Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

Innocuous though his behaviour could be made to sound, it had been enough to set Fiona’s antennae jangling. It wasn’t that she suspected the strange man of being anything more than a rather timid voyeur. But it reminded her that Susan Blanchard’s killer must have scouted his killing zone thoroughly before he had struck. He would have walked the ground, not cycled it, taking in every detail of landscape, plotting his escape routes, selecting his victim. He might have been sophisticated enough to disguise his interests entirely, but Fiona doubted it.

She wondered where he was this evening. The urge to kill again would be strong in him, she reckoned. Where would he be walking now? What reconnaissance would he be making? How would he choose his next location? Would he come back to the Heath? Or would he try another nearby site? Highgate Cemetery? Alexandra Palace? Or did he know his city well enough to move further afield? Where were the borders of his mental map? She knew the limits imposed by his psychology; they were evident in his actions. But where did his geographical boundaries lie?

Questions she couldn’t answer crowded into her head, shattering the peace she had come to the Heath to find after a trying day at work. Time to walk back home through streets of substantial houses with their grubby stucco and grimy yellow London brickwork turned gloomy by the dirty orange of sodium streetlights. Time to enjoy her own voyeuristic pleasure by glancing in at the lit windows she would pass, savouring glimpses of people’s lives played out in brief snatches caught in her peripheral vision. And of course, the feeling of superiority she couldn’t stifle when she noted some particularly tasteless interior.

“You should get a life, you sad girl,” she muttered as she spotted a newly decorated living room that incorporated three clashing wallpaper patterns, and made a mental note to share it with Kit later.

As she pushed open the front door, the phone began to ring. Fiona hurried through to the kitchen and grabbed it on the fourth ring. “Hello?” she said.

“Dr. Cameron?” The voice had the tinny echo that mobile phones sometimes produce.

“Is that Major Berrocal?” Fiona asked uncertainly.

“Si. I am sorry to trouble you at home, but we have some developments here I thought you would want to know.”

“No, that’s fine, it’s no trouble. Have you found Delgado?” As she spoke, Fiona shrugged out of her jacket and reached for the pad and pen kept by the phone.

“Not exactly. But we have found where we think he has been hiding out.”

“That sounds like progress.”

“Si. And it is thanks to your idea.”

“He was living in a mausoleum?…A tomb?” Fiona felt a quickening of gratified pride.

“Not exactly, no. There is a big cemetery to the north of the city that fitted the suggestion you made, so we persuaded the local police to make a search of it. There were no signs that any of the tombs had been opened, so the officers decided we were truly crazy and Delgado was not to be found there. But one of my officers, he is what my wife calls a bulldog, and he went back there today.”

“And he found something?” Fiona urged.

“Si. There is a small shed that used to be used by the workmen to store their tools. It has been empty for some years now, but my officer discovered that the boards nailed over the window had been loosened. He went inside and he found what we think is Delgado’s camp. There was food, water, a sleeping bag and some clothes. We compared fingerprints we found with the ones on Delgado’s possessions in the apartment, and the match was perfect.”

“So, you know he’s been there.”

“Si. I have men watching the cemetery now, but I fear he will not return. The fruit in the shed was starting to rot, and so I think he must have seen the local police searching and now he will not go back there.”

“What a disappointment for you,” Fiona said. “So near, and yet so far.”

“Close, but no cigar, huh? I think he will be dangerous on the run, no?”

Fiona thought for a brief moment. “I don’t think he’ll panic. So far, his reactions have been quite controlled. He knows the city and the surrounding area well. He probably has a fallback position in mind.”

Berrocal grunted noncommittally. “What I am afraid of is that he will feel cornered and he will decide to go out in a blaze of glory. Something spectacular. He has nothing to lose now. He knows we know he is the killer. Maybe the best he can hope for is to make his point in one final dramatic way.”

“You’re thinking a spree killing? A massacre?” Fiona asked.

“It’s what I fear,” Berrocal acknowledged.

Fiona sighed. “I can’t think offhand of another case where a serial killer has moved on to a spree killing. But then, most serial killings are primarily sexual homicides, and I’ve felt from the start that these murders stemmed from a different motive. I honestly don’t know what to say, Major. I have to say your reading of the situation seems plausible to me.”

There was a long pause between them. Then Berrocal said, “I will make sure the city is on full alert. It’s not a big place. We should be able to find him.”

Whistling in the dark, Fiona thought. Everyone who deals with serial offenders ends up doing it. “Sit down with someone who has an intimate knowledge of Toledan history,” she advised. “Ask them about sites in the city connected with violent death. If he’s going to strike again, either with a single murder or a spree, that’s what he’ll focus on. And that’s probably where you’ll catch him.”

“Thank you for the advice.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sure you must have worked it out for yourself, though. Let me know how you go on.”

“Of course. Good night, Doctor.”

“Good night, Major. And good luck.” As Fiona replaced the phone with heavy heart, she heard the click of the front door opening. “Kit?” she called, surprised.

The door closed and her lover’s familiar voice replied. “Hi, babe, I’m home.”

He walked into the kitchen and enveloped her in the suffocating hug she had come to find comfort in. Fiona tilted her head back to kiss him, her hazel eyes bright with pleasure. “I wasn’t expecting you till late. I thought you were all going out for supper with Georgia after her event.”

Kit let her go and crossed to the fridge. “That was the plan. Only, no show without Punch.”

“What? Georgia decided she needed her beauty sleep more than a night of drunken revelry with reprobate crime writers?” Fiona teased, taking down a couple of glasses for the wine Kit was opening.

“Who knows? She didn’t show.”

“You mean she cancelled?” Fiona’s incredulity was obvious. The notion of publicity-hungry Georgia Lester missing the chance of delivering a lecture at the British Film Institute was almost beyond belief.

“No. I mean she didn’t show. No message, no word to the BFI or to her publicist. No answer from her home phone or her mobile, according to said publicist.” Kit drew the cork and poured the wine.

“So what happened?”

“Nothing much. The audience hung around like lemons for about half an hour then the guy who was supposed to be introducing her got up and said that Ms Lester was indisposed and they could obtain a refund from the box office. We all went for a quick drink then I came home.”

“So, a mystery, then,” Fiona said lightly. “What’s the theory, Sherlock?”

“The drinking team ended up with two schools of thought.” Kit settled into a chair and prepared for narrative. “The charitable one goes like this. Georgia has a cottage down in Dorset where she goes allegedly to write, but in reality, I happen to know, to shag senseless the latest Italian waiter she’s got her claws into. Well away from Anthony, the boring but doting husband, right? So, there she is, having her wicked way with Super Mario, she loses track of the time and ends up leaving at the last minute, only to run out of petrol miles from anywhere. And the battery on her phone has died.”