There is a ritual I undertake in nearly every life. It is the assassination of Richard Lisle.
Every life since the first murder I have either dispatched him directly or sent others to do it for me, before he can begin his murdering of the women of Battersea, and every life Rosemary Dawsett and the rest of the girls live a little while longer, not even knowing that their would-be killer is dead. Except for one life, when I didn’t send a killer and couldn’t make the appointment myself, and Rosemary Dawsett died, her body sliced up in the bathtub. I am now so used to killing Richard Lisle it has acquired a rather ritualistic quality. I no longer bother with any fancy preparations, no words or hesitation. I merely go to his flat one day, settle down in a seat away from the window, wait for him to walk through the door and put two through his brain. I have never felt that anything more is required.
I wonder now if Vincent’s attitude towards me was not entirely dissimilar to my regard for Lisle. Posing no threat, there was no need for him to return to me, but yet return he did, like a fond owner checking up on his favourite pet. As I kept Lisle perpetually in my sights, so he seemed to want to keep me close across the lives. Perhaps he considered my personality of such iron stuff that it might one day return to be a danger to him; perhaps he feared I could regain my memory; perhaps I was a victory prize, a trophy, proof of his success. Perhaps he simply wanted a friend whose very nature he could mould, life to life, to his needs. And how cooperative I had been, how helpful and malleable, from the very first to the very last. Perhaps it was all of these things, in ever-changing measure.
Whatever his motives, keep me close Vincent did. By 1943 he was a captain, and I was surprised to receive a transfer to his very specialist unit of what my major termed “boffins, bookworms and other oily chaps”. On arriving, I was less surprised to discover that Vincent Rankis had established himself as the go-to man for scientific know-how and expertise.
“Why me?” I asked as he sat me down in his office. “Why did you request I join your unit? I’m a lawyer; I don’t know anything about this science stuff.”
“Lieutenant,” he replied, for I was still a humble subaltern, “you do yourself a disservice. When I met you in Scotland, you seemed one of the most capable men I’ve ever met, and if this army needs anything, it needs capable men.”
Indeed, I was of some use to the unit, for all its great scientific minds were clearly far too great to be bothered with such trivial details as whether there were enough blankets in the barracks, supplies for the canteen and petrol coupons to get them to their meetings and back.
“See, Harry!” exclaimed Vincent in our once-monthly administrative round-up of business. “I told you you’d fit right in here!”