Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

“I’m impressed,” Steve acknowledged. Fiona had said Terry was impulsive; she hadn’t mentioned she was also intuitive.

Terry shrugged. “It was no big deal. I’m supposed to be trained to make connections.” She smiled. “You really shouldn’t be surprised when I do it.”

Steve laughed. “I’m surrounded by people who are supposed to be trained to make connections, and most of the time you’d never know it. You’re right, of course, it is the Susan Blanchard murder I’m interested in.”

“I thought you guys had closed down the investigation after that complete fuck-up at the Bailey? Wasn’t the official line that you weren’t looking for another suspect?”

“Well, we couldn’t exactly say anything else without making ourselves look even more foolish than we did already,” Steve said, the edge of bitterness in his voice creeping through in spite of his best intentions.

“Yeah, right. But secretly, you’re still ferreting away?”

He nodded. “I have a small team of officers working on it.”

“But not Fiona?”

There was a silence. “I’d rather not get into that, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Maybe you should ask Fiona the history.”

“Cool.” Terry flapped one hand from the wrist in a dismissive gesture. “It’s none of my business. I’m just grateful for the cheque in the post. So, you want to see what happens when we add the Susan Blanchard murder into the mix?”

“Is Sinn Fein IRA?”

“Whoa, there speaks the detective. OK, in spite of the fact that you’re a prejudiced bigot, I’ll share my results with you.” Her grin took most of the sting out of Terry’s words and she hit the enter key. The principal scarlet sector changed not at all, but the more northerly area grew less red. “I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I?”

Steve shook his head, a feeling of deep gratification surging through him. “No. Your program thinks that whoever killed Susan Blanchard is the same man who committed four rapes and two serious sexual assaults in the course of the previous two years. And I have to tell you that from where I’m sitting, that’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time.”

Terry gave him the grin he was beginning to recognize as a marker that he was about to be challenged. “Yeah right. You have a well weird take on the world, Steve. Not a lot of people think a serial rapist turned killer falls into the good-news category. You should get out more.”

“I thought you were already taking steps to rectify that,” he said, returning the smile.

“It’s a dirty job, saving the filth, but somebody’s got to do it,” she said flippantly. “So where are we going?”

“There’s a new brasserie opened in Clerkenwell. The chef trained with Marco Pierre White and he specializes in fish. I managed to get a cancellation for seven-thirty. How does that sound?”

“Sounds cool.”

For a brief moment, Steve thought about offering to pick her up, but he knew he was unlikely to have the time. He didn’t want to start letting her down so soon. If things worked out between them, his job would provide plenty of opportunities for dislocated social engagements in the future. Besides, he didn’t want to appear the pushover he secretly knew himself to be. Instead, he scribbled the name and address of the restaurant on a piece of scrap paper. “I’ll see you there.” He stood up. “I’ve got to get back to the Yard and get my team working on this. Can you give me a printout of the map?”

Terry turned back to her computer. “You want a blow-up of the red areas?” she asked.

“Please.”

“You need a written report?” she asked.

“Might as well get my money’s worth,” Steve said.

“Fax or e — mail?”

“Both, if you don’t mind.”

“Be with you by the end of the morning.” Terry winked. “See you tonight.”

Steve nodded and walked to the door. As he turned to leave, she blew him a kiss. The blush lasted all the way down the stairs. So did the smile. Terry Fowler had done more than waken his dormant case from its slumber. She’d wiped all his fear for Kit from his mind for as long as he’d been with her. And that was worth far, far more than the Metropolitan Police could ever imagine paying her.

Back at the Yard, Steve summoned Joanne into his office. Neil was busy watching Francis Blake, and John was off duty, so his resources were minimal, in spite of the new possibilities that Terry’s study had produced.

Steve tossed the maps across the table to her, unable to keep his exultation off his face. “Looks like we’re on the way to somewhere at last. Geographic profile of your rapes. When the Susan Blanchard murder was factored into the analysis, the central red area didn’t change at all.”

Joanne looked up, the excitement sparkling in her eyes. “That’s brilliant. Wow! So, what do you want me to do?”

“I’m afraid it’s time for drudgery. Identify the streets outlined in red — and one street either side, for the sake of my peace of mind and get the electoral roll.”

Joanne sighed. “And go through the electoral roll checking it against CROs?”

“Unless you can think of a better way of doing it.”

“When I rule the world, they’ll organize the criminal records database so you can search it with any one of a dozen parameters,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’m on it.”

“Thanks, Joanne. Oh, and thanks for the restaurant tip.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I hope you enjoy it.”

Steve grinned. “I fully intend to.”

Joanne turned on her way out of the door. “If you get there, of course. I mean, if I get lucky, we could all be checking out a new number one suspect this evening. Right, sir?”

“Get lucky, Jo. But try not to get lucky before tomorrow morning if you want to remain my favourite DC.”

After she left, Steve stared at the closed door, feeling the buzz in his veins that came from the knowledge that at last they might be only hours from a lucky break. Thinking of lucky breaks reminded him that there had been a message on his desk asking him to ring Sarah Duvall.

Part of him dreaded the call. If Georgia Lester had been found dead, he wanted to put off the knowledge and its implications for as long as possible. On the other hand, it was feasible that she’d turned up alive. Steve reached out and punched in Sarah’s number. Extract from Decoding of Exhibit P13⁄4599 Azoqf tqkru zpsqa dsumx qefqd edqym uzeyk xurqe sauzs fasqf mxaft mdpqd. Ftqkx xtmhq faefm dfeqq uzsft qbmff qdzft qzuze bufqa rftqp gynet ufbmp pke.

Once they find Georgia tester’s remains, my life’s going to get a lot harder. They’ll have to start seeing the pattern then. But it’ll take them a day or two to go official with it. They won’t want to admit what’s going on because that’ll cause a panic. So I need to hit my next target fast, while he’s unsuspecting. But I’ve got to be careful not to rush things. Patience, that’s the secret. Never snatch at half a chance. Never lose your cool. Just sit it out. Even when the waiting’s hard and bitter. Take the courier’s uniform. I knew right from the beginning what I needed to get Kit Martin. But I had no idea how I was going to lay my hands on it. Then the gods smiled. I was in the launderette one evening, watching my clothes tumble around in the washer. There was only one other man there, and when he dragged out his damp clothes and stuffed them in the drier, I couldn’t miss the logo of Capital City Couriers blazing across the dark-blue drill jacket. And there were matching trousers. Pure manna from heaven. After he dropped some tokens in the slot, he looked at his watch and headed across the road to the local boozer. I waited a few minutes, and then loaded the courier’s entire wash into my holdall. Piece of piss. I sat and waited for my wash to finish, cool as a cucumber. Ten minutes later, I was walking back to my flat with my wet laundry on top of his. The trousers needed taking up, and the jacket’s a bit tight on the shoulders, but that really doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’ll be wearing it for long. Just long enough to convince Kit Martin to open his front door to Postman Pat.