Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

Steve had barely closed the door behind him when Telford said, “What is it that’s so important, then?”

“We have a viable suspect in the Blanchard case, sir. It’s my intention to bring him in for questioning and search his premises. I thought you’d want to be kept informed.” He crossed to the visitor’s chair and sat down, ignoring the fact that Telford was still standing.

“Where has this come from?” Telford said, unable to hide his scepticism.

“If you remember, sir, you authorized a crime linkage and geographic profile based on cases with similar components. Using the results of that, my officers did a trawl of criminal records and we emerged with a likely name.”

“That’s it?” Telford interrupted. “You think that’ll stand up in court as a reasonable excuse for pulling someone in and turning over his home?”

“There is more, sir,” Steve said, biting back his frustration. “The suspect is a member of a cycling club and we have two witnesses who put a cyclist at the scene of the crime. Even more significantly, when I saw the suspect’s photograph, I recognized him. I had seen him before, sir. He was present at the Old Bailey when Francis Blake was in court. I’ve verified that from photographs taken there that day. And I’ve since examined the videos we took at Susan Blanchard’s funeral. He was there too. After the funeral, he walked past her grave. In my opinion, sir, we have enough circumstantial evidence to arrest him on suspicion of murder. And to conduct a search under Section Eighteen of PACE.” He held Telford’s eyes, willing him to agree. He knew his strength should be more than Telford’s weakness could withstand, but he’d never tested it in a head-to-head before. Maybe he should have done it months ago, when Telford had pushed through the decision to dump Fiona and use Horsforth. But he had backed down then, and the price had been too high for him to be comfortable with the idea that the same cost might be extracted again.

“It’s thin,” Telford complained. “And you’ve already come a cropper with this case. I don’t want another disaster on my hands.”

“We can keep the lid on it, sir. There’s no need to make any kind of announcement until we’re ready to charge him. Nobody need know about the arrest and search. I can keep it really tight just me and my immediate team.”

Telford shook his head. “You make a convincing case. But I want to run it past the AC Crime before we go any further.”

“But the AC’s on leave,” Steve protested. He could see his case slipping out of his grasp and he felt powerless to stop it.

“He’s due back on Monday morning. I suggest we have a meeting with him first thing. Until then, nothing must be done to alert the suspect.” Telford’s smile was genial. He’d found a way to pass the awkward buck, and he was happy. “We’ve waited long enough. Another couple of days won’t hurt.”

“That’s not good enough.” Steve could feel his cheeks flush with anger as Telford’s smile changed to a frown. “My team have worked all the hours God sends on this and I am not about to sacrifice our momentum. I propose leaving a message on the AC’s home phone so he can contact me for a briefing as soon as he gets back.”

“How dare you threaten to go over my head? You are out of order, Superintendent,” Telford shouted with all the bluster of a man who knows he is out of his depth.

Steve got to his feet. “That may be, sir. But this is my investigation and I will not jeopardize it. I’m prepared to take full responsibility.”

Faced with an implacability he could not shake, Telford immediately back-pedalled. “If you think it’s necessary, then do it. But you’d better be very sure of your ground if you’re going to disrupt the AC’s leave.”

“Thank you, sir,” Steve said, his tone bordering on the insolent. He left the room before his temper escaped his control, even managing not to slam the door. It wasn’t the result he’d hoped for, but at least he had side-stepped Teflon. The Assistant Commissioner for Crime wouldn’t be thrilled to come home from whatever foreign parts he was visiting to find an urgent message on his answering machine. But although he knew how to play politics as well as any other senior manager, the AC had been a far more courageous detective than Telford had ever managed. He would understand what was driving Steve. And, he felt sure, the AC would give him the go-ahead. Till then, he would have to keep the surveillance as low-key as possible.

Nothing, he thought as he walked back to his office, was ever as straightforward as it seemed.

It was a sentiment Fiona would probably have agreed with. She had ploughed through the murder file on Drew Shand, which had proved to be a singularly unproductive activity from the point of view of developing strong points of linkage. Among the few things she could say so far was that in spite of careful staging, there was no indication of the sexual motivation of the fictional killings being replicated in the real murders, which was significant in itself. It meant that there was clearly some other motive behind the deaths of Georgia and Drew. They had both been stalked; they had both been abducted; neither had been killed in their own homes, but at some unspecified site; and they were both award-winning writers of serial killer thrillers which had successfully been adapted by other media. All of this was in the realm of the psychology of the act, however. There was little of a concrete nature from which further evidence could be developed.

What had struck Fiona was that the killer was prepared to deviate from his template. In each case, there was a significant alteration between the events outlined in the book and the path the murderer had taken. With Drew Shand, the body dump was different. Although there were sites nearby that would have better matched the precise description in the book, his body had been displayed somewhere else, presumably because it was less exposed and the killer could drive right up to the location. With Jane Elias, the torture that had been carried out on a live victim had been translated into the mutilation of a body already dead. Either the killer had misjudged his initial attack or he hadn’t had the stomach for that degree of sadistic experiment. Fiona inclined to the latter view because it conformed to the element of expediency in the earlier variation.

In Georgia’s case, the crucial difference was the discovery of the head accompanying the victim. Furthermore, according to Duvall, there was no sign that the killer had slavishly stuck to the book; there was no indication that he had had sex with the severed head. Again, a mixture of squeamishness and expediency had come into play. For the killer to be certain that his actions would be identified, he had to make sure that the meat in the freezer was clearly the remains of Georgia Lester. So he had made changes.

It wasn’t exactly a signature, but it was a pattern. With this new realization in the front of her mind, Fiona approached Drew’s flat with more optimism than she had felt earlier. Perhaps there really was new material to be had there.

Late in the afternoon, Murray had been despatched to navigate her through the rush-hour traffic to Drew Shand’s New Town flat. He had let her in, then left her to it, with instructions to her to lock up after her and bring the keys back to St. Leonard’s in the morning.

It was a beautiful flat, she thought. The rooms were elegantly proportioned, with elaborate plaster friezes in the living room and main bedroom, which looked west across a large communal garden, grass and mature trees enclosed behind iron railings and separated from the surrounding houses by the road. The flat had been expensively fitted out, with heavy curtains and comfortable furniture. Framed film noir posters adorned the walls, an interest mirrored in the collection of videos that filled an entire bookcase in the living room. In spite of that, and the books that lined the freakishly tidy office, it felt more like a display for a magazine feature than a home. Even the bathroom was preternaturally tidy, with all the normal clutter hidden behind handsome mirror-and-chrome cupboards. Not even a half-squeezed tube of toothpaste disrupted the order.