Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

The first twenty-four hours were crucial to a murder investigation. Unfortunately for Duvall, those essential hours had passed over a week ago. And she was left picking over a very cold trail. So far as she could tell, not a single witness statement apart from that of the literary agent had anything approaching a positive lead that would tie Redford more strongly into the crime. And that only spoke to motivation, not direct connection to the murder. The only concrete thing they had was a sighting of a metallic-grey four-wheel-drive, possibly a Toyota or a Mitsubishi, seen by a passing motorist parked behind Georgia Lester’s Jaguar on the day of her disappearance. The driver hadn’t seen either Georgia or the occupant of the 4x4. But there was no record of Charles Redford possessing such a vehicle. She already had someone checking with car hire firms to see if he’d hired one recently.

Duvall turned off the trickle of water and stepped out of the cubicle. She towelled herself dry and climbed into the only clean clothes in her locker a pair of blue jeans and a Chicago PD sweatshirt. Not exactly ideal, but better than the crumpled outfit she’d been wearing for the past thirty-six hours. The clean material against her skin made her feel more refreshed than the shower had. A cursory glance in the mirror, and she was ready to roll again.

When she walked back into the operations room, she instantly plugged in to the fresh sense of excitement that buzzed under the hum of the computers. She was two steps into the room when one of her sergeants bounded up to her. “We’ve got something in from Dorset,” he said, unable to keep his face solemn.

Duvall felt her tired face trying a smile on for size. “Tell me more,” she said, pulling out the nearest chair and sitting down.

“There’s an outhouse at the bottom of a field at the back of the property. They didn’t realize it belonged to the cottage, which is why they haven’t searched it before now. Anyway, it turns out the husband mentioned it to one of their officers, so they broke in there a couple of hours ago and that’s where he butchered her. It’s got stone benches along one wall, and there are bloodstains all over them. Even better, he left his tools behind. Knives, hacksaw, chisel, hammer, the lot.”

Duvall nodded. “Probably thought that was safer than hanging on to them or trying to dispose of them somewhere else. I take it they’ve got a full forensic team in there now?”

“They’re going over it inch by inch.”

“Great. Keep me informed.”

He moved off, glad to have some definite purpose. He had completely missed the troubled look on his boss’s face. For the first time since Redford had grandstanded his way into her interview room, something had come up that didn’t gel with what he had said. She’d have to double-check. But Duvall was as sure as she could be that he had said he had taken Georgia to, “a place he’d known about for years, a place they’d never find.” That squared with what the book had said.

It was, however, entirely at odds with the Dorset Police’s discovery.

Uneasiness crept through Duvall’s weary body, as palpable as nausea. What if her instinct had led her astray? What if Redford was nothing more than an attention-seeker? What if there was still a killer on the loose? She shook her head, unwilling to concede the possibility. It couldn’t be. Redford was so right, she felt it in her heart.

But what if she were wrong?

The pain came first. A desperate localized agony inside his head, red, yellow and white waves behind his eyes. When he tried to groan, Kit found his mouth couldn’t move. Then the secondary pains began to take focus. His shoulders ached, his wrists smarted. He tried to shift his position and found himself rolling helplessly from his side on to his back. His hands dug uncomfortably into his spine, and he had to rock his shoulders furiously to get back into the less painful position he’d started off in. Nothing made sense. Opening his eyes was no help. The darkness was more profound than it had been before he’d forced his eyelids apart.

His stomach grumbled. The waves of pain from his head seemed to be directly connected to his gut, producing an uncomfortable queasiness. Slowly, he realized that wherever he was, he was in motion. Now he could hear the low grumble of an engine and the hiss of road noise. Muffled voices separated out and he understood that a radio was playing. It dawned on him that he was inside a moving vehicle and the driver was listening to the radio.

Comprehension brought memory back with bewildering swiftness. The courier at the door with the box of books. The movement out of the corner of his eye. Then nothing, till now.

With appalling clarity that momentarily banished pain, Kit recognized the scenario. He was trapped in a nightmare of his own invention. He was living the story of Susannah Tremayne, the second victim of the serial killer he’d dubbed the Blood Painter. The killer had captured her by pretending to be a courier delivering a package. Then he’d loaded her into his van and driven her to the holiday cottage.

Twenty-four hours earlier, it would have been at the front of his mind. He would never have opened the door to a courier, not even one of the ones he was familiar with. But that had been before Charles Redford had been arrested, before Sarah Duvall had told Fiona the killer was in custody and life could return to normal, without the bite of fear cutting into every moment.

They’d been catastrophically wrong. Terror clutched at his heart. He knew exactly what lay in store for him. After all, he’d written the script.

Before she let herself out of Drew Shand’s flat, Fiona took a look at the Edinburgh street map on his reference shelf and decided to walk back to her hotel. A brisk couple of miles on the city streets might clear her head. She set off through the Georgian streets of the New Town, heading for Queensferry Road, the damp air clinging to her skin and hair. She was almost the only person on the streets. She turned on to the Dean Bridge, enjoying the spectacle of walking above tree-top level, with random blocks of light from the backs of the New Town tenements glowing pale-yellow through the insubstantial mist. It could have felt spooky, she thought, and if someone with the gifts of Kit or Drew had been describing it, it would have crept off the page and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. As it was, after a day of airports and the enclosed office at St. Leonard’s, it felt curiously liberating, a brief escape from the concerns of work and love.

When she arrived back at her hotel, she was almost reluctant to go in. The brief time out had refreshed her, leaving her ready for something more enjoyable than thoughts of murder. The only tantalizing prospect the evening had to offer now was the chance of a conversation with Kit.

Fiona checked at reception for messages. Nothing. She’d hoped he would have called, in response to one of her earlier e — mail messages. Never mind, she thought. She’d call home in the hope that he was monitoring the answering machine and would pick up when he heard her voice. She went up to her room and called room service. While she waited, she booted up the laptop and checked her e — mail again. Nothing from Kit. Not like him, she thought. They’d had no contact since she’d left that morning, which was a break in their usual pattern of communication.

Glancing at her watch, she saw it was just past nine. He couldn’t still be working. He should answer the phone.

Quickly, she dialled the familiar number, her fingers stumbling so she had to abort the call and start again. The phone rang out. Three, four, five rings. Then the answering machine. His recorded voice for once provided no comfort. She waited for the bleep. “Kit, it’s me. If you’re there, pick up, please…Come on, I need to talk to you…” She waited in vain.