Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

He replaced the phone and stood for a long minute in the hall, pondering. No, he was right. There was no point in trying to get anything moving tonight on something as tenuous as this. Without something more solid than Fiona had, there was no prospect of getting Highland to take this seriously. By morning, he could maybe convince them there were reasonable grounds for action if Kit Martin hadn’t shown up safe, sound and hungover in his own bed. And really, there were no good reasons to think otherwise. Convinced that Fiona was overreacting because of what had happened to her sister all those years before, Galloway headed back to his TV show and his whisky.

Fiona slumped in her chair. She’d done her best. But sometimes, that wasn’t enough. After Lesley, she had done her best too. She couldn’t change the fact of her sister’s death, but she had taken every step she could to make sure the person responsible paid the price. She’d failed then, and she knew the price that failure had exacted. She couldn’t give up on Kit now, not just for his sake but for her own. Duvall and Galloway might think she was a hysterical idiot, but she knew Kit and she knew she had grounds for her worries. Galloway had tried to reassure her with his suggestion that the killer couldn’t know the location of the bothy. But Fiona knew him to be resourceful; he’d tracked each of his victims so far. She couldn’t afford to be complacent.

She reached for the phone and keyed in a number she knew by heart. Three rings, then the machine clicked in. “This machine takes messages for Steve Preston. Please speak after the tone and your call will be dealt with at the earliest opportunity.” Bleep.

“Steve, it’s Fiona. Call me on the mobile whenever you get this message. I need your help.” She ended the call with a finger on the receiver rest and immediately dialled his mobile. Silence. Then the impersonal voice. “The number you are calling has not responded. Please try later. The number you are calling—” She cut the line. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, reaching for her personal organizer to find his pager number. When the pager service responded, she left a message asking Steve to call her straightaway on her mobile.

There was, she supposed, an outside chance he was still in the office so she dialled his direct line. She let it ring ten times before she gave up. Where the hell was he when she needed him?

It never occurred to her to try Terry’s home number.

Gerard Coyne’s flat could have been made for surveillance. It was on the first floor of a terraced house a couple of streets back from the Holloway Road. Neil assumed from the fact that there were two narrow front doors that there was no back entrance; Coyne’s front door would give straight on to a flight of steps leading up to the first floor. What made the flat so perfect for Neil’s purpose was the pub opposite. The Pride of Whitby was a typical North London corner pub cosy, cramped and busy. But the old — fashioned etched glass had been replaced by clear glass windows allowing a perfect view across the street. Neil had arrived just after half past six and had a quiet word with the licensee, impressing on him the need for discretion. He hadn’t specified who he was watching or why, only that he didn’t want to be pointed out to the locals as a copper.

The landlord had no problem with that. He kept an orderly pub and relied on the local police to turn up on the rare occasions there was trouble. As far as he was concerned, as long as Neil didn’t expect free booze, he was welcome to sit by the window for as long as he wanted.

Neil had already established that Coyne was home. There was a smart mountain bike chained up in the front garden. He’d seen lights on in the first floor flat and, as a double-check, he’d rung Coyne’s phone number. When it was answered, Neil had pretended he had a wrong number. Satisfied, he settled down with a copy of the Evening Standard and a glass of alcohol-free lager.

At half past seven, he’d ordered lasagne and chips from the bar snacks menu. It arrived at ten to eight. He’d finished eating it by five past. He returned to his paper, making sure the lighted windows of Coyne’s flat were in his peripheral vision. If there was any movement, he’d register it, tired though he was.

By half past eight, the place was heaving. Every other seat at Neil’s table was taken, the other occupants crowded round with their pint glasses and cigarette packets. Occasionally, one or other of them would try to draw him into conversation, but he kept himself on the fringes, answering in monosyllables and barricading himself behind his paper.

A few minutes before ten, Coyne’s light snapped out. Suddenly alert, Neil folded his paper and drained his third drink. He pushed his seat back slightly, on the alert for whatever was going to happen next. A light appeared in the glass panel above Coyne’s front door, then the door itself swung open. Neil couldn’t see Coyne very well against the light hitting him from behind, only the silhouette of a slim frame of medium height. Neil readied himself for the off.

Coyne pulled the door to behind him and emerged on to the street. Thank God he wasn’t taking the bike, Neil thought. Coyne glanced both ways past the parked cars that lined the street, then crossed the road.

Oh shit, Neil thought, he’s coming in here. He unfolded the paper and pulled his chair closer to the table. When he looked up again, Coyne was walking towards the bar, greeting a couple of the men standing there with their pints of Guinness.

There was no mistaking those deep-set eyes in the narrow face coupled with the goatee beard and moustache and the slightly prominent teeth. This was the man whose CRO photograph was etched on Neil’s memory. As far as he was concerned, the evidence might be circumstantial, but it had convinced him. If he’d been a gambling man, Neil would have staked a year’s salary that he was looking at Susan Blanchard’s killer.

He fought to hide his excitement and watched as Coyne bought himself a pint of bitter. Neil pushed back his chair, covered himself by saying good night to the others at his table, as if they’d been his drinking companions, and pushed through the crowd to the door.

The cold night air took his breath away after the stuffiness of the pub. But it did nothing to calm the thrill of anticipation that surged through him. It had worked. Good solid policing, helped along with a bit of flair and inspiration, and he was looking at the first serious suspect for Susan Blanchard’s murder since Francis Blake. Only this time, they’d got it right. He had a feeling in his bones.

He hurried along the street to where he’d parked his car earlier. It had a view both of the pub door and, at an angle, of Coyne’s front door. He dived behind the wheel and pulled out his mobile. Time to report. He stabbed the speed dial buttons to connect him to Steve’s mobile. He couldn’t believe his ears when he heard, “The number you are calling has not responded. Please try later.”

“Bugger,” he said, trying Steve’s home number. When he got the answering machine, he swore softly. But he knew better than to hang up without leaving a message. “This is Neil McCartney, guy. I’m outside the suspect’s house. He’s just gone across the road for a drink in his local. I know I’m supposed to go off duty at midnight, but I’m going to stay on here till Joanne relieves me or until I hear from you. I don’t want him to get away from us.”

Finally, Neil left a message on Steve’s pager. Surely he’d get that? The boss was never out of touch, especially since they’d been running this operation on a shoestring. He’d known Neil was watching their new suspect, so he’d be expecting a call. Sooner or later, he’d ring back.