Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

But she and Kit had never rented a holiday cottage. They’d not had so much as a weekend break in the UK, preferring to take their holidays abroad. Where could he be holding Kit? Where could they be if the killer was truly determined to follow the book?

The M6 was practically empty this far north of Manchester. Most of the Friday evening traffic had peeled off on the M$$ to Blackpool or at the first junction leading to the southern end of the Lake District. As the road climbed up Shap, there were only a few cars and a scattering of lorries heading back to Scotland for the weekend.

In the fast lane, a dark-grey metallic Toyota 4x4 cruised at a comfortable eighty-five. Not so fast it would attract the attention of the traffic police, but a good enough speed to eat up the miles between driver and destination. He’d given up on the radio, replacing the civilized voices of the BBC with a talking book. The Blood Painter, by Kit Martin. Read by the author. Apart from anything else, it would keep him firmly on track in case he’d slipped up on any details.

He couldn’t think of anything that would make the miles pass more quickly.

Detective Superintendent Sandy Galloway was halfway down his postprandial glass of Gaol Ila. His teenage twins were upstairs competing to lay waste some distant planet courtesy of their Sony Play Stations and his wife was loading the dishwasher. He’d have to go in to work tomorrow morning, in the light of this London business. But sufficient unto the day, that was his motto. And so he settled down with his whisky to watch a cop drama on TV and savour all the things they got wrong.

When the phone rang, he ignored it. But he couldn’t ignore the teenage bellow from upstairs. “Hey, Dad, it’s some Englishwoman for you.”

“Aw, shite,” he muttered, hauling himself out of his chair and through to the hall. He picked up the phone and waited for the click that indicated the upstairs extension had been put down. “Hello, Sandy Galloway speaking.”

“It’s Fiona Cameron. I’m sorry to bother you at home. I got your number from the incident room sergeant. He didn’t want to tell me, but I’m afraid I gave him a rather hard time, so don’t be angry with him.” It poured out in a breathless rush.

“No bother, Doctor. How can I help you? Or is it you can help us? Have you found some more letters at Drew Shand’s?”

There was a pause. He could hear her draw breath. “This is going to sound like paranoia. You know my partner is Kit Martin, the crime writer?”

“Aye, I knew that.”

“I’ve been aware since I first formed the theory that there might be a serial killer at work that Kit fitted the victim profile perfectly. I’ve been worried that he might be a target. When the City Police arrested Redford, we all relaxed. But I’ve just spoken to DCI Duvall and she says there’s a chink in the case against Redford. And I can’t get hold of Kit. He’s not answering the phone, he’s not been in touch via e — mail.”

“Could it not just be that he’s working?” Galloway tried to sound calm and unconcerned. If there was a serious crack in the case, Duvall would have let him know.

“He wasn’t there when the police were round earlier to take a statement. And I’ve never known him not respond to e — mail. The thing is, if Kit’s a target, the book the killer will be following is The Blood Painter. He’ll be holding him somewhere till he’s ready to kill him.”

He could hear from her voice that she was frantic with worry. “I understand your concern, Fiona.” He slipped into her first name, hoping it would soothe. “The trouble is, there’s no evidence to suggest that anything’s happened to him. He could be spending the evening with friends. Raising a glass to Georgia Lester somewhere.”

“That’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. But I spoke to one of his friends, and he’s not turned up. And anyway, if that’s what he had planned, he would have let me know,” Fiona insisted.

“Anything could have happened. He could have bumped into somebody on the way there and gone for a drink with them first. He could have been held up by transport problems. Fiona, if there was any serious problem with the case against Redford, City of London would have been on to us. You can be sure of that.” Galloway genuinely believed she had no grounds for her fears. The police officer in him knew that without any evidence of a crime, there was no way to justify any sort of formal inquiry. And the man in him knew that people didn’t always know their partners as well as they thought they did. Not even if they were psychologists. “Sometimes e — mail doesn’t get through,” he pointed out. “Servers go down. Maybe he thinks he has let you know.”

He heard her exasperated sigh. “And maybe he’s in the hands of a killer. The police should be checking out that possibility.”

Galloway took a deep breath and inched out on a limb. “If and it’s a very big if he is, then where should the police be looking?”

“According to The Blood Painter, the killer should take him to a holiday home. Only, we’ve never rented a holiday home in the UK. But Kit’s got a bothy up in Sutherland where he goes to write. I think that’s where they’ll have gone.”

“Whereabouts in Sutherland?”

He felt her hesitation. “That’s the problem. I don’t know, exactly. I’ve never been there, you see. All I know is that it’s near Loch Shin.”

“You don’t even know the address?”

“No. We only ever communicate by e — mail when he’s up there. He’s got a satellite phone, but he doesn’t use it for voice calls. We both find it harder to get through the time apart if we actually speak to each other, you see? Somehow, e — mail is more bearable when he’s away for weeks at a time.” Suddenly realizing that she was wittering, she forced herself back to the practicalities. “But surely the local police must know where it is? I thought everybody knew everybody up in the Highlands?”

Galloway rubbed his hand over his mouth. Her fear had transmitted itself to him and he had sweat on his upper lip. “‘Near Loch Shin’ is a hell of a big area, Fiona. The loch itself must be, what, fifteen, seventeen miles long. I doubt very much that there’s anything they could do about it tonight, even supposing we could convince them there was any real reason why they should be looking.”

“There must be something we can do! We can’t just sit around doing nothing when Kit’s life could be at risk.” Now anger had taken over from fear in Fiona’s voice.

“Listen, Fiona, the chances are that you’re getting yourself worked up over nothing. Now, this fictional killer of Mr. Martin’s what does he do with his victims?”

“He keeps them captive for a week and draws their blood and paints murals with it.”

“Well, that suggests that time is not as much of the essence as it would be if this killer gave his victims a swift death, doesn’t it? Besides, if you don’t know where this bothy is, how would the killer know? Why don’t we wait till the morning? It might well be that Mr. Martin has turned up by then. But if he hasn’t, we’ll get Highland Police on to it first thing. That’s a promise. Meet me at St. Leonard’s at half past seven and we’ll see what’s what. OK?” His voice was reassuring without being patronizing. “No, it’s not OK,” she said bitterly. “But it’ll have to do, won’t it?” “Aye, I’m afraid it’s the best I can do. And I will talk to DCI Duvall in the meantime and see if there are any genuine grounds for concern. Try to get some sleep, Fiona. I know you’re imagining the worst, but the chances are, Redford’s our man and your chap’s alive and well and on his way out for a night’s drinking with his mates. Coming to terms with Georgia Lester’s death. You know yourself that’s by far the likeliest scenario. I’ll see you in the morning.”