Cramer frowned. He washed his eggs down with his tea. ‘I don’t get this, Colonel. Why isn’t the Bureau helping us?’
‘The FBI have less than a dozen profilers on staff and a single manager and they’re on a tight budget. They do a total of about eight hundred profiles a year but they have to turn away at least two hundred. The Bureau’s total budget for profiling is just over a million dollars a year, despite all the publicity the unit gets. They don’t even have the time to do written profiles on a lot of the cases they handle — they offer advice on the phone to law enforcement agencies all across America. But Jackman can give us as much time as we need. He’s had access to all the case files for the past three months. I want you to meet him before we put you in place.’
Cramer put down his fork. The bulk of his scrambled eggs remained untouched on the plate. ‘What will he be able to tell me?’
‘He might be able to give you an idea of what sort of man the killer is, give you a profile so that you recognise him when he moves against you.’
Cramer smiled thinly. ‘Moves against me? You mean tries to kill me.’
‘Whatever. It’ll give you an edge.’
‘I’ll take whatever I can get,’ said Cramer. He rubbed his stomach.
The Colonel leaned forward, concerned. ‘Are you okay?’
‘A bit sore, but nothing like as bad as it’s going to be in a few weeks.’
‘There’s a doctor coming later. He’ll give you a check-up.’
‘I’ve been seen by experts, Colonel. I’ve had all the second opinions I need.’
‘All the same, I want him to look at you. He might be able to prescribe something for the pain.’
Cramer shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Painkillers will just slow me down. Besides, the pain lets me know I’m still alive.’ He pushed the plate away and drained his mug.
They both looked over at the door as they heard footsteps in the hallway. A short, portly man carrying a large briefcase entered the dining hall, walking quickly as if he was behind schedule. He was wearing a dark blue blazer and black slacks and his shoes gleamed as if they’d just been polished. The Colonel stood up. ‘The doctor?’ asked Cramer.
‘The tailor,’ said the Colonel.
‘A tailor? What the hell do I need a tailor for?’
‘The man whose place you’ll be taking wouldn’t be seen dead in clothes like yours, Joker.’
The tailor put his briefcase on the table, opened it and took out a tapemeasure and a small notebook. ‘Up, up, up,’ he said to Cramer, talking as quickly as he walked. Cramer got to his feet and held out his hands to the sides. The Colonel smiled as the tailor busied himself taking Cramer’s measurements and scribbling them down in his notebook. ‘Three suits, we said?’
‘That’s right,’ said the Colonel. ‘All dark pinstripe, double breasted, no turn-ups. A dozen shirts, all white, double cuffs. Socks, underwear, a selection of casual shirts and trousers. Conservative.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said the tailor, kneeling down in front of Cramer and deftly measuring his inside leg.
‘And an overcoat,’ said the Colonel. ‘Cashmere.’ Cramer raised an eyebrow. ‘Quality shows,’ the Colonel explained. ‘Especially when you get up close.’
The tailor measured Cramer’s arms, his waist and his chest. ‘Which side will you be carrying?’ the tailor asked Cramer.
‘Carrying?’ repeated Cramer, confused.
‘Shoulder holster,’ said the tailor.
‘Left side,’ said Cramer.
‘Good, good.’ The tailor turned to the Colonel. ‘What about accessories?’ he asked. ‘Belts, ties, cufflinks?’
‘I’ll leave that up to you,’ said the Colonel. ‘Bring a selection.’
‘Certainly,’ said the tailor. ‘Certainly.’
‘And you can supply shoes?’
‘Of course, of course.’ The tailor looked up at Cramer expectantly.
‘Ten and a half,’ said Cramer.
The tailor made a note, stood up, picked up his briefcase and left.
‘Regular whirlwind,’ said Cramer, his hands still out at his sides.
‘He puts the guys in Hong Kong to shame,’ said the Colonel. ‘He’ll have it all ready within forty-eight hours.’
‘And I get to keep them after it’s all over?’
The Colonel began to reply, then he realised that Cramer was being sarcastic. He shook his head, almost sadly. ‘I’d forgotten why they called you Joker,’ he said.
Cramer shrugged and sat down again. ‘So when does it happen?’
‘A few days. There’s still some preparation to be done.’
‘Just don’t leave it too long,’ warned Cramer.
The top shelf of the larder was just out of the boy’s reach so he had to stand on a chair to reach the tin of beef stew. He opened the can, emptied it into a pan and stirred it carefully on the gas stove. When the stew began to bubble and spit he poured it onto a plate and carried it upstairs with a glass of milk. His mother was sitting up, her back propped up with pillows. The walking stick lay on the covers next to a stack of old magazines. ‘I made you lunch,’ said the boy.
His mother smiled. ‘You’re a good boy,’ she said.
The boy carried the plate and glass over to the bedside table and put them down next to a box of tissues. He handed his mother a fork. ‘It’s beef stew,’ he said.
‘My favourite.’
‘It’s not your favourite. Your favourite is roast chicken, you always say. But I couldn’t make roast chicken.’
‘This is my favourite today.’ She took the fork and the boy held the plate for her as she speared a small piece of meat. She chewed slowly, then nodded. ‘Delicious.’
‘Yeah? Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure.’ She reached over and ruffled his hair. ‘How was school today?’
‘Okay, I guess.’ He stood watching her, waiting for her to take a second bite, but she put the fork back on the plate and lay down, wincing as she moved. ‘Try some more,’ he urged. ‘It’s good.’
‘Maybe later.’ She sounded tired. She always sounded tired, the boy thought. As if she’d given up hope.