Blake viewed his. He looked at his world like a predator, not a victim.
That didn’t make him a killer, however. He might be a mugger, a voyeur, a flasher or a rapist and still exhibit a similar response. But Horsforth had allowed himself to be persuaded that Blake was a killer, and he had interpreted his behaviour accordingly. That much was clear from the clinical psychologist’s notes on the meeting. The conversation had been innocuous enough, but Horsforth had still managed to see what he wanted to see.
It was a realization that profoundly depressed Fiona. Any kind of objective analysis of the material was already compromised, because Horsforth’s early decisions about what Blake’s actions implied had dictated everything in the interaction that followed.
The meetings had continued two or three times a week. On the fourth meeting, Richards introduced the subject of Susan Blanchard’s murder, in the context of terrifying things that happened to women in the city. Blake had immediately said, ‘I was there that day. On the Heath. I must have walked past at almost the exact time she was being raped and murdered.’
Richards had pretended shock. ‘My God! That must have been awful.’
‘I didn’t realize anything at the time. Well, obviously I didn’t or I would have raised the alarm. But I can’t help thinking if I’d chosen a slightly different route that day, if I’d gone over the rise behind the shrubbery instead of walking along the path, I’d have stumbled over her killer,’ he’d boasted.
It was a significant exchange, Fiona knew. But again, it was capable of a different interpretation from the conclusion Horsforth had jumped to. What it told him was that Blake was a killer desperate to talk about his crime, however obliquely. What it told Fiona was something else altogether. She made a note on her pad and continued.
By the end of the third week, Blake was beginning to turn the conversation towards sex. It was, he indicated, time to take their relationship to the next stage, beyond cinema visits and walks and meals. Richards backed off slightly, as she’d been told to do, saying she wanted to be sure they’d be compatible before she took the ultimate step of sleeping with him. It was the planned route into talk of sexual fantasy. Fiona had to concede that this had been a shrewd move on Horsforth’s part, though she might have approached it in a more indirect way. But then, she wasn’t a clinician. In matters like this, she had to concede her instinct was probably not the most rigorous guide.
Now it was Richards’s turn to push the direction of the conversation. And she wasted no time. It wasn’t that she was sexually inexperienced, she said. But she’d found herself growing quickly bored with the men she’d slept with in the past. ‘They’re just so predictable, so conventional,’ she complained. ‘I want to be sure next time I get involved with someone, that he’s got an imagination, that he’ll take me places I’ve never been before.’
Blake immediately asked her what she meant, and presumably as Horsforth had instructed her, Richards had backed off again, saying she wasn’t sure she could discuss it openly in the middle of Regent’s Park. She explained that she had to go out of town the next week, to a training course in Manchester, and she would write to him. ‘I feel a bit exposed out here,’ she’d said. ‘I can put it down on paper better. Then if you’re shocked or turned off me forever, I won’t have to see your face, will I?’
Blake had seemed almost amused by her alternation between suggestiveness and coyness. ‘I bet there’s nothing you could say that would shock me,’ he’d said. ‘I promise you, whatever you want, Eileen, I can take you there. All the way there, whatever it is you want. You write me that letter tonight so I get it first thing on Monday morning, and I guarantee you’ll be panting to get back to London by return of post.’
Somehow, Fiona doubted it. However, there was no time now to pursue her doubts to their conclusion. Kit had packed his computer into its case, the ‘Fasten Seatbelts’ sign was illuminated and the cabin crew were moving purposefully towards their seats for landing. Major Berrocal would be waiting for them at the arrivals gate, and a job where she was convinced she could provide useful advice was always going to take precedence over something already wrecked by someone else.
Whatever perverse fantasies Francis Blake and Erin Richards had exchanged would have to remain in the file for the time being.
Major Salvador Berrocal was not waiting for them by the arrivals gate. He was actually standing impatiently tapping his foot by the door of the plane when it swung open. He had obviously arranged for a message to be transmitted ahead, for as soon as the cabin crew were back on their feet after landing, a steward was by Fiona’s side, asking her to come forward to the front of the plane so she could disembark ahead of the other passengers. Kit followed in her wake, giving the steward his best smile and saying, ‘We’re travelling together.’
Fiona’s first impression of the Spanish policeman was of tremendous energy barely held in check. He was of medium height, slender and pale-skinned, with dark-blue eyes that were never still. His charcoal-grey suit looked as if it had been freshly pressed that morning, and his black boots shone with a military gleam. Both were at odds with a shock of untidy black wavy hair, worn long enough to cover the back of his shirt collar. He acknowledged her with a polite but abrupt nod of the head, saying, ‘Thank you for coming, Doctor.’
‘Thank you for meeting us. Major, this is my partner, Kit Martin. I mentioned he’d be travelling with me.’
Kit extended a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. Don’t worry, I won’t be getting under your feet.’
Berrocal’s nod was noncommittal. ‘I have a car waiting, Doctor,’ he said to Fiona. He reached for her briefcase and laptop. ‘Señor Martin, if you wouldn’t mind going to the baggage carousel, one of my men will meet you there. He will take you and your luggage to your hotel in Toledo.’ He pulled a card out of his breast pocket. ‘This is my mobile number. You can reach Dr Cameron, she will be with me.’ He flashed a cool smile and set off down the pier towards the main concourse.
‘Mr Friendly,’ Kit said.
‘Mr Under Pressure, I think,’ Fiona replied. She put one arm round Kit and gave him a quick squeeze. ‘Ring me on my mobile, if you need me.’
They set off in Berrocal’s wake, Fiona almost having to break into a trot to keep him in sight. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ Kit said. ‘I’ve got the guide book. I will be pursuing my own investigations into Toledo. Either that or I’ll be hunched over a hotel bedside table trying to write.’
They caught up with Berrocal who was waiting by a security door. ‘You must go through customs and immigration,’ he said to Kit, pointing down a corridor to the left.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Kit said. Being pleasant was cheap, especially since Berrocal had taken the trouble to lay on a car for him. He gave Fiona a swift peck on the cheek, said, ‘See you later,’ and headed off without a backward glance.
‘He really won’t be any trouble,’ Fiona said as they strode towards the customs and immigration area. ‘Kit has no problem with his own company.’
Berrocal flashed his badge and steered her ahead of him past the formalities. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to have brought him otherwise,’ he said briskly. ‘I have arranged for you both to stay at the parador in Toledo, but I would prefer to go straight to the scenes of the crimes. Also, I wanted to be able to discuss the case on the way there, which would not have been possible
