Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

“That’s kind of you.”

“There is not very much to report, I’m afraid. Delgado refuses to admit his guilt. He just sits there with a face like stone, saying nothing at all. But the good news is that it seems we are starting to get some forensic evidence to back up the circumstantial evidence. We have found a former neighbour of Delgado’s who works at the Alcazar and who thinks Delgado may have been able to access the keys on one of his visits to the house. And best of all, we have finally located two witnesses who saw him with the Englishwoman on the night he killed her. A husband and wife from Bilbao. They saw the story in the newspaper and got in touch with us. It turns out they were staying in the hotel where she worked and that’s why they noticed her. She had checked them in, you see, so they remembered her. We have charged him with that murder for now, but I think we will eventually have enough to make him stand trial for all three killings.”

“That’s good news,” she said, not really caring. “You must be glad he’s off the streets.”

“Very glad. We would never have got so close so quickly without your help. I have made sure my superior officers know this. I think this may persuade them that we need you to come and train us in crime linkage and geographical programming.”

Fiona gave a hollow laugh. “I think you’re being very optimistic, Major. But good luck with your case against Delgado.”

“Thank you. And good luck with your own work, Dr. Cameron. I’m sure we’ll be in touch again.”

Fiona made her farewells and replaced the phone. She knew she should be feeling triumphant, but instead she felt frustration. Her work had helped stop someone killing strangers in Toledo. But no one would let her do the same for the man she loved. Maybe she should call Sarah Duvall and offer her services.

The woman could only say no.

Kit was in the kitchen making coffee when the doorbell rang. He froze in the middle of what he was doing. He wasn’t expecting anyone, and in spite of his bravado in front of Fiona, he was keenly aware that if there was indeed a killer out there with a list, his name would inevitably be near the top. Carefully, he put the spoon back in the bag and leaned it against the coffee maker. He took a deep breath and walked down the hall.

He was inches away from the door when the bell screamed again, making him twitch involuntarily. The Postman Always Rings Twice. James M. Cain, a classic American noir. That didn’t have a very happy ending either. He tiptoed the last few feet and put his ear to the door. “Who’s there?” he called.

The flap of the letterbox clattered open. A disembodied voice from the region of his groin said, “It’s Steve, Kit.”

Kit felt a dizzy relief and hastily turned the lock, pulling the door wide open. “I’m not paranoid, honest,” he said. Then, seeing Steve’s face, he stepped back. Stupid bastard, he cursed himself silently. Steve wouldn’t be here in the middle of the day unless the news was the worst kind. “It’s not Fiona?” he croaked, his mouth suddenly dry, his eyes wide.

Steve put a hand on his arm and gently manoeuvred him across the threshold. He closed the door firmly behind him. “As far as I know, Fi’s fine. Come on, let’s go through to the kitchen. I need to talk to you.”

Numb with anxiety, Kit led the way, almost stumbling as carpet gave way to tiled floor. “I was making coffee,” he said, knowing it was irrelevant but wanting to preserve ignorance for as long as possible.

“Coffee would be good,” Steve said. He sat down at the table, patient while Kit completed the ritual, busying himself with frothing milk and forcing water through the packed coffee grounds. Kit carefully placed one cup in front of Steve, then sat down with his own.

“It’s Georgia.” It was a statement, not a question.

Steve nodded. “One of my colleagues found her remains in the early hours of this morning.”

“Was it where Fiona said it would be? In Smithfield?”

“She was right in every particular but one.” Steve took out a cigar and fiddled with the cellophane wrapper. “It wasn’t pretty, Kit. Whoever butchered her left us her head. So we’d be in no doubt what we’d found.”

Kit took a long shuddering breath. “Jesus,” he exhaled slowly. He put his hands over his face, his shoulders shaking. Steve felt helpless. He’d known Kit for years, but their relationship had never needed to encompass grief before. He had no sense of what the rules of engagement were. When policemen cried, they usually didn’t want their fellow officers to acknowledge it, not even the women. They just wanted to get it over with. Steve got up and went to the cupboard where the drinks were kept. He found the brandy and poured a good two fingers into a glass. He put it in front of Kit, laid a hand on his heaving shoulders and said, “Drink this, it’ll help.”

When Kit raised his head, his eyes were red and swollen, his cheeks wet. He pushed the brandy to one side and reached for the coffee, wrapping his large hands round the cup to suck what heat from it he could. “I kept hoping Fiona was wrong,” he said. “I kept telling myself it was the kind of sick thing I’d make up, not the sort of thing that really happens, you know? It was the only way I could get through it. I just couldn’t let myself believe there’s someone out there killing us.”

Steve sighed. “When you’ve seen as much as I have, Kit, you know that real life can trump fiction every time. I’m truly sorry about Georgia. I know she was a friend.”

Kit shook his head wearily. “She was always larger than life. I’d have put Georgia down as indestructible. Underneath all that froth, she was so sharp, so strong. I know people thought we were an odd couple, but she was closer to me than almost anybody in the business. She was brilliant. She could make me laugh. And she was always there. When the writing was going to shit, she’d bring a bottle round and we’d bitch about what a hard life it was, even though we both knew what lucky buggers we were.” He drained his cup and rubbed his eyes fiercely with the back of his hands. “Fuck, what a bastard life is.”

“They’re not announcing it formally till later this afternoon,” Steve said, resorting to what he knew. “But I didn’t want you to turn on the radio and hear it that way.”

“Thanks. How’s Anthony, do you know?”

Steve shook his head. “It’s not the Met’s case. It’s City of London, so I’ve not had any direct dealings with it. But I happen to know he’s doing the formal identification round about now.”

“Poor bastard.” He reached for the brandy then, and swallowed hard. “If I write him a note, will you post it for me? It’s only that I promised Fiona I wouldn’t go out alone. I thought she was being overprotective, but now…” He got to his feet. “Gimme a minute.”

“Take your time,” Steve said, unwrapping his cigar and lighting it. While he waited for Kit to return, he couldn’t help his mind gliding away from the pain and mess of Georgia’s death to thoughts of Terry. Even Sarah’s hideous news hadn’t managed to take the gloss off the previous night, or the morning after. They were meeting again that evening. Steve’s habit of caution seemed to have abandoned him along with the weariness that had infected his interior life for so long. He didn’t want to play this cool, to act hard to get. He wanted to be with her, and since Terry assured him the feeling was mutual, it seemed crazy not to snatch every moment that offered itself to him. Part of him was longing to share with Kit what was happening to him. But this wasn’t the time.

When Kit came back into the kitchen, he was holding an envelope. “I didn’t have a proper sympathy card, just had to make do with a postcard. I don’t think Anthony will mind. I just wanted to let him know I was thinking about him. Tell him I’m here if he needs anything. You know?” He handed the card to Steve. “I’ve stamped it. If you could just stick it in the box at the bottom of the road, he should get it tomorrow morning.”