Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

As she knocked on Steve Preston’s door half an hour later, Joanne was convinced her boss was also going to love the prospect of Gerard Patrick Coyne. She walked into his office, a grin spread across her face. “Have I got news for you!” she began, sitting down opposite her boss without waiting to be invited. She flicked open her notes and read out Coyne’s details. She looked up. “I’ve run his CRO. Looks like we’ve got a suspect at last, guy.” She sorted through the bundle of computer printouts, collating a set to give to her boss.

“And nothing to tie him in to Susan Blanchard,” Steve reminded her. “Nothing except informed speculation and a bit of computer analysis.” He took the sheaf of paper and stared at the top sheet, which included Coyne’s photos. “Wait a minute,” he said, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice.

“What is it, guy?” Joanne leaned forward in her eagerness, as if she would somehow see whatever it was that Steve had latched on to.

“I know that face. I’ve seen him.” He closed his eyes and frowned in concentration. When they opened, his whole face was alight with excitement. “He was at the Bailey the day Blake was set free! I know it was him, I noticed him particularly because he was in cycling clothes. Carrying a helmet. It was him, Joanne, I know it was him.”

“Are you sure?” It was as if she dared not hope.

“I’m sure. I was paying attention to the public gallery crowd, because I still had it at the back of my mind that we’d brought the wrong man to court. I was checking out the faces. Just in case I saw anybody that rang a bell.” Steve jumped to his feet and started pacing. “What we’ve got to do…Joanne, I want you to get me the video footage we shot at Susan Blanchard’s funeral. We had full cover, all angles. And see what you can get from the press. Whatever pix and footage they took outside the Bailey. And the magistrates’ court, see if you can find anything from there. You’ll have to be discreet, you know how they get on their high horse if they think we’re trying to come the heavy hand with them. Go and talk to the press office, see what they can do for you.”

“What about Coyne? Are we going to pull him in?”

Steve spread his hands in frustration. “I haven’t got the bodies for this, Jo. Let me see…” He was talking half to himself, doodling on his desk pad. “John’s relieving Neil at Blake’s place at six…Maybe Neil could go over to the suspect’s address then, keep on him till midnight…” He looked up at Joanne. “Any chance you can come in tomorrow at seven and pick Coyne up for the day?”

Joanne nodded, enthusiasm overcoming weariness. “Of course. This could be the break we’ve been waiting for. But…if you don’t mind me asking…Why are we still surveilling Blake when we’ve got Coyne to go at?”

Steve gave a resigned nod. “Good point, Jo. I suppose I’ve got a thing about Blake. Oh, I know he’s not the killer. But if Fiona Cameron’s right, and he did see what happened on the Heath that morning, I’d love to get something on him. For all we know, he’s in contact with Coyne. I’d like to stay on him for as long as we can manage it. But Blake’s not what you should be concentrating on now. Leave it with me, I’ll make the arrangements. Just get yourself to Coyne’s place for seven tomorrow and stay on him.”

She got to her feet. “If that’s all, I’m going to clock off now and catch up on some sleep.”

“You deserve it. Great job, Jo. Well done.” He smiled. “Our luck’s on the turn. I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

Before the door had even closed, Steve was on the phone. Within fifteen minutes, he had everything in place. Neil had agreed to take on the extra surveillance, and another CID officer was lined up to cover Blake the following day while Steve’s core team were elsewhere. It was far from satisfactory, but it was the best he could manage at such short notice. And given the way things had started to run in his favour, he couldn’t help feeling optimistic. Maybe they’d finally get their hands on the real killer of Susan Blanchard. Nothing would make him happier.

Then he remembered Terry Fowler and amended the thought.

Now everything was in place. It didn’t matter that the van he’d hired using one of his false driving licences had no logo on the side; courier companies often hired anonymous white vans when their own fleet was overstretched. Anyway, it was only a minor prop. The key vehicle, the four-wheel-drive Toyota, was already parked in the narrow lane that ran behind the row of houses where his target lived.

All it had needed was patience. He’d cruised by the target’s house a couple of times earlier in the day. No surprises there. If there had been any kind of protection in place, it had disappeared in the smoke and mirrors of the previous day’s confession. He couldn’t believe his luck when he’d switched on the TV the night before. Just when he thought things were going to get even harder for him, the police had fallen for a faker. Now nobody would be expecting him, least of all his target.

Everything was in place. Even the weather was working in his favour. A grey drizzly afternoon meant empty streets and poor visibility. He turned the key in the ignition and flicked the indicator down. Ready or not, here I come.

Kit stared at the screen without seeing the words. Time had drifted past without him noticing, engrossed as he was in the process of grieving for his friend. He replayed Georgia in his mind like a series of videotapes, recalling her gestures, her facial expressions, the way she laughed. Whole chunks of conversation dropped out of his memory and reverberated round his head. So many times they’d stayed up late in hotel bars, talking about their work, their colleagues, the publishing business and gradually moving on to more personal issues. She’d talked fondly of Anthony, lasciviously about her lovers. He’d confided the whole process of falling in love with Fiona to Georgia, and right up to the end he’d still shared more of their relationship with Georgia than anybody else.

It wasn’t that they lived in each other’s pockets. Weeks could go past without them meeting, but theirs was the sort of friendship that always picked up where they’d last left off. He missed her already, a dull pain like the beginnings of hunger. He wished Fiona were with him. She understood the mechanism of loss; she could be his guide through the uncharted terrain of grief.

He shook his head, like a dog worried by a fly, and opened his e — mail program. He downloaded Fiona’s message and read it. Words at a distance, but still they soothed.

Kit glanced at the clock and was surprised to see how late it was. The detective from the City of London Police was due to take his statement in half an hour. Not that he had much to say. His vague recollection of being sent a manuscript by Redford wouldn’t advance their case much, he suspected. He wondered if Georgia had also been on the receiving end of one of Redford’s unsolicited offerings. If so, there would probably be a record somewhere. Unlike Kit, Georgia had employed a part-time secretary to deal with her correspondence. Somewhere, there would doubtless be a copy of any covering letter that had accompanied the manuscript on its return journey.

The creak of the gate interrupted his meandering thoughts and he looked out of the window. A courier was struggling up the path with a large cardboard box, the sort that contained author copies of books. A clipboard was balanced on top of the box.

Kit got to his feet and walked out into the hall. He opened the front door before the courier had even managed to ring the bell.

“Parcel for Martin,” the man said, peering over the top of the box.