Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

“You look as if your caseload is going better than mine,” Duvall said, easing herself into the seat opposite him, aware that her suit was crumpled and she probably smelled stale as a pub ashtray.

Steve arched his eyebrows in surprise. “Must be an optical illusion. I hear you had a long night.”

Duvall nodded, pushing her glasses up her nose. “And it’s going to be a long day. I thought you’d like to know how it worked out.”

“Appreciate it,” Steve said, dipping his head in acknowledgement.

“We went in around ten and started turning the place upside down. Butchers and bobbies searching freezers and cold cabinets for dodgy-looking meat, traders screaming about their stock being interfered with, pathologists poking around anything that looked remotely abnormal. Which there wasn’t much of, I have to say. The deal was, if we found anything seriously suspicious, the pathologists would take it back to the lab and test to see if it was human or not. I’d had the whole team briefed about what they should be looking for. But when it came to it, it was all academic.”

“How do you mean?”

“Around midnight, the lads found a freezer at the back of a storage area. It was padlocked shut, and nobody would admit to having keys for it. According to the market supervisor’s office, it had been put there a month ago by one of the traders who was supposed to arrange for it to be taken away. But he was adamant that it hadn’t been locked, and two of his staff backed him up on that. So we took the bolt cutters to it. When they opened the door, it was full of packaged meat. Except for one shelf. All that contained was a parcel wrapped in black plastic bin liners.” Duvall paused for effect, her expression a question.

Steve closed his eyes momentarily, his angular face pained. “The head?”

“The head. The butcher who was helping them dropped to the floor like a stunned ox. They had to take him to hospital to have the cut on his head stitched. He hit the corner of a work top on the way down.”

“He’ll be drinking off that for the rest of his life,” said Steve. “I presume it was Georgia Lester’s head?”

“No question. The husband’s got to ID it later today, but there’s no doubt about it.”

“When are you making the announcement?”

Duvall sighed. “My boss wants to hold a press conference this afternoon. We’re waiting for Dorset to confirm they can have someone here for it.”

“Would you have any problem with me breaking the news to Kit Martin ahead of the press conference? He and Georgia were close, and he’ll know that Fiona talked to us. It seems the least I can do.”

Duvall frowned. “I’d rather we kept it in the family for as long as possible. I know he’s your friend, but we can’t afford a perception that one writer is getting preferential treatment from the police.”

Steve shrugged. “It’s your case, Sarah. To be honest, I was thinking about the long-term interests of the Yard as much as being considerate to Kit. Fiona Cameron is a good operator, and we’ve been denied her services for a while now because of our own bloody-minded stupidity. In spite of that, she came to us with her suspicions. I’d have liked the chance to do a bit of bridge-building here, maybe mended the breach. I’m sure it could have benefits for the City force too.”

Duvall’s wry smile concealed the burn of genuine annoyance. First Darren Green and now Steve Preston had out manoeuvred her in a matter of hours. It wasn’t good for the spirit, especially a spirit as normally self-confident as Duvall’s. “That’s a good point, sir.”

Steve recognized the use of his title as the signal to back down. “It’s your decision, Sarah.”

“I suppose it can’t do any harm. Provided you make it clear to him that he mustn’t talk to the media before we do.” A last attempt to appear in control.

“I don’t think it would even occur to him.” Steve stood up and reached for his jacket. “She was his friend, Sarah. He’s not that desperate for personal publicity.”

She accepted the implied rebuke in silence and got to her feet. “I’ll keep you posted,” she said. “How’s the Blanchard case going?”

Steve shrugged into his jacket and spread his hands wide. “Chasing what might be a lead. But it’s an uphill struggle. I haven’t got the resources to run a proper operation.”

Duvall’s smile was tight. “Keep it deniable, huh?” “Something like that. At least until we’ve got a cast-iron case.” Duvall winced. “And I thought I was having a bad day.” Steve opened the door and stood back to let her precede him. “Don’t let it get you down. There’s more to life than the job.”

He walked down the corridor with the loose-limbed stride of a man out for a walk in the park. Duvall stared after him, the usual impassivity of her face defeated by her astonishment. Steve Preston, claiming there was more to life than the job? It was about as likely as Bart Simpson joining the diplomatic service.

Feeling somewhat shaken, Duvall headed for her car to return to her own office in Wood Street. It was clearly a day for surprises. Maybe Dorset would turn out to be the home of a new breed of super cops And maybe, just maybe, between them they would find Georgia Lester’s killer before the media ate them alive. Stranger things could clearly happen.

Fiona left the lecture theatre, heading for her office. She had no recollection of what she’d spent the last fifty minutes saying. She’d been flying on automatic pilot, looking down on her students with the distance of dissociation. Her anxiety hummed inside her like a high-tension cable, shutting her off from everything else. She wanted to be home with Kit. She wanted him where she could see him, or at the very least, sense his presence. Knowing that would be intolerable to him didn’t make it any easier to be without it.

Something had to break soon, she told herself. Either they would be able to dismiss the notion of a serial killer, so they could all relax and return to something approaching normality. Or everyone would accept that Kit and a handful of others were at serious risk and take steps accordingly. If the police wouldn’t protect him, then she’d arrange it herself. She knew there were agencies around who provided bodyguards and Fiona had no reservations about surrounding Kit with professional protection. He’d go ape, of course. But then, he might not have to know.

Whatever happened, their lives would never be quite the same again. Kit had been confronted with his own physical vulnerability, however much he chose to scoff at it. That would inevitably change his view of himself. And Fiona had been forced to recognize that all these years on, she was still no nearer a position where she could effectively protect those she loved. Ignorance may have been a valid excuse when it came to saving Lesley; but even now, with all the knowledge and experience in her arsenal, Fiona could not be sure of saving Kit.

It wasn’t a comforting thought.

She dumped her papers on her desk and checked her e — mail. Apart from routine departmental memos, there was only a brief note from Kit, saying. “Ten o’clock and all’s well.” He’d promised to post Fiona at regular intervals after her insistence that he stay in touch. He claimed it made him feel like a wimp, but both knew it was only a token demurral.

She began to compose a short reply, but she was interrupted by a phone call from Spain. “Hello, Major Berrocal,” she said, trying not to sound as distracted as she felt. Part of her registered with weary surprise that it wasn’t like her to care so little about a case she’d been involved in.

“I thought I had better let you know what progress we have made,” he said, sounding rather dispirited himself.