Shooting in the Dark

to time she would shake her head as though to clear her vision. I told her I wanted ten thousand pounds and she said she would have to have a glass of water. She drank the liquid and wept for a moment. She said she couldn’t give me money just like that, she’d need some kind of proof that her sister was alive.
    I had predicted this as well. It was as if the woman was a puppet, someone without free will. I made a suggestion and she responded to it precisely as I expected.
    ‘We’ll use your car,’ I told her. ‘You drive. You don’t have to get the money until you’ve seen the proof.’
    She was anxious. Her skin was cold and clammy. But what could she do? I was holding all the cards.
    I directed her up to the moors and we travelled a high, narrow road that was populated by sheep and only the occasional car. It was not a short journey and from time to time she would turn and ask if I was sure that this was the right way.
    I was sure.
    Following my directions, she parked in a lay-by which led to a public footpath. I told her to follow the path, walking close behind her. When the road was out of sight we turned off the path on to one of the sheep-runs. She did as I directed for about a hundred metres before she rebelled.
    ‘Angeles isn’t here,’ she said. ‘I’m going back. I don’t know what you’re up to, but this isn’t right. She can’t be here.’
    She pushed past me and ran along the narrow sheep-run. I took off after her and pushed her into the heather. I straddled her and flicked the cover off the syringe, pushing the needle into the top of her chest.
    It was remarkable how quickly the Suxamethonium took effect. Within seconds she was still, unable to move, her eyes staring with fear.
    I hadn’t thought through what to do next. I suppose I could have given her more of the drug but I wasn’t sure that would satisfy me. At first I thought I might strangle her, but in the end I turned her on to her face and knelt on the small of her back. I took her by the shoulders and pulled until her spine cracked.
    I don’t mind admitting it: I felt and still feel that this killing was beneath me. Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad she’s out of the way, that she’s dead. But I want the disposal of the next sister to be a more creative act.
     
    When people hear that I worked in forensic psychology they want to know about offender profiling. This is because offender profiling is the new sexy specialism of the profession, and there are many of us, professionals and ex-professionals, who wish it wasn’t so. It is a technique (though the word itself adds dignity to what might turn out to be mere romance) that is as yet unproven, and is certainly unscientific. The profiler prepares a biographical sketch of the offender, the ingredients of which are gathered from information taken at the scene of a crime and from the personal habits and history of the victim.
    And there have been successes, some of them startling. Nevertheless, offender characteristics are extremely complex, and there is no reason to get excited just because one or two early results were positive. Research and slow, painstaking work are what adds to our knowledge base. At the present stage of its development offender profiling is irrelevant in the detection of crime. You would be better off tossing a coin.
    Catharsis is much more interesting, though not as sexy.
    Freud’s concept was that the existence of drama allowed the spectator to vicariously discharge his aggressive drives. There have been various research projects built around the idea of catharsis, but, as yet, no one has come up with a definitive result. Some studies show that the depiction of violence leads to more violence, while others seem to suggest that catharsis is at work and acting as a safety valve.
    My own research involved a field study. I had access to a group of boys in a young offenders’ unit a few miles to the north of the city. What I intended to do was feed half of them on a diet of violent television, video nasties, slasher movies, etc., while the other half would be submitted to pastoral, seasonal and calming filmic images. I needed permission to run this experiment for ten weeks, during which the behaviour of the boys would have been constantly observed and measured.
    I was the observer. I. The watchman.
     
    Yesterday Miriam came home from work in a foul mood. She stripped off her apron and her blouse which were stained with tomato sauce. They’d been serving