He opened another bottle of wine and reread Dame Elizabeth’s letter that he had snatched from her desk. It was very moving. How sad never to have known your parents. Even if you couldn’t stand them, it was important to know where you came from. And the father sounded so interesting too. But it was the mother that was vital; the mother was the key to everything. Nietzsche had understood this. He had written:
‘Everyone carries within him an image of woman that he gets from his mother; that determines whether he will honour women in general, or despise them, or be generally indifferent to them.’
He despised them.
He recognized now that DCI Hanlon was the woman he had previously known as Gallagher. He sipped his wine and thought of how he could best use this unexpected development to his advantage. Nothing sprang immediately to mind, but that didn’t matter. Time was not particularly pressing at the moment. It did amuse him, though, that he knew practically everything there was to know about her father, while she knew nothing. It was like a Norse myth. By killing Dame Elizabeth he had somehow gained control of her memories, like Odin, drinking some magical potion brewed by dwarves or giants, able almost to see the future.
Well, he could see Hanlon’s future and it was bleak. He would be seeing to that personally. But maybe it would be more merciful for Hanlon to die a violent, glorious death rather than get old and withered. He had the consolations of philosophy; he doubted if they would do much for Hanlon. He found this God-like image of himself entirely fitting. He was an exceptional person. It was only fitting that he do exceptional things.
So, it was Hanlon then. That was her real name. The name suited her, its twin syllables short and hard. He had been thinking a great deal about her of late and not just about her death. He found her very attractive. Maybe he would have a chance to do something about that.