Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

Shocked, Fiona read the story again, half expecting that this time the words would rearrange themselves in a different order. But the news remained the same. A woman she had sat opposite at dinner less than three months before was now a murder victim. No amount of familiarity with the business of homicide investigation could lessen the immediacy of the cold horror that swept through her.

Fiona had no recollection of the journey home, her mind entirely occupied with memories of Jane Elias in life and the images her informed mind conjured up of the writer’s body in death. They had met on Jane’s last trip to London, on the publication of her seventh Jay Schumann novel, Double Take. Jane and Kit shared a publisher, and because of Jane’s reluctance to make public appearances, Turnhouse Bachelor had arranged a series of private dinners for senior buyers in the book trade and key reviewers. To maximize their benefit, they had also invited a couple of their other crime authors to each of the dinners, which was how Kit and Fiona had come to meet the American. Of course, as soon as Jane had discovered Fiona’s professional interest in crime, she had been far more interested in talking to her than any of the other guests, and the two women had spent a large part of the evening deep in gruesome discussion of murder and its motivations.

Fiona had been drawn to Jane, first because of her intellectual incisiveness but also because of her acerbic wit. She could see why Jane had prevailed against the understandable demands of her publishers for her to take a more active role in promoting her work. Anyone who had once been on the receiving end of that caustic tongue wouldn’t want to repeat the experience in a hurry.

But now that voice was stilled forever. It was, Fiona thought as she plodded up Dartmouth Park Hill, a loss she felt more keenly than she would have expected. And now she would probably have to break the news to Kit.

She walked through the front door to the clear voice of Tracey Thorn revealing that she was out among the walking wounded. Fiona knew just how she felt. She walked into Kit’s study, finding him hunched over the keyboard, fingers flying. She put a hand on his shoulder and kissed the top of his gleaming head.

“Gimme five minutes,” he said abstractedly.

Fiona left him to it. Bad news always came too soon. Better that he finished what he was focused on than she interrupted his flow with something so momentous that he would always connect it to that chapter, that paragraph. In the kitchen, she poured them both a glass of cold white wine and sat down at the table to wait. The five minutes turned into twelve, but Fiona felt no impatience. There was nothing either of them could do for Jane now.

At last, Kit appeared, grinning a greeting that faded to uncertainty when he saw her sombre face. “What’s the matter?” he asked, concern furrowing his forehead.

Fiona pushed a glass towards him. “Bad news.” There was no way to sugar-coat it, so she didn’t even try. “Jane Elias has been murdered.”

Kit’s hand froze halfway to his drink. “Jane?” he said, incredulous. “Murdered? Where? When? What happened?”

Fiona pushed the paper across the table. “That’s as much as I know.”

Kit dropped heavily into a chair, reaching for his wine and scanning the paper. “This is terrible,” he said, shaking his head. “Poor Jane. Shit, I can’t believe it.”

“I couldn’t take it in either. She was such a strong personality. It’s hard to imagine her as a victim.”

“It’s a fucking nightmare.” Kit ran his hand over his head in a gesture of consternation. “And it’s only two or three weeks since Drew was killed.” He stopped dead in mid-gesture. “You don’t suppose they’re connected? Somebody going after thriller writers?”

“No, I don’t,” Fiona said firmly, reaching across the table and putting a hand on his arm. “There’s no reason to think that, Kit. Different countries, different gender, different body dumps. The fact that they both wrote psychological thrillers is just a horrible coincidence.”

“You always say there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

“OK, maybe not quite coincidence. It’s possible that somebody who was as obsessed with Jane as Drew’s killer was with him saw the stories about his murder and decided that was the best way to deal with the object of his desire. But to decide on the basis of these two cases that there’s a killer out there targeting people who write crime fiction is a nonsense.”

Kit shook his head and sighed. “Yeah, I know. It’s just that I live in a world where conspiracy theory always seems more attractive than cock-up. It’s like, it would be easier to believe that there’s a serial killer on a spree than that there are two seriously fucked-up individuals out there who get their rocks off murdering writers. And when you factor in the letters…well, it just seems like there’s a fuck of a lot of crazies out there with an interest in people like me.”

“I can see why it feels like that. But I don’t think it’s anything more than bad timing, I really don’t.” Fiona felt the hollowness of her words even as she spoke them. There was nothing she could say to help, and she hated that feeling.

Kit pulled away and slammed his hands palm-down on the table. “I mean, how could this have happened to Jane? Of all people? She guarded her privacy so closely. Everybody knew that place of hers was like a fortress.”

“Maybe that was the challenge,” Fiona mused, unable to ignore the professional wheels going round. It was always her refuge of choice when she didn’t know how else to respond. She wasn’t proud of it, but she didn’t know how to change it. Or even if she wanted to. Some of her best ideas had come out of work as displacement activity.

“Why would anybody have it in for her?” Kit demanded. “I mean, sure, she generated a lot of envy from other writers. But people who say they’d kill for Jane Elias’s sales figures, that’s just talk. Writers don’t take out the competition like the Mafia. But outside the business why would she be a target?”

Fiona shrugged. “The usual reasons. Love, hate, greed, fear. Was she involved with anyone?”

Kit shook his head. “I’ve no idea. I never heard any gossip about her personal life. Which is unusual in itself. You know what a rumour mill the book world is. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. I could tell you what her last advance was.”

“Which was?”

“Eighteen million dollars for a three-book deal. But I’ve never heard anything about who she was shagging. If there was anybody. Maybe she was just one of those people that aren’t bothered about sex. I certainly didn’t get any vibe off her. Did you?”

“No,” Fiona said. “Nothing flirtatious, either with the women or the men at that dinner.”

“That’s right. Dead cool, kept her distance. The only time she really got animated was when the two of you got stuck into that stuff about the compliant victims of the sexual sadist.” He got to his feet and headed for the fridge, where he started methodically removing vegetables from the chiller. “Couscous and roast vegetables,” he said, half to himself.

“When in doubt, cook,” Fiona said affectionately. “You want to talk about it?”

“Nope. I’m going to chop the hell out of these vegetables and then I’m going back to work while they cook. Best therapy I know.”

She finished her drink and stood up. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

Kit nodded. “You going to check it out on the Net?”

“You know me too well. You don’t think I’m being a ghoul?”

Kit half turned and grinned. “The bells are ringing for me and my ghoul,” he sang in his bass voice. “Go and dig the dirt. You can serve it up with supper and calm my irrational fears.”