Page 27 of The Unforgiven

“Actually, it’s more about the background of the potential killer.” I kept to the singular. “Whether he could be part of an incel community, but I know the usual profile isn’t for someone with that ideology to act on their hatred.” Which was the part that wasn’t sitting right with me. “Incel’s hate women; theyperceive themselves to have been rejected, as women won’t be interested in them because they’re not attractive enough, then blaming women for having that choice and wanting more than they think they’re entitled to.”

“That’s the basics,” Daniel sat back, nursing his coffee. “Like-minded people finding an echo chamber online. Other men who have low self-esteem, social anxiety and likely poor mental health such as depression, meaning them feeling isolated and invisible. Maybe not working and lack a social group, so they spend too much time in their head, or online seeking social connections. The masculine norms of yesteryear are no longer acceptable, so they don’t know how to fit in. Misogynistic attribution bias, blaming women for this change in societal roles. But it takes guts to be a murderer, which you know.”

“Or psychopathy.”

“And being a psychopath or a narcissist and having an ideology of a so-called incel aren’t mutually exclusive, Mia.” He stood up, putting his coffee cup down. “Or you have a killer who’s using that ideology as an excuse.”

“A reason to justify what he’s doing?”

Daniel nodded and sat down next to me, a good foot distance. To my left was open fire, still in working order and swept twice a year because the study was cool even in summer, if Manchester chose to have a summer.

“How are things other than work? How’s the housemate?” The last time I’d seen him, he’d been encouraging me to buy my own place, put roots down and accept where I was as being the right place.

I was allowed to stop running.

“It’s mainly work. We finish one case, or we run into a brick wall, and another one pops up straightaway. It’s hard.” My words filled the room, a room which knew all of my secrets, wrapped in the fine lines of the wallpaper and panelling, hiddenin cracks with all the other whispers they’d heard over the years. Ashcombe House had begun life as a family home, commission by some lord, who’d wanted a residence close to Manchester. His wife had become ill, with a ‘malady of the brain’ and was treated here, the building being abandoned by her husband and children and making its way briefly into being an early psychiatric hospice for women. That’d lasted ten years, and then it had been bought by the university, the doctors who’d treated those women studying and teaching the science of it.

How many women had spilled their fear and desires, and fears about their desires here?

I knew I’d been one of many.

“And the case will take a slice of you. You have no penance to pay, Mia. Your father’s choices weren’t yours.”

Words he’d said to me first right at the end of my first year when I’d nearly dropped out, not thinking I deserved to be there. Daniel had persuaded me to stay, stopped me from leaving to get a job, because the money that was funding my studies wasn’t the gift it should’ve been.

Things had changed in my second year. I met one of my half-brothers, one of many half siblings I knew I had. My father spent a lot of the time when he wasn’t in prison in a woman, and had some form of gift at getting them pregnant, a one-man mission to ensure the next generation kept him living on.

“I know. I don’t blame myself anymore.”

“But you’re in the police because you know it annoys him. Your boss has arrested him more than once, and at some point, you could arrest him too. When’s he due out?” Daniel’s tone was calm, just like we were having a conversation.

“Two and a half years. He had parole turned down, so I heard.” He’d always avoided being sent down for anything big, like murder, mainly because my father never got his hands dirty.He had minions to do that, a gang of them and some more left over.

He was currently doing time for tax evasion, probably making some good contacts while he was there. I’d ignored his last three requests to visit.

“And I might’ve joined the police to spite him, but he’s not the reason I’m still there. It’s more complicated than that.” I sounded defensive, maybe petulant.

“How is more complicated. Explain it to me.”

“I have a family there. I have routine and belonging. I’m good at my job and valued there. No one feels sorry for me; I don’t get special treatment because I was a looked after child. I have an identity within that group, and I just saw what you made me do.” I lifted my head and allowed myself to make contact with him. “The need that’s being met through identifying with a group is possibly how our killer is working. Maybe the murders are to prove his worth, show how he’s better.”

“So who are you looking for?” He made no further comment about my past or my present.

“A man who’s been rejected, more likely he’s been sacked or didn’t get a job he applied for, so his identity has suffered a knock; maybe the person who sacked or interviewed him was a woman. Probably suffered adverse childhood experiences, although we can’t use that to predetermine his class status. Unlikely to be married or in a committed relationship. Spends time online. So we possibly want someone who’s become very active recently online, championing the incel agenda.” I ran through a to do list in my head. “He’ll live within seven miles of the city centre, or have lived within that limit.”

“And there’s likely to be a prior offence. Were the victims raped?”

I shook my head. That would be common knowledge in a few hours anyway. “No. The first was stripped naked. The second was fully clothed.”

“The second – Brooke O’Hara, wasn’t it? – that might not have gone as planned. He could be attempting rape but couldn’t get an erection. Do you suspect the women have been chosen at random?”

I heard footsteps come up the stairs, the carpet not enough to absorb the sound, as it never had been.

“That’ll be my assistant. She’s a curious one, so best if she doesn’t overhear us, and Jesus, is that the time?”

I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, another antique, the pendulum swinging to count each second.

It was nearly seven o’clock.