‘It’s thought that Hopkins lived there in the cottage to its right. It was demolished. Now it’s a beer garden.’
So there it was: the place where it all began. A pretty humble abode for such a pompous individual. ‘So, Elizabeth Clarke would have lived next door to him presumably?’
Amelia poked her glasses onto the bridge of her nose. ‘Remind me – which one was she?’
I laid the book on the table. ‘The first woman he accused. He said he overheard her and her coven one Friday night.’
‘Were they in the pub do you think?’ Amelia asked shifting her gaze to the book. I handed it back so she could have another look.
‘I don’t know,’ I said honestly. ‘Not much gets written about the victims.’
Amelia tutted. ‘Well said, my dear. No, it’s usually the victimisers that occupy our fascination and ergo the press. We can all too well imagine the horror of chancing upon a killer. Or having them chance upon you. I get it all the time walking home alone from the pub at night: the internal Crimewatch voiceover narrating my “last movements”.’ She let out a less forceful piggy snort. ‘But the killers themselves. Well, that’s what we don’t understand. I think we’re drawn to them like moths to a flame – wanting to know the “hows”, “whens”, “whats” and “wherefores”, but also not wanting to know about it too. It’s a double-edged sword, this kind of knowledge. I think the main thing we want to understand is “why” they do what they do. I know I do. In fact I have visited several sites of serial killings myself.’
She was searching my face for a reaction. I think I looked pretty open. ‘Really?’ I said.
Amelia nudged the book into the middle of the table,
and picked up the menu. ‘The same reason as everyone else – I’m compelled to stop and stare: the crimes are so grotesque.’
I was quietly impressed. Who would have thought beneath that fusty exterior such morbid fascination lurked? Although, I suppose, it also explained her interest in Hopkins. ‘So where have you been?’
Amelia fanned herself with the menu. ‘Saddleworth Moor. The site of the Wests’ house in Gloucester.’
‘God,’ I said. ‘That’s pretty hardcore.’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘It is.’
‘Isn’t there a name for that sort of behaviour?’
She wasn’t fazed. ‘I’ve heard the term “ghouls” bandied around.’
‘You don’t seem like one. You seem perfectly nice.’
Amelia shrugged. ‘I’ve given up apologising for it. It’s something in me. Something that I’m pulled to. I don’t know why. I just am.’
I knew that feeling. ‘So what are your thoughts on Hopkins?’
‘Like I said, the question I’m always trying to answer is “why?” Why did he do it? Why, in fact, do any of these monsters do what they do? I think as individuals we tend to seek out depths in the human psyche. We have this notion that there are areas that these killers have access to, which we don’t. But I’ve concluded that we’re looking at things the wrong way round. It’s more that they haven’t got the same capacity for feeling that most people have. It takes a fully formed adult a huge amount of mental strength to put out the suffering of family pets or injured roadside animals because we’re empathetic. These murderers can’t have empathy. They just can’t. Or guilt, for that matter.’
‘Some surely do experience guilt?’ I asked, leaning in to hear her better. The tables around us were filling up.
‘Psychopaths don’t,’ she said and took a sip of her drink. ‘Nor shame nor remorse.’
That was interesting. ‘So you think Hopkins was a psychopath?’
She blinked and paused. ‘There are common traits certainly: he was narcissistic, called himself “The Witchfinder General”. No one bestowed that term on him, he gave it to himself. That implies a self-aggrandising. And in that role he was able to “devalue” others around him to build up his sense of dominance and power and supremacy over his victims. You’ve done more in-depth research than me. Do you think that he was a good liar?’
I nodded. ‘Pretty good. Though he slipped up a couple of times.’
‘Mmm,’ Amelia said and bit the inside of her cheek. ‘But he wasn’t anti-social as such. He didn’t actually deviate from the socially acceptable norms of society at the time.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But he used them.’
Amelia caught the eye of the waiter. ‘Quite so. A conundrum.’
The waiter appeared at the table before I could respond.
‘Are you ready to order?’ He flicked open his notepad.