me that I didn’t know anything about her. Not how old she was, where she was from or where she lived.