Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

While she ate the pasta she’d ordered and sipped a glass of wine, Fiona flicked through the letters again, checking to see if there was anything she’d missed.

When the phone rang she dropped her fork with a clatter. She grabbed the receiver eagerly and said, “Hello?”

“This is DCI Duvall.”

Fiona felt intense disappointment. “Oh. Hello. I was expecting someone else.”

“I wondered what progress you’d made,” Duvall said abruptly.

Fiona outlined her day’s work in some detail. As she reported her findings, Duvall made no response apart from the occasional noncommittal sound of someone making notes.

When she had finished, Duvall spoke. “So, you’ve found nothing to contradict the theory that Redford is the killer?” she asked.

It was, Fiona thought, an odd way to put it. “Nothing. Why? Has something come up at your end?” A nervous prickle of anxiety crept across her chest.

She felt the hesitation build at the other end of the phone. “A minor discrepancy, that’s all,” Duvall said briskly.

“How minor?” Fiona demanded.

Duvall outlined what the Dorset Police had uncovered, and how it was at odds with the little Redford had said on the subject. “We’ll have more sense of its significance when we get the forensics back from the outhouse.”

“But that could be days,” Fiona protested. “If you have got the wrong man in custody, then other people could be at risk.” One person in particular, she thought, fear beginning to clench her stomach. “The killer’s going to feel very safe. He’ll be confident about striking again.” And I can’t raise Kit.

“I’m aware of that. We’re doing everything we can to corroborate what Redford is saying.”

“I’ve not heard from Kit all day,” Fiona blurted out.

“One of my team was supposed to interview him this afternoon. I’ll check out what he had to say. He may have indicated he had plans for the evening,” Duvall said with a confident authority she didn’t feel. “I’ll get back to you.”

“I’ll be waiting for your call.” Fiona replaced the phone gently, as if somehow so doing would also keep Kit safe. She was, she recognized, terrified. Suddenly, she bolted for the bathroom, making it just in time. Undigested pasta swilled round in a bilious red sea of tomato sauce and wine. Her stomach kept on emptying itself in a reflex long after there was nothing left to bring up. She leaned back on her heels, a sheen of sweat across her forehead, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

The thought of Sarah Duvall’s call forced her to her feet. She flushed the toilet and brushed her teeth. What was taking her so long? She ran her hands through her hair, gazing at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were haunted, her face made gaunt by the inner fears eating her away. “You look like shit,” she told her reflection. “Get a grip, Cameron.”

The phone ringing catapulted her out of the bathroom and across the bedroom. “Yes, Fiona Cameron, hello?”

“We seem to have a slight problem,” Duvall said hesitantly.

Jesus God, no, she screamed silently. “What sort of a problem?” she forced out.

“Apparently, he wasn’t at home when my officer called on him.”

Fiona groaned. “Something’s happened to him.”

“I don’t think you should jump to conclusions, Dr. Cameron. My officer admitted he was over an hour late in getting to their appointment. Mr. Martin may well have given up on him. I understand from Ms Lester’s husband that a group of her fellow writers were planning to get together today to hold a sort of wake. That’s probably where Mr. Martin is right now. Look, Redford’s confession checks out in every detail but one. He’s been treating his interviews like a game, a battle of wits. It’s entirely possible that he was deliberately misleading us because he’s determined not to give us anything concrete. He wants to get away with this, I’m sure of it.” Duvall’s voice showed not a trace of doubt. “I’m sure Mr. Martin will be in touch. Try not to worry.”

“Easier said than done, DCI Duvall.”

“I still believe we have the right man in custody.”

“You would say that. You’ve got too much invested in this to say otherwise.”

“If Mr. Martin hasn’t been in touch by tomorrow morning, call me.”

“Bet on it.” She slammed the phone down. Her hand shook as she removed it from the receiver. “Oh God,” she breathed. “Please God, let it not be him.”

She began to pace the room. Six strides, turn, six strides, turn, like a cat in a cage. There was no comfort for her in Duvall’s apparent confidence. She knew Kit wouldn’t have left her high and dry without a word. “Think, Fiona, think,” she urged herself.

She grabbed her personal organizer and looked up Jonathan Lewis’s number. She didn’t have many of Kit’s friends’ numbers, but Jonathan and his wife Trish had been regular dinner companions over the past couple of years, so they’d made it to her list. Trish answered on the third ring, sounding pleasantly surprised to hear from Fiona. “Is Jonathan in?” Fiona asked.

“No, he’s gone off on this wake they’re holding for Georgia. Isn’t Kit with them?” Trish answered.

“He must be. I’m up in Edinburgh and I’ve been trying to get hold of him without success.”

“They were supposed to be meeting at six,” Trish said.

“Do you know where?”

“Jonathan said something about some drinking club in Soho where Adam’s a member. But I don’t know what it’s called. I know he was expecting to see Kit there.”

“You’re probably right,” Fiona sighed. “He’s most likely halfway through the second bottle by now. Sorry to bother you, Trish.”

“It’s no bother. If it’s urgent, you could give Jonathan a ring on his mobile.”

Fiona copied down Jonathan’s number and called it as soon as she ended her conversation with Trish. The mobile rang half a dozen times before it was answered. It sounded as if a small riot was going on in the background. “Hello? Jonathan?” she shouted. “It’s Fiona Cameron. Is Kit with you, by any chance?”

“Hello? Fiona? No, where is the bugger? He’s supposed to be here.”

“He’s not there?”

“No, that’s what I’m saying.”

“He’s not been in touch?”

“No, hang on.” Somewhat muffled, she heard him shout, “Anybody heard anything from Kit? Like why he’s not here?” There was a brief pause, then Jonathan came back on to her. “Nobody’s heard from him, Fiona. I don’t know what he’s playing at, but he’s not here.”

Fiona felt her stomach contract again. “If he turns up, tell him to call me. Please, Jonathan.”

“No problem. Take it easy, Fiona, but take it.” The connection terminated and Fiona was left stranded with fear coursing through her again. She wanted to scream. But she forced herself to take a rational approach to the situation.

If Kit was going to be targeted, the obvious book to copy would be The Blood Painter. Because it had been successfully adapted for TV, it fitted the pattern the killer had adopted so far. If the killer was following the pattern of the book, Kit must still be alive. The characteristic of the Blood Painter was that he held his victims prisoner and drained their blood at daily intervals, using it to paint murals in the place where he held them captive. So if Kit was truly the next victim, whoever had him needed to keep him alive for a couple of days at least so he could reproduce the murder in the book as faithfully as possible.

All she had to do was to work out where he was being held.

It had been a while since she’d read the book, but she remembered that the victims of the Blood Painter had all rented remote holiday cottages in the six months before their deaths. When he came to kill them, the Blood Painter rented the same cottage and held them captive there for the week while he slowly bled them to death and created his grotesque paintings.