Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

“I think Georgia could be the third victim of a serial killer. If that’s the case, then for the signature to hold, it would follow that she’s been murdered in the manner of one of the victims in a serial killer novel. Agreed?”

Steve decided to go along with Fiona for the time being. “Theoretically, yes.”

“After I’d been on-line last night, I checked out Georgia’s output. She’s only published one strictly serial killer novel, And Ever More Shall Be So . Which was made into a film. She’s an award winner she’s won the Crime Writers’ Association Gold Dagger for best crime novel of the year twice. She fits all the criteria, Steve. So last night, I skimmed the book.” Fiona paused, pushing her hair back from her face, revealing dark smudges beneath her eyes.

She continued, her voice now the calm, dispassionate tone of the lecturer imparting information. “The killer in And Ever More Shall Be So does abduct his victims. He uses the trick of pretending to have broken down in a country lane, but in broad daylight so they won’t be suspicious of him. Then he takes the victims back to his lair, where he strangles them. Finally he skins and dismembers them and wraps them up like joints of meat.”

Steve stared at Fiona for a long moment. It was a grisly prospect, but if he accepted her basic premise, it was an inevitable conclusion. “And you think this might be what’s happened to Georgia Lester?”

Fiona looked him straight in the eye. “I’m scared shitless that this is what has happened to Georgia. Tell me I’m being paranoid here, Steve.”

“You’re the psychologist, Fi. You know it’s only paranoia when it’s groundless. What you’re telling me might be pretty far-fetched, but it’s not entirely without foundation.” Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped. However sceptical he was trying to sound, part of him was entirely convinced by Fiona’s thesis. “In the book, what does he do with the remains?”

“The killer’s a wholesale butcher in the town where his victims live. He’s got a big freezer that’s supposedly obsolete. He keeps it padlocked shut. That’s where he puts his packages of human flesh. So if I’m right, the logical place to look for Georgia Lester right now would be Smithfield Market. They live in the City, you see, her and Anthony.”

Steve closed his eyes. He wondered just how he was going to convince the detectives searching for Georgia Lester that they were going to need a search warrant for Smithfield Market. “One more question,” he finally said. “Do you think there’s a connection with the death threat letters?”

Fiona shrugged. “I don’t know. My first reaction was that the writer of the letters wasn’t a killer. There’s no boasting about the murders in any of the letters I’ve seen, which I’d expect if the letter-writer was the killer. And generally speaking, people who write anonymous threatening letters have a different mind-set from those who actually kill. But the more this goes on, the less certain I feel about trusting my judgement. If there is someone out there killing writers at the same time as someone else is sending those same people death threats, it’s hard to believe it’s pure coincidence.”

“We don’t know whether Jane Elias or Drew Shand had any letters similar to the ones sent to Kit and the others, though, do we? And the Garda told me they hadn’t found anything like that among her papers.” While he was willing to accept Fiona might have made a case for a serial killer, Steve was reluctant on a personal level to believe the letters held a direct threat. If they did, that meant his closest male friend could be the next target. And that was a prospect that chilled him to the bone.

Fiona stared numbly at him. His words washed over her, making no impression on the worm of anxiety that wriggled inside her. “All I know is that if there is a serial killer out there, Kit is almost certainly on his list, whether or not the letter-writer and the murderer are one and the same. He fits all the criteria, just like Georgia. You’ve got to do something about this, Steve.”

Fiona was uncharacteristically silent as they walked through the busy Holborn streets from her office to the quiet cafe-bar where Steve had arranged the meeting. Her mood seemed matched by grey skies and tall, dark Victorian buildings that hemmed them in as they headed down towards Farringdon Road. In an attempt to distract her, he said, “Does your graduate student make a habit of propositioning strange men?”

“You mean Terry?”

“She asked me out to dinner.”

“I see her impulse control hasn’t improved any.” Fiona sounded amused.

“She makes a habit of this kind of thing?” Steve demanded, unaccountably deflated by the thought.

“Propositioning men? I don’t think so, no. But she is irrepressibly drawn to following her urges, hunches and inspirations without pause for thought.”

“Ah,” he said.

“It’s just what you need, Steve. Someone to jolt you out of your rut,” she said, slipping her arm through his and giving it a squeeze.

“Is that how you see me? A man stuck in a rut?”

“You must admit, you’re a creature of habit and caution. A brief encounter with a charismatic whirlwind like Terry could be just what you need.”

“You think that’s all she’s in the market for, then? A brief encounter?” Steve said, trying to keep his tone light to match Fiona’s.

“I have no idea. Sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest she saw you as nothing more than a plaything. And it’s not as if she has a reputation for playing the field. I’ve been working with Terry for nearly two years now, and all I’ve ever seen her do with blokes is put them in their place. Which is usually very firmly at arm’s-length. Not,” she added hastily, “that there’s anything wrong with that. I’ve seen too many students distracted because they’re the most attractive woman in the seminar group and they can’t resist the lure of other people’s lust.”

“But Terry’s not one of those, that’s what you’re saying?”

They side-stepped to allow a woman with a push chair to pass. “Definitely not. She’s well aware of her charm, but to her credit, she doesn’t trade on it. When she started her PhD, she was living with someone, but they split up…oh, it must be eighteen months ago. Since then, I don’t know of anybody significant. So she must have really taken a liking to you.” She squeezed his arm and smiled up at him.

“You know a lot about her,” Steve observed.

“You’re fishing. Which I assume means you said yes?”

“I did.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows. “Good for you. Time to live a little, Steve. Let yourself go. And I think Terry’s the perfect woman to do it with. She’s bright and she’s talented. And she’s good fun.”

Steve smiled. “I’d worked that much out for myself. I suspect I’m going to have to keep my wits about me with Ms Fowler.”

“Which is no bad thing in a relationship,” Fiona commented with a wicked grin.

“Hey, steady on. We’re only having dinner, not moving in together.”

Fiona said nothing, merely pinning him with an inquisitive look as she let go of his arm to turn into the cafe-bar. It had opened on the crest of the city’s coffee craze, the decor Home Front nineties, with every wall a different off-primary colour, tall aluminium vases crammed with exotic foliage scattered strategically around. The chairs were low wraparound armchairs that gripped the hips, the tables knee-high and stained the colour of herbal teas. The background music was generic Britpop played just loud enough to cover the hissing and spluttering of the coffee machines. It was marginally too far from the university for it to attract the student population. Mid-morning, only half a dozen tables were occupied. Steve led the way to a corner table at the rear, where they were unlikely to be overheard. From the elaborate menu of hot and cold beverages, Fiona ordered a cappuccino, Steve an Americano. He produced his cigars and lit up, blowing a perfect smoke ring towards the ceiling.