Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

Steve leaned forward. “So what sort of person would see serial killer thriller writers as his nemesis?”

“Or her nemesis,” Duvall interjected. “We’re equal opportunity coppers in the City, Steve. Unlike the Met.” Again that thin, tight smile behind the barb.

Steve shook his head. “If it’s a serial, it’s a man. Drew Shand was a gay man who was last seen leaving a gay pub with another man who has not come forward as a witness. So we have to assume he was the killer.”

Duvall inclined her head in concession. “I’ll grant you that. For now, at least.” She turned to Fiona again. “Humour us, Doctor. What sort of person would want to kill these writers?”

Fiona refused to allow herself to feel patronized or intimidated. She had a point to make and Sarah Duvall wasn’t going to keep her from making it. “Creative writing. It’s a field where passions run high. I know, I live with a writer. I suppose it could be a deranged fan stalker out to make a name for himself, a Mark Chapman type of killer. But they mostly stop at one. That’s enough to make the statement. And they’re not usually sophisticated enough to develop so complex a killing structure.

“It could be a wannabe writer who is eaten up with resentment at the success of others. In his parallel universe he might believe they’ve ripped off his plots, stolen his ideas, either by conventional means or by creeping into his mind while he’s asleep. I would characterize the writer of the death threat letters as being most likely to fit in that category, based on their content.

“Or it could be a writer whose career has gone into terminal decline. Maybe someone who sees those particular writers as having snatched the success he should have had.” Fiona spread her hands. “I’m sorry, I can’t be more specific than that.” Duvall, she noticed, was looking sceptical.

“I’d never have imagined that anyone could feel so threatened by writers that they’d want to kill them,” Steve said.

“Whoever is doing this has become obsessed with the notion that this particular group of writers has somehow done him a deep and destructive wrong. And this is his way of righting that wrong,” Fiona said.

Duvall frowned. “It’s not as if writing books changes anybody’s life.”

“You don’t think the pen is mightier than the sword, then?” Fiona asked.

“No, I don’t,” Duvall insisted. “Book are just…books.”

“Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never harm me? That’s what you think?”

Duvall considered. “I don’t think I’ve ever read anything that changed my life. For good or ill.”

“‘Poetry makes nothing happen’,” Fiona said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Something W.H. Auden wrote. Do you think the same thing is true of film and TV?” Fiona asked Duvall. This was between them now, Steve sidelined as they stared intently at each other.

Duvall leaned back in her chair, considering. “We’re always being told by your colleagues that when kids watch violence on TV, they copy it.”

“There’s certainly anecdotal evidence of that. But whether it influences our behaviour directly or not, I think what we read and what we watch alters our view of the world. And I can’t help wondering if this killer is someone who doesn’t like the way that these writers and the adaptations of their books have presented the world,” Fiona parried.

“Sounds a bit far-fetched to me.”

Fiona shrugged. “But strange as it seems, logic seems to dictate that if Georgia is dead and if these killings are linked, the motive lies in what the victims have written.”

Duvall nodded. “The victim as teaching aid.”

“Read the scene, learn the killer,” Steve said. “Rule one of stranger murder.”

“And he is going to kill again,” Duvall stated baldly.

It was the issue that Fiona wished she could avoid, the question that had been haunting her since she’d found the key passages in And Ever More Shall Be So. “Yes. Unless he’s stopped, he’ll kill again. And what you need to do now is draw up a list of potential victims and see they’re protected.”

Duvall’s composure slipped momentarily and she looked at Steve for guidance. This time, it was his face that remained impassive. “I don’t see how we can do that,” Duvall stalled. She clearly objected to being told how to do her job by someone she perceived as an outsider.

“I’d have thought it was pretty straightforward,” Fiona said crisply. Now she was dealing with Kit’s fate, her normal assertiveness was back in the driving seat with a vengeance. “You’re looking for award-winning crime writers who have written serial killer novels that have been adapted for film or TV. Get in touch with the Crime Writers’ Association. They’ll be able to put you in touch with one or other of the crime buffs who will be able to give you chapter and verse.”

“But there must be dozens,” Duvall protested. “We couldn’t possibly offer them all protection.”

“At the very least, you should warn them.” Fiona’s voice was as implacable as her face, her hazel eyes intense in the gloom of the café.

Duvall’s face had closed down. “That’s impossible. I don’t think you’ve thought this through, Dr. Cameron. The last thing we want is to start a panic. There’s enough of a media circus as it is and we don’t even know yet whether Georgia Lester is alive or dead. It would be totally irresponsible to go public at this stage.”

Fiona glared at Duvall. “Some of these people are my friends. I live with one of them. If you’re not going to warn them, then I certainly am.”

Duvall’s narrow nostrils flared. She turned to Steve. “I thought you said she understood confidentiality?”

Steve put a hand on Fiona’s arm. She shrugged it off impatiently. “DCI Duvall’s right,” Steve said gently. “We don’t know anything for sure yet and it could seriously damage our chances of putting a stop to this man if we panic prematurely. You know that, Fi. If this didn’t touch Kit, you’d be the first to say we should avoid giving this killer the oxygen of publicity.”

“Yes, Steve, I probably would,” Fiona said angrily. “But it does touch Kit, and I owe him far more than I owe the City of London Police.”

There was a dangerous silence. Then Duvall said, “By all means warn your lover to be on his guard. But I must insist that you keep it to yourselves.”

Fiona snorted derisively. “These aren’t idiots you’re talking about here. These are intelligent men and women who live by the power of their imagination. Since Drew Shand died, the Scottish crime writers have formed a phone tree so they can check on each other daily. I’ve already had one of them on to me looking for reassurance. A lot of them know what I do for a living. If you do find Georgia in pieces in Smithfield, my phone is going to be red-hot. I’m not going to tell these people there’s no cause for alarm.”

“Fi, you know there’s a big difference between suggesting they should be on their guard and telling them there’s a serial killer on the loose who might be targeting them. And you also know that’s a line you’re perfectly capable of walking,” Steve said.

Fiona pushed herself out of her chair. “You might have forgotten Lesley, Steve. But I never will. And I’m going to deal with this as I see fit, not as you think best.”

Steve watched her stride out of the café, hair flowing with the speed of her passage. “Oh fuck,” he groaned.

“I’d appreciate knowing what the hell that was all about,” Duvall said. “Sir,” she added more as calculated insult than an afterthought.

Steve crushed his cigar out impatiently. “She’s right, I wasn’t thinking about Lesley,” he said, half to himself. He straightened up in his chair. “Lesley was Fiona’s sister. She was murdered by a serial rapist when she was a student. They never made an arrest. It’s why Fiona became a criminal psychologist. She always believed that if the university had given their female students proper warning, Lesley would have been safe. She’s probably wrong, but survivors have to find someone to blame. Otherwise they end up blaming the victim, and that’s even less healthy.”