Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

“What I think about what?”

Duvall pursed her lips. She hadn’t been expecting an easy ride. Open hostility she would have handled easily. But Fiona’s stubborn failure to give anything back was too similar to her own style for her to understand how to get round it. “Whether the same person wrote all these. Whether that person is capable of escalating from letters to action. Whether there are clues in this material to indicate a connection to the crimes. Whatever you find there, I’m interested in.”

Fiona held her mug in both hands and looked steadily at Duvall. “Do you think he’s the killer?”

Duvall pushed the bridge of her glasses against her nose. “Does that matter?”

“I’m curious. I have something at stake here, if you remember,” Fiona said coldly.

Duvall uncrossed her legs. “I’m not someone who operates on instinct. I work on evidence and experience. Based on that, I’d say he’s more likely the killer than not. He’s arrogant and overconfident. He’s vain, very vain. He’s convinced that he has been ripped off. I think he’s planned this very carefully, so that he’ll be charged and tried and found not guilty. Then he’ll finally get his chance to show off to his heart’s content. I think your partner is safe, Dr. Cameron.”

Fiona had heard what she needed to hear. “I’ll do it,” she said.

Duvall placed a hand on the envelopes. “There’s something else,” she said.

Fiona didn’t like the way Duvall worked. There was a cold calculation to everything the detective did and said that made her feel used. If it hadn’t been for her personal connection to this case, she would never have gone as far as she had. But she was irritated by the assumption that having gone this far, she could be pushed further. “It’s late, Chief Inspector,” she said, her voice cold. “Let’s cut to the chase.”

Duvall blinked. “I’m not here to waste time, Doctor. Yours, or mine. I’m well aware of your work on crime linkage. If we are to get this case into court, I believe it’s important that we make a convincing case for connecting the three murders. I’ve already spoken to my colleagues in Edinburgh and Ireland and they’re willing to let you review their evidence with a view to formulating a tenable theory that we can take to court that the three murders are the work of the same person.”

Fiona shook her head, an expression of disbelief on her face. “You took for granted that I would agree to this?” she said.

Duvall shook her head impatiently. “I hoped you would. If you say no, I’ll find someone else. But I’m told you’re the best. And, as you pointed out to me, you have had something personal at stake in this case.”

Fiona stared at Duvall, a mixture of reactions battling inside her. She was outraged at the woman’s presumption, angry that she had been out manoeuvred flattered in spite of herself, and intrigued as she always was by the prospect of a professional challenge. This wasn’t one she wanted to hand over to someone else, she admitted to herself. But the knowledge that Duvall would see her agreement as some kind of triumph smarted. “The circumstances of these murders are very different,” she said, determined not to give Duvall what she wanted right away. “It’s unlikely that I’m going to be able to come up with the sort of concrete connection that juries like.”

Duvall gave her small, tight smile. “We both believe that the same person killed Drew Shand, Jane Elias and Georgia Lester. We both know if that is the case, they have to have left their signature on each crime. You know how to read the invisible ink. I know how to translate that into hard evidence. Are you in or out?”

The two women stared at each other across the kitchen table. It was, Fiona knew, time to put up or shut up. And this case was too close to home for her to bear the thought of leaving it up to someone else. She reached out for the envelopes. “I’m in,” she said.

Charles Cavendish Redford leaned against the cold wall of his cell. He knew there was no point in trying to get some sleep. They’d be watching him through the peephole in the door and they’d simply wait till he nodded off, then wake him up to take him back to the interview room, hoping he’d be disorientated enough to let his guard drop and give them something only the killer could know. He wasn’t going to fall for that. The beauty of having read so many detective novels and true crime was that he knew all the tricks of the trade. He was going to stay awake and alert, fuelled by adrenaline. There was a strict time limit on how long they could keep him without charge. Whatever they did then would suit him fine. Charged or released, he’d still be within the plans he’d made so carefully.

It was all going beautifully. That policewoman was a godsend. He could wind her up, and the more antagonism that built between them, the more likely she was to charge him with Georgia Lester’s murder. He would have his hour in the sun.

He wasn’t afraid of being found guilty. He was far too clever for that. One way or another, he would walk out of this a free man. And then publishers would be falling over themselves for his work.

He shifted on the thin mattress, making sure he didn’t get too comfortable. He smiled inwardly. For far too long, Charles Cavendish Redford had put up with being slighted, robbed and cheated. Soon, however, that would be history. Soon he would be a household name. Just like Drew Shand, Jane Elias and Georgia Lester.

Fiona leaned against the doorjamb of the living room. “Duvall wants to send someone round tomorrow to interview you,” she said. “To see if you remember a bloke called Charles Redford sending you any manuscripts or letters.”

“That’s not why she came round though, is it?” Kit said from his prone position on the sofa.

“No. That was incidental.” She walked into the room and chose the armchair that gave her a view of Kit’s face.

“Charles Redford. He’s the man they have in custody?” he asked. He knew she’d tell him the point of the visit when she was ready. Till then, he was happy to let the conversation go where it was comfortable.

“That’s right. Do you know him?”

Kit’s brow furrowed as he trawled his memory. “I’ve got a feeling he sent me a manuscript a couple of years ago.”

“What did you do with it?”

“What I always do with unsolicited manuscripts. Sent it back with a polite letter saying unfortunately I don’t have the time or the expertise to critique other people’s work and suggested he get an agent.” Kit yawned. “I don’t remember hearing any more from him.”

“You didn’t read it?”

“Life’s too short.” He reached for his glass and tipped the dregs of his wine into his mouth. He waited for Fiona to get round to the real purpose of DCI Duvall’s visit.

“I’m going to Edinburgh in the morning,” Fiona said.

“Drew Shand?” Kit asked.

“Duvall seems to think there’s some value in trying to establish linkage between the three murders. I’m not sure I see the point. They occurred in three different jurisdictions, and as far as I understand the legal principles, you can only try each case in its own jurisdiction. And I’m not sure to what extent each court would allow evidence of the other crimes. But the other police forces involved have agreed to cooperate with the attempt, so they must think there’s some value in it, if only to clear their own books. Duvall appears to reckon she’ll have more chance of nailing him for Georgia’s murder if she can demonstrate a pattern of behaviour.”

Kit elbowed himself upright. “So the info we got earlier was spot on? They’ve got the right man.”