‘Okay,’ said Max. ‘It’s a bit weird, and I’m not sure what it all means.’

‘Spare me the suspense,’ Norah said.

‘I’ve been trying to find out a bit about this woman,’ Max said.

Norah felt her antennae twitch.

‘What woman?’

‘Dorotea Lechner.’

‘And?’

‘Her name rang a bell,’ Max said, ‘so I googled her and found out that I saw her in a play not all that long ago. And it seemed strange that she should have turned to begging.’

‘Very strange,’ said Norah, ‘but—’

‘I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I asked—a bit. And—what’s weird?’

‘Max, I can’t really hear you.’

‘I said: do you know what’s weird?’

‘What?’

‘She—acting jobs until—died. Nothing major—still.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘She was engaged by a theatre again soon before she died. And guess—’

The connection broke off. Norah cursed under her breath.

‘Max?’

Nothing. A few seconds later, the train entered a tunnel. When it came out on the other side, Norah tried to ring Max back, but without any luck. Never mind. She’d try again after the interview. Dorotea Lechner was dead—it could hardly be urgent.

THE CAPACITY TO KILL

Some years ago I met a profiler at a party.

I told him I was interested in serial killers and asked him all kinds of questions, which he answered in such weary, blasé tones that I soon realised I’d asked the things everybody asked when he told them what he did. There was only one question he had to think about and I was a little annoyed at my childish pride at having finally managed to pique his interest. After all, I’d already made a name for myself by then; if anything, he should have been the one trying to impress me.

What I wanted to know was whether there was any way of recognising serial killers. Good question, my then-wife said. What would set your alarm bells ringing? she asked the profiler.

I’d expected him to laugh and say that he was afraid there were no simple telltale signs. But he had to stop and think, and his answer was interesting. A lot of serial killers, he said, have a desperate urge to talk about what they have done. Of course, they can only talk in hedged and shrouded terms, but the compulsion is strong; there’s this hefty great thing in their lives, an obsession that occupies them day and night, but is completely taboo. Many people who unwittingly come into contact with such types report being asked, apparently jokingly, ‘Do I look like a murderer?’ Or, ‘Do you think I’m capable of murder?’ So to answer your question, the profiler said, being asked a thing like that might well set my alarm bells ringing.

Since that evening, the question has been part of my repertoire of dinner-party small talk: Do you think I’m capable of murder? (My ex-wife was never amused by this, which always rather puzzled the women I was making conversation with.) Of course, the opinion of a casual party acquaintance is of absolutely no consequence, but the answers to the question are invariably entertaining and I always take a well-considered ‘yes’ as a compliment. What is more interesting is to ask the question of others. There was a time when that was a real fixation of mine—perhaps a professional tic. Would the taxi driver who was giving me a lift be capable of murder? My local chemist? The policewoman on the beat? That photographer setting up his tripod? The man on that park bench over there? The waitress taking my order?