Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

Duvall nodded, understanding dawning. “No wonder she’s worried about the boyfriend.”

“I’m worried about him too, Sarah. He’s my best mate.” Steve’s face was stern.

“You’d better go after her, calm her down. I don’t want her running around like a loose cannon in the middle of my investigation. However helpful she’s been.”

Steve, who liked being told what to do about as much as Duvall herself, gave her a hard stare.

Duvall held up one hand in a placatory gesture. “And when I get back to Wood Street, I’m going straight to my guvnor to get a full murder squad working the case. I’ll be working on my search warrant application this afternoon. You can tell her that to reassure her.”

“I will, Sarah. I’m glad you’re taking this seriously. Because if anything were to happen to Kit Martin, Fiona wouldn’t be the only one baying for blood.”

What she wanted to do was to jump in the first passing taxi and go straight home to Kit. But Fiona had always struggled against putting desire before duty, so she swept through the streets back to her office, oblivious to everyone and everything, her head buzzing with chaos, her gut knotting with fear. There was no particular reason why Kit should be the next name on the list, but equally, no strong reason why he should not be. She had to find a way to make him take her seriously without leaving him as scared as she was.

She was walking into her office when she heard someone call her name. She turned to find Steve running down the corridor towards her, a fine sheen of sweat on his face. “Wait, Fi,” he shouted as she turned on her heel and slammed her door behind her.

She hadn’t even got her jacket off when he was in the room beside her. One sleeve in and one sleeve half out, she had no way of resisting when he pulled her into his arms and hugged her close. “I know you’re scared,” Steve said.

“Fuck scared,” Fiona snarled. “I’m furious. People are at risk, and you won’t protect them.” She pulled away and dragged her jacket off, throwing it on the sofa. “You wouldn’t be keeping this under wraps if somebody was murdering police officers, Steve. Why don’t Kit and his friends merit the same consideration?”

“Apples and oranges, Fi. Police officers know how to keep the lid on things. But if we start issuing blanket warnings to crime writers, it’ll be a madhouse. We can’t offer them protection, we don’t have the bodies. So some of them will run screaming to the media about how crap the police are and the papers will whip it all up into mass hysteria. And then the cranks will start. And the stalkers. And the hoax phone calls. And then it’ll be the vigilantes taking the law into their own hands, protecting their heroes. And before you know it, somebody will get hurt who is nothing to do with this whole mess.” Steve paced as he spoke, his tension evident in every movement.

“It stinks, Steve, and you know it. If Georgia has been killed and believe me, I am praying that Sarah Duvall’s team don’t find anything in Smithfield apart from animal carcasses then I think it’s inescapable that there’s a serial killer out there. And I won’t let my lover and his friends be the stalking horses while you guys fuck around failing to catch the right person.” Fiona slammed open her desk drawer and pulled out a plastic folder, throwing it towards him. “There’re the letters. Kit’s, Georgia’s and the other four. You get them to Sarah Duvall.”

Steve’s face tightened. “Fine. Just promise me one thing. Promise you’ll do what you have to do in a responsible manner.”

Fiona looked as if she was about to burst into tears of rage. “Oh Steve, you should know me better than that.” Her voice was a reproach that cut like a whip.

Steve flinched, as she had intended. “I’m sorry, Fi. But you’ve got to see my point. We can’t afford to start a media witch hunt. Look, I’m scared too. If anything happened to Kit, I’d never, ever forgive myself.”

“So do something to make sure it doesn’t.”

Steve threw the folder of letters on to a chair in frustration. “Don’t you see? I can’t. It’s none of my professional business. The City force are totally separate from us and I can’t interfere in their case.”

“Well, there’s nothing more to say, is there?” Fiona’s voice seemed to come from a long way off.

Before Steve could respond, the phone rang. She reached for it automatically, saying, “You’ll have to excuse me. I have work to do.” Fiona deliberately turned her back on him. “Hello, Fiona Cameron.”

Steve watched her shoulders slump as she registered who was calling. “Just give me a minute, Major,” she said, covering the mouthpiece with her hand. She glanced over her shoulder. “Goodbye, Steve.” She waited until he had picked up the letters and was walking through the door, then moved to the chair behind her desk.

Stifling a sigh, she spoke into the phone. “Sorry about that, there was someone just leaving.”

“I’m sorry, I have called at a bad time,” he apologized.

“Right now, believe me, there’s no such thing as a good time. How can I help you, Major?”

“I have very good news,” he said. “We have Miguel Delgado in custody.”

Fiona forced herself to sound bright in spite of the headache that was starting behind her eyes. “Congratulations. You must be very relieved.”

“Si, and pleased that we have succeeded. You were right, he had another line of defence in place. He had a friend with what my wife calls a Winnebago. Somebody he thought he could trust, because he knew this friend was himself a criminal. But his friend is only a small-time thief, a burglar. His friend, he had seen Delgado’s face in the paper and he knew whatever Delgado had done, it must be very serious. And the only really serious crimes he had heard about were the murders. He didn’t want to be implicated in crimes like that, so although he let Delgado take his van, he tipped off the local police. We found him early this morning on a camp site a few miles out of the city.”

“Well done. Has he confessed?”

She could hear Berrocal sigh. “No. He has said nothing since he was arrested.”

“Is there any solid evidence tying him to the crimes?”

“The second victim? The American? A waiter has come forward who says he remembers seeing Delgado with him a couple of days before the murder. We are hopeful that forensics will be able to match up fibres, but we won’t have that for a while yet. Also, we are testing the knives that Delgado had in the van when we caught him. Again, we don’t have the results yet. So, we have nothing much to put pressure on with.”

She hoped he wasn’t looking for help from her. She wanted to tell him to fuck off, that she had far more important things to worry about. But the professional in her knew that putting an end to the Toledo murders was just as important as what was happening in her own life. When it came to value, she had to believe all human lives were equal. Otherwise there would be little point in her work. So she forced herself not to let her frustration and hostility loose on Salvador Berrocal. “I’m sure you’ve got a very experienced team to work on him,” she said, reaching for the button to switch on her computer.

“I have never dealt with a serial killer in interrogation before. But I have a plan,” he said, sounding enthusiastic. “I figured I would make him angry. Use one of my team to taunt him. You know the kind of thing. These stupid local cops, how could they be so dumb as to arrest a pathetic specimen like him? It’s obvious that whoever did these crimes was clever enough to plan very carefully and charming enough to get his victims to go along with him willingly. And an ugly, smelly failed shopkeeper like Delgado couldn’t possibly have what it takes to be the Toledo killer. My man will act as if he’s disgusted to be wasting his time on such a pointless interview.”