Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

“Duvall thinks he’s a strong suspect. And she’s the person on the ground. There’s certainly little doubt he’s the letter-writer. Duvall says the language is practically identical. And, embarrassingly for me, she reminded me of a case I read about in the US where someone who wrote threatening letters went on to kill half a dozen people. I hold my hand up. I was wrong when I said I didn’t think this letter-writer would escalate into murder.”

Kit grinned. “Can I have that in writing?” Fiona met childish with childish, sticking her tongue out at him. “So when are you leaving?”

“There’s a flight just after nine.”

“I’m glad you’re going. I liked Drew. And Jane. I don’t like to think that whoever killed them is going to get away with it. If anyone can build strong enough linkage to convince a jury, it’s you.”

Fiona sighed. “I wish I shared your confidence. It’s going to be a hard one to stand up.” She looked away. “I’d like it if you came with me.”

“Why? There’s no need, not now they’ve got what’s-his-name behind bars.”

Fiona, who couldn’t quite articulate what was bothering her, shrugged. “I know. I’d just rather you were with me, that’s all.”

“I’ve got a book to finish,” he protested.

“You can work just as easily in Edinburgh. You can sit in the hotel room and write all day.”

“It’s not that simple, Fiona. I’m all over the place. This business with Georgia, it’s doing my head in. It’s all I can do to get the words on the page right now. And that’s sitting in my own office with my own music and my own things around me. There’s no way I’m going to be able to concentrate in a strange place, with chambermaids bombing in and out and nothing to filter out the background shit except daytime TV. I’m not coming, and that’s that.” His jaw jutted defiantly, daring her to disagree.

Fiona ran a hand through her hair in a gesture of frustration. “I don’t want to leave you here on your own. Not when you’re so upset. I can’t give you the support you need if I’m four hundred miles away.”

They stared at each other across the room, each uncompromising in their resolution. Eventually, Kit shook his head. “Can’t do it. I want to be inside my cocoon. Where I belong. Besides, my friends are down here. We’re going to need to get together and raise a glass to Georgia. It’s a rite of passage, Fiona. I need to be here to be part of it.” He stretched a hand out towards her, appeal in his eyes. “You gotta see my point.”

“Point taken,” Fiona conceded. “I was thinking of myself as much as you, I suppose. I’ve been so scared for you, I just want to keep you close, remind myself that everything’s OK again.” They shared a rueful smile, each conscious of the tendency of their work to interfere with the shape they wanted their lives to have.

“How long are you going to be away for?” Kit eventually asked.

“I’m not sure. I’ll probably fly straight on to Dublin and do the Irish end as soon as I’m finished in Edinburgh. Tomorrow’s Friday. I should be in Ireland by Sunday, maybe home Monday night? Any more than that and I’m going to have serious problems covering my teaching commitments.”

“I’ll cook something special for Monday night, then,” he said. “We’ll have a romantic dinner. Turn off the phones, take the battery out of the doorbell and remind ourselves what’s so devilishly attractive about each other.”

Fiona grinned. “Do we have to wait till Monday?”

Fiona stepped off the plane into a grey drizzle. Low clouds obscured the Pentlands and the Ochils, while the rain laid an ashen sheen over landscape and buildings alike. The day had started badly, and it didn’t seem to be improving. Her mind had been on Georgia as she’d grabbed her laptop to pack it in its case. Preoccupied, she’d let it slip from her grasp and it had crashed to the floor, the case splitting open and dislodging the screen. “Oh, fuck!” she’d exploded. There had been no time to deal with it then. Furious with her carelessness, Fiona had opened the cupboard in her desk and pulled out the folder that contained the CD-ROMs and floppy disks she needed to run her programs. She’d shoved them into her briefcase and ran downstairs.

Kit looked up from the morning paper. “What’s wrong?” he’d said.

“I just smashed my laptop casing,” she’d said. “I can’t believe I did that. Can I borrow yours to take to Edinburgh?”

He’d been back in moments, zipping up the laptop bag, far calmer than she’d have been in the circumstances. It was a measure of the toll the previous days’ anxieties had taken that so small an accident had ruffled her so thoroughly.

But at least she had a laptop to work with. She’d already used it on the flight, to record her comparisons of the death threat letters and the flyer Redford had distributed at the press conference. There was no question in her mind that the same person had composed all the documents. And she could not rule out the possibility that the letter-writer had become sufficiently obsessed with his grievances to turn his words into action. If it came to it, she would so testify in court.

Now she walked briskly from the small plane to the terminal across tarmac greasy with damp. Inside, she shook her head to free the sparkles of raindrops from her hair and followed the exit signs. The walk from the gate to the arrivals hall seemed interminable, endless corridors turning back on themselves in the kind of maze that experimental rats were better at solving than frazzled commuters.

Eventually, she emerged into the bustle of the airport. She looked around and saw a man carrying a piece of white card with CAMERON neatly inscribed on it. He was a wiry, dark-haired whippet of a man whose sharp suit hung from his shoulders as if it was still on the hanger. With his foot tapping impatiently and his restless eyes flicking across the concourse, he looked more like a villain expecting a tug than a police officer. Fiona crossed to him, put down her overnight bag and touched his elbow. “I’m Fiona Cameron,” she said. “Are you waiting for me?”

The man ducked his head. “Aye, that’s right.” He folded the card and stuffed it in his jacket pocket, then extended a hand to her. “I’m Detective Sergeant Murray. Dougie Murray. Pleased to meet you.” He pumped her hand vigorously. “I’ve got the car outside.” He released her hand and walked off.

Fiona adjusted the strap of the laptop on her shoulder, picked up her bag and followed. Outside the door was an unmarked saloon car. Murray gave a wave to the traffic warden patrolling the kerb and made for the driver’s door. Fiona opened the back door of the car and deposited her bags, then got in beside him in the front. He was already gunning the engine. “The Super sends his apologies. Meeting came up that he couldnae give the body-swerve. I’m to take you to St. Leonard’s. That’s the Divisional HQ where the investigation’s based. The Super’ll meet you there. Is that OK?”

“I’d like to go to my hotel on the way,” Fiona said firmly. “Only to check in and drop my bags off. I don’t want to be lugging my overnight bag around all day,” she added pointedly.

“No, right, ‘course you don’t. We’ve put you in Channings, so we’ll have to make a wee detour.” He spoke in a tone of satisfaction, as if it had made his day to have to plan something more creative than a straight run back into town.

They swung off the ring road at the Art-Deco Stakis casino, cutting through a chunk of green belt to join Queensferry Road. Fiona stared at the traffic without registering anything, her thoughts occupied with Kit. He’d be sitting at his desk working, the CD player loaded with whatever was the flavour of the moment. REM and Radiohead would certainly be in the stack somewhere. Maybe The Fall, maybe the Manics. He’d be alternating between bashing the keyboard and staring out of the window, choosing work to keep his personal demons at bay. But now she had to put him out of her mind and concentrate on what she’d come here to do.