‘That’s right, or dissociative identity disorder. For a start, the gaps between the killings, alongside the severity of the attacks, point to intermittent stress factors, possibly initiated by depression. It is also consistent with behaviour that is the result of early trauma and damaged development. It’s extreme, I know. I can’t be completely sure, but when we were with Sandra Regan today, her reactions unsettled me. At times her facial expressions were contradictory. There was her nervous disposition too, biting her lip, her chest breaking out in blotches and tugging at her earlobe. Something wasn’t right, and it was more than her wanting to hold something back. Just suppose for a moment that she is suffering from DID. Her subservient side might remember Pierre Laurent with affection, and it is also probable that, within that confine, she wouldn’t recall the darker parts of their relationship. Even if she had known Rick Shevlin, one side of her brain could have shut him off to her.’
‘She didn’t look like a killer to me, Kate, but then again, the longer I’m in this job, the more I realise that doesn’t count for much.’
‘I’m not saying she is. I’m only saying these are possibilities that are worth looking at and, hopefully, will get us closer to the truth.’
‘So what now, Kate? I assume you’re going to talk to Mark.’
‘I’m going to have to, but the whole thing will sound even more extreme to him than it does to you. A lot will depend on what he gets out of the background checks. We’ll need fact to back up the supposition, specifically Sandra Regan’s childhood circumstances, and the others’ too. A number of things about her fit the profile – her age, her attractiveness. She could also have been at all three murder scenes. Then there is her interest in the arts, her frail, almost nervous, disposition. She appears intelligent and creative, yet she was vague about where she was on specific dates. You said yourself she was detached, nervous and defensive.’ She paused. ‘Look, Adam, I’m not saying I’m one hundred per cent certain about where to point the finger – that’s not my role – and, yes, the same analysis could apply to another. What I will say is, dissociative or multiple identity disorder is a high contender for being part of the psychological make-up of the killer, and we can’t ignore it.’
‘Okay, I’m hearing you.’
‘It would be so much easier if I was dealing with you and not Mark.’
‘We’ll have to work around that. If what you’re saying has a chance of being correct, then our visit to the Regan household could have applied more pressure to a difficult situation. I’ll have a chat with the chief super, and see if his mood has mellowed since the newspaper article. Mark might be an egotistical arsehole, but he’ll want to get to the bottom of this as much as we do.’
SANDRA
I LOSE EDGAR quickly, but instead of going to the hotel as I’d planned, I pull the car into a side street. My vision has been blurring, and when I stop the car, the intermittent blackness feels heavier, like dark rainclouds hovering overhead. I feel almost devoid of any normal emotion and, with nervous exhaustion, I lie back on the head rest, closing my eyes. All the frightening faces appear again. It was like this the last time I was depressed, even though I didn’t recognise it back then. Part of what Edgar had said had struck a nerve. I know I haven’t been well. Everything has felt so confusing lately. I’ve become more withdrawn. I was the same after leaving Paris. Alice described it as maudlin.
I start thinking about Pierre again, how I had fantasised about him, imagining his kiss, our tongues entwined, him wanting to devour me. He always said I was a tease, that I flirted with him one minute, then became chillingly cold the next. All those years ago, and yet the memory is still stronger than anything I’ve ever felt for Edgar. You can’t seek out a dead man!
Looking down at my hand, I see the gash where I tore it a few days ago, and for a moment, I see the flicker of the knife, opening that drawer in the house in Greystones. The more I stare at the wound, the more it distorts, the cut weeping, and what was dried blood changing form and trickling down my wrist. The wound begins to pulsate and soon my hand is covered with blood.
She had left the Devil card for me – his hands were strange too, one held up, the other downwards in the flames. My bloodied hand starts to shake violently, blurring more, turning into the blood red of the card. I open and close my eyes a few times, realising my mind is tricking me.
Reaching down, I frantically search for my iPhone in my bag. I’ve four bars of an internet signal. I type ‘Devil card’, and the image I saw on the card appears on the screen. Under it, the words read, The Devil Card from the Tarot Deck, when found upright, means bondage, addiction and sexuality. None of that makes any sense to me, so I scroll further down to a longer description:
At the foot of the Devil stand a naked man and a woman chained to the podium on which he sits. They seem held against their will, but the chains around their necks are loose, symbolising bondage to the Devil isn’t forced. The man and woman wear tiny horns like those of the Satyr – becoming more like the Devil the longer they stay close to him. The dark cave implies the Devil dwells in the most inaccessible realm of your unconscious. Only crisis can break through the walls.
Are the man and woman on the card supposed to be Edgar and this other woman? He never mentioned the Cassie4Casanova link on the computer. How would he explain that? He couldn’t deny it.
The phone rings, jolting me. At first I’m relieved it’s Karen. She’ll know what to do. I press answer, but say nothing.