The Devil's Feather - Minette Walters [98]
“Your photograph has been posted with every police force in the UK, along with a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of the Glasgow murders. Once you’re in custody, Alan Collins and Bill Fraser will be given time to question you about the Freetown and Baghdad murders. You came under UK jurisdiction as soon as you entered the country…which means you can be questioned about crimes anywhere in the world.” Carefully, I adjusted my grip on the axe. My palms were so wet I could barely hold it. “It’s all in Alan’s email.”
If I could indeed tempt him into turning his back, I would certainly hit him, but I had few illusions about my ability to do any serious damage. I was more likely to miss him completely and bury the axe in my monitor. At least I’d kill the awful repetition of my own tearful entreaties, followed by mute obedience, that filled the screen behind him. The images, many in close-up, were worse than anything I’d imagined.
I had to try twice before any words came. “They’ve done a psychological profile on you that says if you filmed me, then you’ll have filmed the women you murdered as well. They say you’re an addictive trophy killer…you hang on to evidence that will convict you because you need to keep reminding yourself—”
The speed with which MacKenzie’s fist whipped out to flick a knife blade in front of Peter’s face stopped me in my tracks. “Stay where you are,” he warned. “I don’t give a shit for this man’s sight…but you probably do.” With his other hand, he felt behind him for the CD-ROM button. “You talk too much, Connie,” he said, glancing round to retrieve a disk from the open tray. “All women talk too much. It does my fucking head in. I liked you better when your tongue was tied.”
He played the point of the knife between Peter’s terrified eyes while he slid the DVD into his pocket. “What else does this profile say?”
Christ! Which was better? Back off or keep going? How much did he know about psychological profiling? What was more likely to tip him over the edge? Something anodyne or something brutal? I dredged facts from the research I’d done. “That you’re an organized killer…a vengeful stalker who blames women for your inability to make relationships…that you target your victims carefully and plan your murders to avoid detection.” I kept my eyes on the blade. “That your socioeconomic group is at the lower end of the scale…you’re unlikely to be married…possibly delusional…have no interest in personal hygiene…” I fell silent because his aggression suddenly vanished.
He lowered the knife to the table and assessed me critically. “You’re skin and bones, feather,” he said gently. “What happened to you?”
“I haven’t been eating. I feel sick if I put something in my mouth.”
“You think about me then?”
“All the time.”
“Go on,” he encouraged, placing the knife on the desk to reach for a canvas bag that I hadn’t noticed within the embrasure of the desk. I watched him pull back the flap to put my father’s mobile and the DVD inside, and with a small shock I recognized it as my own bag.
“At night, I wake up screaming because I’m afraid you’re in the room,” I said in a monotone. “During the day I have panic attacks because I see a dog or smell something that reminds me of you.” Inside the bag, I could see a pair of miniature binoculars that I was sure belonged to my father. “There isn’t a single minute in twenty-four hours when Keith MacKenzie doesn’t fill my mind.”
I lapsed into silence again because I didn’t know what he was doing. Part of me wondered if he was preparing to leave; the other part remained intensely suspicious. His only way out was past me, but I wasn’t so naïve as to lower the axe to let him pass. Nor was I prepared to separate myself from Jess and Peter. However incapacitated