The Bat by Jo Nesbø Page A

police force in Australia?” Harry asked.
    Smiles all round the table. Harry changed the subject.
    “If it’s a serial killer—” Harry started.
    “—then he often has a pattern, a theme,” Andrew finished. “But there isn’t one here, is there?”
    Yong shook his head. “Some officer at some point over the years must have considered the idea that a serial killer was on the loose. He probably took out old files from the archives and compared them, but the variations have been too wide to support the suspicion.”
    “If it is a serial killer, wouldn’t he have a more or less conscious desire to be caught?” Lebie asked.
    Watkins cleared his throat. This was his special area.
    “That’s the way it’s presented in crime fiction,” he said. “The murderer’s actions are a cry for help; he leaves small coded messages and evidence as the result of an unconscious desire for someone to stop him killing. And sometimes that is how it is. But unfortunately most serial killers are like most people; they don’t want to be caught. And if this really is a serial killer he hasn’t given us much to go on. There are a number of things I don’t like …”
    He scrunched up his face and revealed a top set of yellow teeth.
    “First of all, there doesn’t seem to be any pattern to the killings, apart from the fact that the victims are blondes and he throttles them. That might suggest he views murders as isolated events, like a piece of art that has to be different from what went before, or there’s an underlying pattern here we can’t see yet. But it could also mean the murders are unplanned, so in some cases it becomes a necessity, for example if the victim has seen his face, resisted, screamed for help or something unforeseen has happened.”
    “Perhaps he only murdered when he couldn’t get it up?” Lebie suggested.
    “Perhaps we ought to let some psychologists have a closer look at these cases,” Harry said. “They might be able to come up with a profile that could help us.”
    “Perhaps,” Watkins said. He seemed to have his mind on other matters.
    “What’s second of all, sir?” Yong asked.
    “What?” Watkins was back.
    “You said, ‘first of all.’ What’s the second thing you don’t like?”
    “His sudden inactivity,” Watkins said. “Of course, that may be for purely practical reasons. Like he’s traveling or he’s ill. But it could also be because he’s got a feeling someone’s going to suspect a link somewhere. So he stops for a while. Just like that!” He snapped his fingers. “In whichcase, we’ve got a really dangerous man on our hands. One who’s disciplined and cunning and isn’t driven by the kind of self-destructive passion that can only escalate and in the end betray most serial killers. A smart, calculating murderer whom we’re unlikely to catch until he’s unleashed a veritable bloodbath. If we ever do.”
    “What do we do now?” Andrew asked. “Do we tell all blondes under pensionable age to stay at home in the evenings?”
    “Doing that would make him go underground and we’d never find him then,” Lebie said. He had taken out a penknife and was painstakingly cleaning his nails.
    “On the other hand, are we going to leave all the blondes in Australia to their doom, as bait for this bloke?” Yong said.
    “There’s no point telling women to stay indoors,” Watkins said. “If he’s on the prowl for a victim, he’ll find one. He broke into a couple of houses, didn’t he. Forget it. We’ll have to smoke him out.”
    “How though? He operates right across the bloody country, and no one knows when he’ll strike next. The guy rapes and kills at random.” Lebie was talking to his nails.
    “That’s not correct,” Andrew answered. “To have survived for so long there’s nothing random about it. There is a pattern. There’s always a pattern. Not because you plan it, but because all humans are creatures of habit, there’s no difference between you and me