Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

The bungalows suddenly gave way to tall sandstone terraces set back from the main road, elegant Victorian family homes now mostly divided into flats with huge windows and high ceilings to swallow heat. They made an abrupt left turn on to granite setts, the car wheels rumbling as Murray swung it round the next corner. “Here we go,” he announced, double-parking outside a blond sandstone building with a canopy and a pair of ornamental lampposts. “I’ll wait in the car,” he said. Fiona wasn’t surprised.

The elegance inside matched the sandblasted facade. She checked in and followed a youth up an elegant staircase. Her room was on the first floor, looking out over the wide gardens that divided the street. Through the smirr of rain, she could see the steely ribbon of the Firth of Forth. Over on her left, a vast looming gothic pile with twin towers dominated the streets spread below her. “What’s that building?” she asked the porter just as he was leaving.

“That’s Fettes College,” he said. “You know? Where Tony Blair went.”

It explained a lot, she thought.

Fiona unpacked her case and made her way downstairs. Ten minutes later they’d cleared the Georgian New Town, dipped down to cross the Cowgate and zipped up The Pleasance to a modern building that housed A Division of Lothian and Borders Police. She followed Murray indoors and along a corridor. He opened a door with a flourish and said, “I’ll tell the Super you’ve arrived. You’ll be working in here, so you might as well get yourself settled in.”

As he turned away, Fiona decided it was time to start asserting herself. “A cup of coffee would be nice,” she said without a smile.

“Aye, right. Milk? Sugar?”

“Milk, no sugar, please.”

He turned on his heel and marched off, jacket flapping with the speed of his stride. Fiona turned into the room. It was surprisingly pleasant, if small. There was a pale wooden table with a desk chair in front of it. Two standard armless upholstered chairs sat against one wall. There was a small side table with a phone, a jug of water and two clean glasses. Best of all, there was a window. She could see across the car park and, beyond the wall and the rooftops, a slice of Salisbury Crag just about hanging on to its green tones through the rain.

Fiona dumped the laptop on the desk and got down on her knees to find the phone point. She was just plugging in the adapter for her modem cable when the door opened. A pair of stocky legs in trousers that strained over the thighs came towards her. Fiona leaned back so she could see the man over the desk. The sight jolted her memory. A picture formed in her mind like an image on photographic paper swimming into definition in the developer bath. A stocky man with startling red hair and a freckled face ruddy with the East Coast winds. Pale-blue eyes fringed with unusually dark lashes. A button nose and a pinched cherub’s mouth. Detective Sergeant Alexander Galloway of life Police. Instantly she was transported back a dozen years to a dark and dreary pub in St. Andrews where he’d agreed to meet for a drink so she could pick his brains about Lesley’s murder. He hadn’t been involved with the case initially, but when it had come up for review six months after the event, he’d been one of the officers assigned to it. He’d been able to tell her nothing new.

Now she gaped in shock. She hadn’t made the connection when Duvall had explained that Detective Superintendent Sandy Galloway was the officer in charge of the inquiry into Drew Shand’s murder. But there could be no doubt. The red hair had faded to a dull gingerish grey, and his flushed face had developed a purplish tinge that would worry his GP, had he ever found time to visit the surgery. But the eyes were the same pale blue, outlined with those remarkable dark lashes. The snub nose was a Jackson Pollock of red veins, and the mouth looked more crimped with disapproval than she remembered. But then, that’s what a dozen years at the sharp end of policing would do to a man, she thought. He looked down at her and gave a little smile. “No, no, Doctor, you’ve got it all wrong. It’s us that are on our knees to you this time,” he said genially.

Fiona scrambled to her feet. “I had no idea…I was just looking for the phone point.”

Galloway tutted. “Murray should have sorted you out.”

“I don’t think Murray does sorting out,” Fiona said wryly. “At least, not for older women. I’m still waiting for my coffee.”

Galloway threw his head back in a soundless laugh. “By, you’ve got sharper over the years.”

“Professional observation, that’s all. I’m taken aback to see you again, though.” Fiona extended a hand. Galloway’s grip was dry and firm.

“I mentioned to DCI Duvall that we’d met before. I thought she would have told you.”

“I think DCI Duvall likes to keep us all on our toes,” Fiona said, her voice as neutral as she could manage.

“Aye, well. I was sorry, you know? That we never got anybody for your sister’s murder.”

Fiona looked away. “I won’t pretend I wasn’t angry at the time. But these days, I understand better how hard it is to find a serial offender.” She met his eyes again. “I don’t harbour any grudges. You did your best.”

Galloway rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger. “Aye, well. I learned a valuable lesson from you, you know.”

“You did?”

“Aye. Never forget that murdered folk have families that need to know what happened. It doesnae hurt to keep that at the front of your mind.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, it’s good of you to come at such short notice. What I’ve done is I’ve got one of my officers bringing down the murder file. Is there anything else you want to see?”

Fiona unzipped the laptop case. “I want to spend some time in Drew Shand’s flat.”

“It’s been searched thoroughly, you know.” He leaned forward, fists on the desk, frowning. It should have been an aggressive pose, but somehow Galloway made it merely eager.

She looked him straight in the eye. “I’d just like to get a feel for it. And I want to double-check that there’s nothing there to connect Drew Shand with Charles Redford.”

Right on cue, there was a knock on the door and a uniformed PC wheeled in a trolley stacked with files. He brought them over to the desk. “Will that be everything, sir?” he asked.

Galloway looked a question at Fiona. “Coffee,” she said. “Either point me in the direction of the best coffee in the building, or have somebody bring me a cup every hour.”

“You heard her, Constable,” Galloway said. “Away up to my office and bring down the tray with my filter machine and the coffee.” He smiled at Fiona. “I can always come down here for a cup if I get desperate. Now, I’m just going to leave you to it. If you need anything, or you want to discuss anything with me, just pick up the phone and ask the switchboard to find me. And when you’re ready to go over to the flat, just let me know and I’ll organize a car for you.”

“Thanks. Looking at this lot, I’m going to be pretty busy for the rest of the day,” Fiona said. “I’ll probably be ready to go over there late afternoon, but I’ll call you when I can see light at the end of the tunnel.”

Left to her own devices, she loaded her software on to Kit’s computer. Before she began the work, she sent him a quick e — mail to say she’d arrived safely. Then, making sure her mobile was switched on, she set about the task. She was familiar with police files by now, and although she skipped nothing, she had learned how to skim for material of interest.

What she was looking for were factors common to all three murders that, taken individually, were insignificant but which, taken together, built to form a conclusion that was inescapable. Fiona suspected that in this case, there was little she could achieve that any intelligent police officer couldn’t do equally well. But the advantage for the police in having her do the work was that she could testify as an independent expert witness who was an acknowledged authority in the field of crime linkage.