Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

“Please, sit down,” Reid said.

Duvall gave the chairs the once-over for cat hairs, and opted for the one nearest the door as being least likely to do major damage to her suit. She caught the DC’s eye and nodded to the far chair.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Reid said eagerly. “Tea, coffee, soft drinks? Or something stronger?”

“Thanks, Mr. Reid, but I don’t want to eat into your time any more than necessary. Please?” Duvall waved a hand at the remaining empty chair.

Reid folded his long body into the chair. “I’ve never actually met a senior police officer before,” he said. “Seems strange, I know, since I’ve read about so many. But there it is.” He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bounced in the open neck of his shirt.

“I appreciate you making time for us. And I’m sorry my colleague wasn’t able to explain why I needed to see you so urgently.”

“Very mysterious. But of course, you would expect that to appeal to me, wouldn’t you?”

Duvall acknowledged his remark with a thin smile. When necessary, she could be as warm and confiding with a witness as anyone. But anoraks like Reid didn’t need to be cosseted to part with every piece of knowledge they possessed. “It’s a highly confidential matter. Before I can lay it out for you, I have to be certain of your discretion.”

Reid sat up straight, a look of surprise on his face. “That sounds serious.”

“It is very serious. Can I rely on you not to repeat this conversation to any third party?”

His head bobbed up and down several times. “If that’s what you want, yes, of course I’ll keep it to myself. Is this anything to do with Georgia Lester’s disappearance?” he asked.

“What makes you say that?”

He gave an awkward little shrug. “I just assumed…You’re from the City Police, and I know that’s where Georgia lives. And with her disappearance being in the news…”

Duvall crossed her legs and leaned forward from the waist. “It’s true that I am the officer investigating Ms Lester’s disappearance. But I have a further concern. In the light of the recent murders of Drew Shand and Jane Elias, we are considering the possibility — and I put it no stronger than that — that there might be a connection.”

Reid folded his arms across his chest in an automatic gesture of defence. “You wonder if there’s a serial killer targeting crime writers.” It was a statement, not a question. “Yes, I can see why you might be thinking along those lines. I won’t pretend it hadn’t crossed my mind, but he inclined his head towards the bookshelves ‘I put it down to too much reading.” He gave a lopsided half-smile.

“And it may well be that we’re letting our imagination run away with us too,” Duvall acknowledged. “But we have to explore every possible avenue. And that’s why I want to pick your brains. I’m anxious to try to establish who else might be at risk, if our theory proves correct.”

Reid was nodding. “And you think I can help. Well, nobody knows more than me about the genre. Tell me what you want to know.”

Duvall allowed herself to relax slightly. She was going to get what she needed with almost no expenditure of energy. Which was just as well, because she was beginning to feel the day had gone on altogether too long. “If there is a connection, there seem to be certain linking factors. All three have written serial killer novels. All three have won awards for their books. And all three have had their books successfully adapted for TV or film. I imagine there aren’t too many others who fit that category?”

Reid unfolded his arms. “More than you’d think, Chief Inspector. Obviously, you’ll be thinking about thriller writers like Kit Martin, Enya Flannery, Jonathan Lewis.”

Duvall blinked quickly at the mention of Kit Martin’s name, but otherwise showed no sign that his name held any more significance than any other. But if he was the first name out of the expert’s hat, Fiona Cameron might well be justified in her fears, Duvall thought as she listened to what Reid was saying.

“But as well as the pure serial killer novels, some authors of police series have included serial murderers in their books. Ian Rankin and Reginald Hill, for example.” He got to his feet. “I’ve got a database on my computer next door. All the factors you describe are among my criteria, so we can do a multiple search and find out exactly who fits the bill. Why don’t we go and see what that comes up with?”

Duvall uncrossed her legs. “That sounds like a very good idea. Lead on, Mr. Reid.”

Susannah’s teeth were chattering. Uncontrollable castanets rattling through her head. She didn’t remember the cottage being cold when they’d been here. But then, the weather had been mild in September. An hour of the gas fire in the late evenings had been enough to take the nip off the air. That and Thomas’s warm body next to hers. Now, there was no warm body. And only the chill of damp November air to caress her body. Her captor clearly wasn’t about to spend his money on the gas meter just for the sake of her comfort.

Her naked skin was gooseflesh. That had as much to do with ambient temperature as fear. Though certainly her fear was enough to produce goose pimples in a tropical climate. One minute she’d been working on her monthly billing, the next minute there had been a knock at the door. She’d looked out of the window. An unfamiliar white van in the drive. But the man standing on the doorstep with the package and the clipboard wore the familiar uniform of the courier that her company always used to send her packages of work.

She hadn’t been expecting anything from head office that afternoon. And it was late for the courier, who usually arrived mid-morning. It must, she thought, be something urgent. Perhaps the Brantingham contract. Phil had mentioned in that morning’s e — mail that it was close to finalization. Susannah had opened the door and smiled at the courier.

She never knew what hit her. Only that something did.

The next thing she knew was excruciating pain. Pain expanded to include blackness and movement. And the low thrum of an engine. She was lying on her side, drool running from her mouth. And she couldn’t move. Slowly, as if she was very drunk, she identified the pain. The principal source was her head. Like a very bad migraine, except that this originated in the back of her head, not the front.

Next in the hierarchy were her shoulders. Her arms seemed to be pinioned behind her. That was the information her screaming muscles sent her. She tried to straighten up and a new wave of pain swept up her legs. As far as she could figure out through the blitz of sensory overload, her feet were fastened together and linked to her wrists. Hog-tied, wasn’t that what the Americans called it?

By keeping perfectly still, the pain diminished. Still unbearable, but at least now she could think of something else. Blackness and movement. And the rough feel of carpet under her cheek. What else could it be but the boot of a car?

That was when the fear kicked in.

She had no idea how long they’d been travelling. There was no way to measure the duration of pain.

At last, the movement stopped with a jerk. Then the engine noise ceased. She strained to hear something but nothing came. Then the boot cracked open. The shock to her eyes triggered a nauseating pain in her head. Then they adjusted and she saw a dark silhouette against the night sky.

Susannah opened her mouth and screamed. The man laughed. “No one to hear you, pet,” he said. The accent was Geordie, she registered that much.

He bent over and grunted with the effort of lifting her out of the car. He staggered slightly under the weight as he walked. With her face jammed against his shoulder, Susannah could see nothing. The quality of the air changed and she realized he had taken her indoors. A few more steps, a turn to the right and suddenly they were in glaring fluorescent light. He let her fall and she screamed as she hit cold tile. Her head cracked against something cold and hard.