Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

A solemn-faced thirty-something with fashionable glasses gazed into the camera. Police were giving little away at the press conference. They admitted only that Georgia Lester’s dismembered body had been found in a freezer at Smithfield Market, but refused to be drawn into speculation as to whether there was any connection between the best selling crime author’s death and the recent murders of fellow thriller writers Drew Shand and Jane Elias. But as the press conference drew to a close, a man pushed his way through the crowd of reporters, claiming to be responsible for all three deaths. He then distributed leaflets alleging that all three of the murdered authors had stolen his work and that he had killed them in revenge for their plagiarism. For legal reasons, we cannot show the footage of this dramatic event. However, the man has been taken into police custody and within the last ten minutes, police have admitted that he has been arrested on suspicion of murder.

The news reader voice interrupted. Did the police appear to be taken by surprise by this extraordinary intervention, Gabrielle?

— he asked. Yes, Don, it threw them into complete confusion. Up to that point, they’d given no indication that they had any suspects whatsoever in Georgia Lester’s murder. It’s a remarkable turn of events. I can’t recall anything quite like it ever happening before.

Don the news reader said as the screen returned to a view of the studio. Thanks, Gabrielle. We’ll come back to you if there are any further developments.

He looked seriously at the camera. Later in the programme, we’ll be bringing you an appreciation of Georgia Lester’s life and work. But now, the other main stories tonight.

Fiona reached for the remote control and flicked the mute button. “Unbelievable,” she said wonderingly. “He confessed in front of a room full of journalists?”

“Now there’s a man who doesn’t need a publicist.”

“Pass the phone,” Fiona said.

Kit stretched and grabbed the cordless handset. “Who’re you going to call?”

“Wood Street. I want to find out if this is the real thing or the local neighbourhood nutter.”

“You think they’ll tell you?”

Fiona gave him her disapproving tutor’s stare. “You think they won’t?”

Ten minutes later, she put the phone down. Sarah Duvall had, inevitably, been unavailable. But once Fiona had explained her connection to the case to a slightly wary sergeant in the incident room, she had been rewarded with the assurance that yes, the murder squad was treating the confessor seriously. And, strictly off the record, he was likely to be charged with something by morning. Maybe not murder, not quite yet. But something serious.

It was, she thought, like the moment when you realize the dental anaesthetic has worn off. She felt tension seep from her shoulders like a liquid flow. Her initial response of scepticism had been dispelled by the CID sergeant’s stolid reassurance that someone as sharp as Sarah Duvall was taking this seriously. And if the confessor had been one of the usual suspects who came out of the woodwork whenever there was a major crime in the headlines, the police would have known. She smiled up into Kit’s anxious eyes. “They seem to think he’s kosher,” she said, letting out a long breath. She hastily moved from the floor to the sofa and wrapped her arms round him. “I hope they’re right,” she said softly. “Oh God, I hope it’s finished.”

The air in the room was redolent with the heavy fragrances of ylang-ylang, sandalwood and rose. The flicker of a pair of candles took the chill off the clinical white of the walls and transformed Steve’s bedroom from a monastic cell to a place where romance was possible. The massage oil and the candles were Terry’s contribution to the atmosphere; after the first night when urgency had been everything, she wanted to give their love-making a more sensual framework.

They lay in a languid tangle of limbs, a pair of champagne flutes within reach but for the moment disregarded as they gave each other the history lessons of their past. As he listened to Terry’s tale of her childhood, Steve luxuriated in the sense of having been swept out of the mundanity of his life.

When the shrill note of his mobile phone cut through Terry’s gentle ironies, it was a dislocating wrench back into his former life. “Shit,” he swore savagely, even as he was disentangling himself from her.

She chuckled. “Ignore it. You’re off duty.”

“I can’t,” he said angrily, crossing the room in a handful of long strides and abruptly grabbing the phone from the dressing table. “There’s too much on. Bloody thing.” He hit a button and barked, “Preston here.”

“Steve? This is Sarah Duvall.”

Steve stifled his exasperation and backed up to the edge of the bed, where he flopped down. “What can I do for you, Sarah?”

“Have I caught you at a bad moment?”

“No, it’s fine.”

Duvall registered his clipped tones, knew it wasn’t fine, but pressed on regardless. She wasn’t about to allow Steve Preston’s convenience to come between her and her objective. “I wanted to ask if you thought Dr. Cameron would be open to a formal approach from us to liaise on the Lester murder.”

Steve glanced uneasily at Terry. He felt faintly uncomfortable talking about Fiona in front of her. It felt almost incestuous. “I don’t see why not. The problem is with the Met, not in general. What was it you were after, specifically?”

“As you know, we’ve got a confessor in custody. But I’m having peculiar problems with checking out his authenticity because so much of the detail of the crime comes from Lester’s book. However, I think he could be tied to the letters. What I want to try for is linking him to the letters, then linking the three murders, especially if we can establish that Shand and Elias also had letters. I thought Dr. Cameron could look specifically at the letters and the flyer he distributed at the press conference, then she could review the evidence in the other two cases to see if there’s linkage. With three cases to go at, we’ve got more chance of turning up some witness evidence, or something else that would either tie in the confessor or eliminate him.”

“I’d have thought it was worth trying,” Steve said cautiously. “And there’s no better person for that kind of job.”

“I don’t want to wait till morning,” Duvall said. “Have you got a home number for her?”

“I think you’d get a better response face to face than over the phone.” This wasn’t the time to tell Duvall that her phone manner wouldn’t ingratiate her with a woman who was already predisposed to dislike her because of Duvall’s reluctance to provide protection for Kit and his fellows.

“A home address, then?”

Steve cast a quick glance at Terry, who was curled on one side, watching him with a smile. For a brief moment, he considered going through to the other room to avoid any chance of Terry recognizing her supervisor’s details. The instinct to confidentiality was bred in the bone, but he realized that if he was going to stand any chance of making this relationship work, he had to let her into his life. He took a deep breath and recited the familiar address. Terry’s eyebrows rose and her expression changed to one of curiosity. Steve ended the call and tossed the phone back on the dressing table.

“I won’t pry if you’d rather I didn’t, but I couldn’t help recognizing Fiona’s address,” she said.

Steve got back into bed and stretched out his arm to pull her into his embrace. “You heard about the guy who confessed to Georgia Lester’s murder at the press conference?”

“I saw it on the news, yes.”