Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

“Well, City of London want to consult with Fiona about it. They think he’s a strong suspect.”

“And they want to establish linkage with the other two crime-writer killings, is that it?” Terry’s interest was piqued and she shifted so she could prop herself up on one elbow.

“That’s right. She’ll jump at the chance. Apart from anything else, it might reassure her that they’ve got the right person and she can stop worrying that Kit might be next on the hit list.”

“Of course. That’s why she’s been right off the planet the last couple of days.”

“It didn’t occur to you that Kit might be a target?”

“What can I say? I’d sort of forgotten about Kit. I’ve only met him once. Plus, Fiona never talks about her home life. And really, nobody’s been talking the serial killer angle up much. The papers all made out that there was no connection between Drew Shand and Jane what’s-her-name.” She shook her head crossly. “God, how could I be such a dummy? She must have been off her head with worry.”

Steve sighed. “She’s been as near as Fiona ever gets to frantic. We had a row over it yesterday. She was angry because she was the one who actually came up with the idea of searching Smithfield, but neither City nor the Met could commit to protecting Kit.”

Terry frowned. “Oh Steve, that’s bad. Torn between the personal and the professional. What a shit of a time you and Fiona must have been having. Worried stiff about Kit and ending up going head to head with each other.”

“It’s not been easy,” he acknowledged. “At least it looks as if Kit is safe now, for which I am profoundly grateful. The guy’s my best mate, and if anything had happened to him, I don’t know how I would have coped. The only thing is, I’m afraid it’s really screwed things between me and Fiona. She’s not a woman who forgives easily.”

“She’ll come round in time,” Terry said with breezy confidence. “Especially if you do a bit of serious grovelling. She always responds well to a good grovel, in my experience.”

Steve shook his head. “It’s going to take more than that this time, I think.”

Terry cuddled into him. “All my hard work, getting you relaxed, and now you’re wound up like a spring again.” She reached for the bottle of massage oil. “There’s nothing for it. You’re just going to have to put Kit and Fiona out of your mind and lie down and take your medicine like a man.”

Steve managed a smile as he shuffled on to his stomach, feeling his muscles fluttering as she straddled him. “Whatever you say, Doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor yet,” she said. “Just think how much better I’ll be when I’m qualified…”

He groaned as her hands, slick with oil, began to massage his shoulders. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that.”

“We’ll work up to it gradually, soldier.” Her strong fingers kneaded the powerful muscles of his back, erasing all thoughts of Sarah Duvall and even Fiona Cameron from his mind.

Fiona was in the kitchen making coffee when the doorbell rang. Frowning at the unexpected interruption, she walked down the hall to check the spy hole in the door. The chances were it was some hack who had decided that he needed to try Kit for a juicy quote for the morning’s paper. If it were, Fiona would take great pleasure in blowing him off. One thing was certain. No friend would have called round this evening without checking ahead by phone first.

To her surprise, Fiona recognized the person on the doorstep, though what Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Duvall was doing there was beyond her. Muttering, “Hell and damnation,” under her breath, Fiona opened the door. “DCI Duvall,” she said.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your evening,” Duvall said stiffly, as if apology were a stranger in her mouth. “But I hoped you could spare me some time.”

Fiona stepped back and indicated that Duvall should enter. “Second left, the kitchen. We’ll talk in there.”

Duvall walked down the hall, taking it all in as she went. Good-quality wooden flooring, expensive oriental rugs, a couple of dramatic landscapes in oils on the walls. At the turn of the stairs, a man she recognized as Kit Martin appeared, looking curiously at her.

“It’s work, Kit,” Fiona called. “I need to have a word with DCI Duvall.”

“Can’t wait till morning, eh? No problem,” he said, turning and vanishing back upstairs.

“I saw on the news that you’ve got someone in custody,” Fiona said as she followed Duvall into the kitchen. “Please, have a seat.”

Duvall pulled out a chair and sat, crossing her legs precisely.

“I was making coffee. Would you like a cup?”

“Thank you.”

“Black, wasn’t it?” Fiona didn’t wait for a response, reaching for a second mug and filling it up from the cafetiere. She put milk in her own mug and brought them both to the table, where she settled down opposite Duvall. Carefully keeping her face blank to match the police officer’s, she said, “So, what brings you to my door?”

“As you said, we have someone in custody. We had little choice, given the very public nature of his confession,” Duvall said, an ironic note in her voice. “But the position is far from clear-cut. His name is Charles Redford and he’s admitting the killings, but he’s giving us nothing that isn’t already accessible to anyone who has studied newspaper reports and the Georgia Lester novel that the murder appears to be based on. A search of his flat produced nothing conclusive. He had copies of the three crucial books by Shand, Elias and Lester on his desk. There was a stack of newspapers containing stories about the three murders, but so far, nothing for forensics to have a serious go at.

“We have had one break, in that his phone bill shows that he made calls to both Shand and Lester’s numbers within the last three months. And an agent has given us a statement saying that Redford threatened her. She had been considering taking him on, but she’d decided against it. When he got her letter of rejection, he turned up at her office and barged past the receptionist. He got into her inner office and shouted abuse at her. He snatched a paper knife that was lying on the desk and waved it in front of her face, telling her she should be careful who she insulted. Then he threw the knife at the wall and stormed out.”

Fiona sipped her coffee and said nothing, merely raising her eyebrows slightly. Her earlier encounter with Duvall had left her with no desire to make this any easier for her.

Duvall cleared her throat and continued. “She says she decided not to call the police because she was flying out to New York the following morning and she didn’t have time for the quote, ‘hassle’.” Her expression was of grim disapproval. “We also took a look at his computer, but so far we haven’t found any trace of the threatening letters. I’m hopeful that the computer specialists will be able to find something when they examine the hard disk more closely, but I’m not prepared to pin my hopes to that.” She lifted her slim briefcase on to her lap and opened it. “I’ve brought with me copies of the letters and also a copy of the flyer he distributed at the press conference this afternoon.” She extracted a handful of transparent plastic envelopes, each of which contained a photocopied sheet of paper. She closed her briefcase, replaced it at her feet and placed the envelopes on the table. “I believe the language is distinctive enough to demonstrate they were all written by the same person. I intend to place these with a linguistics expert, in the hope we can demonstrate that.” Duvall met Fiona’s eyes. There was no help there, but she continued regardless. “What I hoped was that you could look at them from the point of view of a psychologist and tell me what you think.”