He’d felt his spine tighten as he clenched his fists. He’d remembered Tuscany, and the room with the long windows. ‘Shut up.’
‘Tickle, tickle, tickle,’ her claw-like fingers had reached out, touching his chest. ‘Remember how you liked this, little boy?’
‘I never liked it.’
He’d stood back farther, because the desire to punch her had suddenly become so strong, throbbing through him like a sharp pain. It would be a mercy, some might think, to finish off the old bitch. He’d taken a long, measured breath, letting her ramble, as he’d listened.
In the end, he was glad he had. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to remember any of it.
≈
Arriving at the outskirts of Livorno, he felt relief at being far away from her. He could almost taste the treasures that Suvereto would unfold. His intentions and aspirations had been clear from the beginning: the trip was simply a way of rekindling the more positive aspects of the past. Sometimes, though, life sends you an added bonus and the course changes, taking you somewhere unexpected.
As he walked across the paving stones in Suvereto’s ancient town centre, its narrow alleyways and broad squares captivating him, he saw Bishop Antonio Peri. At first, he had thought his mind was playing tricks, that it was just a stooped, overweight old man who resembled Antonio. When he looked again, it was undeniably him, even without the pomp and glamour of his ornate bishop’s robes. The last he had heard, the poisonous bishop had been relocated to Florence, but it seemed he too had been compelled to return, and there he was, drifting easily with the locals, none of them knowing the kind of monster he was.
It took some time to secure a private audience with him. In the end, just like the old bitch, the once-arrogant pig shared far more than he had intended; words crawling through old wounds. The fall from the cliff edge some days later would have been attributed to his fragility and stupidity – what was a frail old man thinking, walking on such a dangerous cliff edge? The sea had been so blue, the sun blinding on the water, the fat bastard whining like an abandoned baby, tasting fear, begging for clemency with his pathetic babbling.
He had smiled to himself as he heard the bishop’s scream curling through the air, his death resonating a new beginning.
NUI Maynooth, Renehan Hall
Saturday, 12 March 2011
HEAVY RAIN CLOUDS WERE BEARING DOWN ON YET another dark afternoon when Dr Kate Pearson finally reached the car park. She had spent over an hour negotiating her way through bumper-to-bumper traffic coming out of Dublin, and was hoping to get a shot of caffeine before the talk began. The conference at the university had been booked to capacity over a month in advance, which meant a packed room of people, all waiting for Kate’s talk. It seemed that understanding the psychology behind crime and criminal profiling was the latest buzz and fascination for the masses.
It was the first time Kate had given a lecture at Maynooth and the line-up was impressive, featuring some of the best crime writers and criminology academics in the country. Since returning from London to Ireland after Charlie was born, she’d spent the last few years working with young offenders – a far cry from her tenure with criminal psychologist Professor Henry Bloom. Her current work was aimed at the prevention of criminal acts, rather than identifying key aspects of them. Henry, who was well respected and held in high regard by Scotland Yard, had taught her a great deal about getting inside the mind of an offender, but, despite the positive attributes of her current role, a part of her still pined to unravel a profiling puzzle.
Before entering Renehan Hall, she looked at the whiteboard erected outside:
CRIME AND CONTEMPORAY IRELAND –
NUI MAYNOOTH PRESENTS
‘THE TRUTH BEHIND CRIMINAL PROFILING’
An illustrated talk by Dr KATE PEARSON
– Criminal Psychologist
2.00 p.m.–3.00 p.m.
Sold Out
Kate had prepared her notes the week before, but had revised them earlier that morning. It was important to strike the correct balance when presenting a talk to both students and members of the public, breaking it down over general profiling headings and actual case studies. It was usually best to choose one main case for deep analysis, and she had deliberately chosen a case that would underline the most frightening aspect of most criminal studies – the ordinariness of the offender.
Walking to the top table from the back of the conference hall, Kate deliberately avoided eye contact with members of the audience. She always felt a degree of apprehension about talking in public, but, despite the butterflies in her stomach, past experience told her that once she was up there, she would be fine. Nonetheless, Niall King’s smiling, enthusiastic face felt something like a double-edged sword. As head of the Humanities Department, he had chosen all the speakers for the day with care, and she knew his expectations of her were high.
‘Hi, Niall.’
‘Ready to be fed to the lions, Kate?’