Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

Caroline looked at the police constable behind the counter in the Lairg police station and despaired. He looked about twelve. A gawky, awkward twelve at that. He had dark-blond hair that had been cut by someone with no feeling for the job. His face was a pale moonscape of lumps a bumpy forehead, prominent cheekbones, a thin nose with an angular bridge and a curiously round tip, jawbones like chestnuts, a sharp jut of chin and an Adam’s apple the size of a ripe fig. He’d actually blushed when she walked in and said she needed his help.

“This is going to sound kind of strange,” she said. “But it’s a matter of life and death.” Oh fuck, I already sound like a nutter.

He picked up a pen and said, “Name, please.”

“Dr. Caroline Matthews.” Sometimes, having a title helped. Sometimes, even the wrong assumption that went with it helped. “Look, I don’t want to be difficult about this, but can we leave the form-filling for now? My friend’s life may be in danger, and I think you need to deal with that as a matter of urgency.”

His mouth set in a stubborn line, but five seconds of Caroline’s cold blue glare reduced him to submission. “Aye. Right. What seems to be the problem, Doctor?”

There was, she realized, no point in attempting the whole story. “A friend of mine has a cottage locally. Kit Martin? The thriller writer?”

The young policeman’s face lit up in a smile. “Oh, aye, out at Allt a’ Claon.”

“The thing is, he’s been receiving threatening letters and his partner was worried about him because she couldn’t make contact. She’s afraid he’s got a stalker and that something must have happened to him. Anyway, she went out there about an hour and a quarter ago. She said if she wasn’t back in an hour, I was to go to the police.” She gave him her warmest smile. “So here I am. And I really think you should head out there and see what’s what.”

He looked doubtful. “I’m going to need to go and talk to somebody about this,” he said, in the tone of voice that indicated he was suggesting something monumentally difficult.

What’s keeping you, then? Caroline wanted to scream. “Make it quick. Please?”

He scratched his forehead with the end of his pen. “I’ll go and talk to somebody, then.” He unfolded his long, thin body and crossed to a door in the far wall. “You just wait there, I’ll be back.”

Caroline closed her eyes. She could have wept. With every passing moment, her dread grew. Please God, keep her safe, she prayed to a deity she had never believed in. He hadn’t kept Lesley safe; deep in her heart, she knew he’d be no use to Fiona either.

But there was nothing else she could do.

The news from the team searching Gerard Coyne’s flat was distinctly encouraging. Steve began to feel slightly less anxious as he listened to the preliminary report from the officer in charge.

Underneath the bathroom carpet, they’d found an area of floorboarding that had been cut and glued to allow a section to be lifted clear of the rest. Inside the cavity, they had found a plastic zip lock bag stuffed full of newspaper cuttings. The stories covered every one of the rapes Terry had identified as being part of the cluster, as well as a couple of general pieces in North London free sheets about the prevalence of sexual attacks in the area. Even more significantly, there was a thick wedge of clippings relating to Susan Blanchard’s murder. There were no other crime reports in the bag.

Also in the cavity was a Sabatier kitchen knife with a sharply honed blade. It was already on its way to the Home Office labs where it would be exhaustively tested for the slightest trace of Susan Blanchard’s blood. “I can’t believe he held on to the knife,” Steve had said, still capable of being astonished by the stupidity or arrogance of offenders.

“We don’t know yet that it is the knife,” his colleague cautioned. “It might be the one he used on the rapes. It’s not necessarily the same one he used on Susan Blanchard.”

Among Coyne’s clothes, they had found several lycra cycling garments, all of which had been bagged up and sent for analysis.

They also found several trophies and certificates for cycling races that Coyne had won. There was no question that he could have been the cyclist hammering down the paths of Hampstead Heath that morning.

He had both the skill and the stamina to have carried it off without even breaking sweat.

Steve walked into the observation room and settled down to watch the two officers he’d chosen to interrogate Gerard Patrick Coyne begin their work. The questioning had just begun when the call came through from Sarah Duvall.

Looking at the map, Blake could see only one possibility. No way they’d head down to the loch side road. They knew he had wheels at his disposal and they’d have no chance of avoiding him. The only other option was to hike out across the shoulder of the hill. That way they’d hit the road into Lairg near some cottages where, presumably, somebody would have a phone.

He couldn’t believe that Martin had the stamina or the strength to make it that far. She’d probably leave him at the bothy and set off to find help. That would suit him perfectly, he thought with satisfaction. If he drove round to the end of her escape route, he could climb higher up the hill and find a vantage point where he could take her out with the shotgun. There were plenty of places to hide a body in a landscape as wild as this.

Then he could make his way back across the hill to the bothy and finish what he’d started. It would be a bonus, allowing him to get back to The Blood Painter. Much more satisfying than if they’d perished in the ravine.

It looked like the gods had decided to reward him for his patience. He deserved it, but it wasn’t often in this life that people got what they deserved. He’d been changing that lately, and it was nice to see the universe joining in on his side.

Blake turned the key in the ignition and smiled with satisfaction as he set off back down the hill towards the dark waters of Loch Shin.

Few of the officers who worked with Steve Preston had ever seen his temper. But there was no doubting the towering anger that had him in its grip as the hapless officers who had been responsible for the surveillance on Francis Blake stood before him. Joanne and John, pulled off the interrogation of Coyne before it had even begun, and Neil, summoned back from the suspect’s flat before the search was complete, were in no doubt that they had not so much fallen down on the job as collapsed in a disintegrating heap.

“It’s beyond belief,” Steve raged, his face pale apart from two spots of high colour on his cheekbones. “You’re supposed to have had this man under tight surveillance, yet according to the City Police, he’s been in and out of his flat at will, without any of you knowing. You have no idea what he’s really been up to, have you?”

“Nobody told us about the bike,” John said stubbornly.

“All this time, Blake’s had a ten-speed racing bike in the back yard, a key to the back door, access to the van way that runs along the back of the row of houses. In all the time you were supposed to be watching him, did none of you think to take a look at the back of the premises?”

Neil stared at the floor. Joanne shrugged helplessly. “We didn’t realize you could access the back door from Blake’s flat, sir,” she tried.

“You’re supposed to be detectives,” he spat, his voice heavy with contempt. “A uniformed probationer would have had more nous than the three of you put together. As it is, City think we’re a complete bunch of tossers.” He slammed the flat of his hand on the desk. “Does anyone have any idea where Francis Blake is right now?”