“Oh, Sean,” I said, “that’s not very respectful of a woman’s right to choose, is it?”
“She refused,” he sniffed, “so I told her I was leaving her anyway. That she’d be raising the bairn alone if she had it. I told her I’m in love with… with Steve.”
“Oh, poor, pregnant Jemma.”
“So now her family know and they’ve told the world that I’m in the closet. That I love cock.” I masked my laugh with a cough. This line of work really has its moments of comedy gold.
“They’ve put it on a thing called Facebook. It’s a bit like MySpace,” he said. My little timer sounded and I poured my tea from the pot into my waiting cup.
“So everyone now knows that you’re a homosexual? That you’re what some feeble-minded people might call a poofter?”
“Well, not many people are on this Facebook thing. It might not take off.”
“But lots of people will have read that you’re a raging homo,” I said. “Word will surely spread. Let’s be realistic here.”
“Maybe,” he sobbed.
“Everyone knows, Sean,” I insisted.
“But—”
“No buts, Sean, your secret is out.”
I added a splash-and-a-dash of milk. That’s 11 millilitres, for you Neanderthals out there.
“Sean, this world is now a beautiful place where people like you and Steve can live happily ever after. In years to come, you might even be allowed to marry. Your parents will accept you, in time.”
“Ha!” Sean spat, “you don’t know my da.”
“You fear your father wouldn’t accept your homosexuality?” I asked.
“Me dad and uncle took cricket bats to aBrokeback Mountainbillboard outside the Odeon,” he wailed. “Lit it up.”
“Sean, a leopard can change its spots. Would your own father really turn his back on you, shun you, cast you out of the family, humiliate you that way? Your dad might just need some time to adjust to you and Steve cuddling on his sofa. I’m sure Dad and Steve will be heading to the working men’s club together before you know it. The mother-to-be of your child will be delighted to have two men co-parenting with her. This is a modern time, Sean, people are starting to think differently about homosexuality.”
I suppose I’ll never know at what point during my little speech Sean jumped. There was no scream. The line simply went dead, and that’s how I knew that Sean was flotsam.
I had to remake my cup of tea, of course. But it was worth it.
Using this technique, I learned how to communicate with victims; how to manipulate their minds—what to say and what not to say. Remember,these were my first interactions with strangers and I was still a young man myself. I practiced for a few months at a distance before I moved back to face-to-face interactions. I’m amazed at how often I still use the skills I developed during these early days. Never underestimate the power of practice and patience.
Soon enough, I felt ready to move on to more hands-on practice. Let me tell you about dear old Betty.
Chapter Eight
“We have a victim!” Taylor blurts without so much as a hello.
“Oh my God, he’s killed again?” Sam sits bolt upright in bed and fumbles for the lamp. Her heart pounds and she sends the objects on her nightstand flying.
“Ah, no… Sorry, ma’am,” Taylor stammers. “I’m talking about a real victim that matches one of Denver’s inHow to Get Away with Murder.A cold case.”
“Taylor,” Sam groans, finding the cord to her bedside lamp and tugging it on with shaking fingers before rubbing her eyes. “It’s past two in the morning. I really thought another girl was… Are you still at work right now? It’s—”
“We need to go to Newcastle, ma’am,” Taylor says, clearly running on pure adrenaline. “Northumbria Police came up trumps. I’ve informed DI Edris and booked our train tickets already—we’re on the six thirty-one out of King’s Cross. I’ll meet you on the concourse in four hours’ time.”
“Oh, God,” she whispers. She reaches for the lamp once again, then turns her pillow over, relishing the cool fabric against hercheek, and blinks into the darkness. Fear thrums in her stomach. Closing her eyes, she tries to count backward from one hundred—a calming technique she learned in therapy—but her mind keeps conjuring images of Charlotte’s pale skin against the rough bark of an oak tree.
He might be real.
