pustule on his chin which worried him. He didn’t scratch it but constantly brought his fingers close to it, tenderly palpating the greasy, pitted skin around it. Hook was a tall man who might have been good-looking but for his bulbous, shapeless, pugilist’s nose. He drank in a curious way, holding his coffee cup in both hands. In the middle of a series of questions he broke off and said to Stephen
à propos
, it seemed, of nothing that had gone before, his eyes fixed and narrowed, his forefinger pointing across the table, ‘We’re looking for a psychopath — would you agree to that? Would you agree that a man who kills the way this one does, for no more motive than that a girl’s young and has got long blonde hair, a man who’s driven by some impulse to kill in this way, he would be a psychopath?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘A man who is apparently a conformist, young and physically very strong, a man who needs routine because any other kind of existence he can’t handle. A man who has a fantasy life, maybe delusions of grandeur, a man with a morbid interest in death. I’m describing a certain type of psychopath. Aren’t I also describing you, Whalby?’
Stephen said nothing. What could he say?
‘So we have a blueprint and here we have a man who fits that blueprint — or so it seems to me. Don’t you think any detached observer would see it like that? Our man knows Vangmoor. He knows it so well he can find his way about it in the dark. He’s so strong and he knows the moor so well he can carry a dead body miles across it by night.’
‘I haven’t a morbid interest in death.’ Stephen tried a dismissive laugh and felt he had succeeded. ‘What was I supposed to do when I found Marianne Price’s body? Not tell you? Go home as if nothing had happened?’
‘We’ll ask the questions, Whalby,’ said Malm.
Stephen had never seen Troth smile or even look pleasant, but now as he sat a little apart from the others, sat with a certain air of deference to the others, his hand moving slightly in the vicinity of that red spot with its yellow blob, there was something in his face that Stephen recognized as amusement. It wasn’t a smile, it wasn’t even a lifting of those tight, bunched facial muscles, but rather a light in his eyes. Troth was amused, vastly entertained, by the spectacle of a defenceless person being insulted.
True to his word, Malm launched into a spate of questions. This time they were all concerned withthe geography of the moor and Manciple, who knew it better than they, had to be called in to assist. It seemed to Stephen that he had already, dozens of times, described the walks he took and the climbs he did, but they wanted it all again. Then the door opened and a man came in. Stephen didn’t even look up, he was so sure it must be their lunch sandwiches arriving, but there was no tray and no sandwiches, only another one of those whispered messages of the kind, no doubt, that yesterday had made him into a psychopath and a murderer. Malm, Hook and Manciple all left the room. Stephen was left alone with Troth.
Troth behaved exactly as if he wasn’t there. He did something Stephen felt no man would do in the company of another unless he felt that other to be less than the dust. There was no mirror in the room but the street plan was framed and glazed. Troth got up. Achieving a passable reflection of his face in the glass, he squeezed the spot on his chin between his two forefingers. He gave a low grunt of pain and blood spurted, a tiny bead of it plummeting onto the frame.
Stephen sat and waited. Troth made him feel acutely uncomfortable by getting behind him and standing there, presumably to look out of the window. He resolved that whatever happened, if they kept him there for hours, if they kept him there all day, he wouldn’t speak to Troth. He stretched his legs and shifted in the chair. His whole body felt tense. They couldn’t do anything to him, could they? They must be bluffing.
à propos
, it seemed, of nothing that had gone before, his eyes fixed and narrowed, his forefinger pointing across the table, ‘We’re looking for a psychopath — would you agree to that? Would you agree that a man who kills the way this one does, for no more motive than that a girl’s young and has got long blonde hair, a man who’s driven by some impulse to kill in this way, he would be a psychopath?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘A man who is apparently a conformist, young and physically very strong, a man who needs routine because any other kind of existence he can’t handle. A man who has a fantasy life, maybe delusions of grandeur, a man with a morbid interest in death. I’m describing a certain type of psychopath. Aren’t I also describing you, Whalby?’
Stephen said nothing. What could he say?
‘So we have a blueprint and here we have a man who fits that blueprint — or so it seems to me. Don’t you think any detached observer would see it like that? Our man knows Vangmoor. He knows it so well he can find his way about it in the dark. He’s so strong and he knows the moor so well he can carry a dead body miles across it by night.’
‘I haven’t a morbid interest in death.’ Stephen tried a dismissive laugh and felt he had succeeded. ‘What was I supposed to do when I found Marianne Price’s body? Not tell you? Go home as if nothing had happened?’
‘We’ll ask the questions, Whalby,’ said Malm.
Stephen had never seen Troth smile or even look pleasant, but now as he sat a little apart from the others, sat with a certain air of deference to the others, his hand moving slightly in the vicinity of that red spot with its yellow blob, there was something in his face that Stephen recognized as amusement. It wasn’t a smile, it wasn’t even a lifting of those tight, bunched facial muscles, but rather a light in his eyes. Troth was amused, vastly entertained, by the spectacle of a defenceless person being insulted.
True to his word, Malm launched into a spate of questions. This time they were all concerned withthe geography of the moor and Manciple, who knew it better than they, had to be called in to assist. It seemed to Stephen that he had already, dozens of times, described the walks he took and the climbs he did, but they wanted it all again. Then the door opened and a man came in. Stephen didn’t even look up, he was so sure it must be their lunch sandwiches arriving, but there was no tray and no sandwiches, only another one of those whispered messages of the kind, no doubt, that yesterday had made him into a psychopath and a murderer. Malm, Hook and Manciple all left the room. Stephen was left alone with Troth.
Troth behaved exactly as if he wasn’t there. He did something Stephen felt no man would do in the company of another unless he felt that other to be less than the dust. There was no mirror in the room but the street plan was framed and glazed. Troth got up. Achieving a passable reflection of his face in the glass, he squeezed the spot on his chin between his two forefingers. He gave a low grunt of pain and blood spurted, a tiny bead of it plummeting onto the frame.
Stephen sat and waited. Troth made him feel acutely uncomfortable by getting behind him and standing there, presumably to look out of the window. He resolved that whatever happened, if they kept him there for hours, if they kept him there all day, he wouldn’t speak to Troth. He stretched his legs and shifted in the chair. His whole body felt tense. They couldn’t do anything to him, could they? They must be bluffing.
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