Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

Till then, there was nothing more he could do now except watch and wait.

Waiting was not something Fiona could bear. Not when she feared for Kit’s life. Galloway had tried to be reassuring, but it hadn’t gone anywhere towards calming the torment. She knew there was no point in trying to follow Galloway’s advice to get some sleep. All that would happen if she went to bed was that she’d toss and turn restlessly, riven with anxiety. She might as well stay up and try to figure out a way to help Kit.

If only she knew where his bothy was. Given that whoever had Kit captive would have to drive up from London, the chances were that they were nowhere near Loch Shin yet. If she could find the exact location, it might be possible to head them off before they ever got there.

Whatever Galloway had said about there being plenty of time, Fiona knew she couldn’t rely on that. In each murder, the killer had deviated from the template provided by the book when it had suited him better. Keeping Kit alive for a week was clearly a huge risk to take, and from what she had seen of this murderer’s work, he was a man who liked to minimize jeopardy. The sooner she could get to Sutherland, the more chance she had of finding Kit alive. Waiting for Galloway to grind into action in the morning was too big a chance to take. She had to do whatever she could as soon as she could. Of course, it was too late now to find anywhere that could sell her an Ordnance Survey map of the Loch Shin area to check out possibilities. Fiona poured another glass of wine and logged on to the Internet. She entered the keywords ‘Loch Shin’ into her search engine and impatiently scanned the results. There were websites where amateur photographers displayed their photographs of the area; websites for those who believed the Loch Ness Monster had relatives in Loch Shin; websites for holiday cottages with views of the loch; websites that offered advice on fishing; and even a website devoted to the hydroelectric power station. But no large-scale map. The on-line version the Ordnance Survey offered was too small to show any useful detail.

She had even taken time out to torment herself with the ghoulish gossip of Murder Behind the Headlines. Fiona knew even as she was logging on to the site that it would give her no peace, but like an itching scab demanding to be picked, she had to see what Georgia’s death had provoked. At last, confirmation from London of what anybody with half a brain already knew. Yes, there’s a serial killer out there preying on the weird and the wired who spend their days writing fiction about surprise, surprise, serial killers. Although it sounds a bit like biting the hand that feeds you, it’s true! Even more amazing was the confession that stopped a police press conference in its tracks. As the police revealed to the world that British crime writer Georgia Lester’s butchered remains had been found in a disused freezer in London’s Smithfield Meat Market, a man claiming to be the killer distributed a FLYER to the waiting hacks that outlined his motives for the series of gruesome killings. The confessor is a wannabe writer called Charles Cavendish Redford, who alleges that the three writers in question plagiarized manuscripts he had sent them in the hope of winning their support in getting his books published. Redford, 47, once worked as a hospital porter, which may be where he picked up his murderous skills. He’s now in custody, under arrest, but so far hasn’t been charged. The discovery of Lester’s remains provided incontrovertible evidence of what some of us had already deduced. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde; One Drew Shand is unfortunate. Two Jane Elias looks remarkably like coincidence. And three Georgia Lester is a series…Lester went missing over a week ago. Sceptics said she’d deliberately staged a disappearance as a publicity stunt, as Queen of Crime Agatha Christie did herself back in the 1920s. And it’s true that Lester had been complaining that her publishers weren’t taking proper care of her. She’d demanded bodyguards for her latest book tour, but had been spurned by publishers with more sense than money a rarity in itself these days. But when we read the accounts of her disappearance the deserted car in the country lane, the apparent lack of any signs of violence, the absence of any witnesses those of us with a sensibility tuned to these things felt the creep of dread, remembering the fate of the victims in And Ever More Shall Be So, tester’s only serial killer novel, which was made into a film. Word is that the London cops got the tip to search Smithfield from a psychological profiler one of those legendary Clarice Starlings (and we all know what happened to Clarice, don’t we???) who figure out what the bad guys are going to do next. Mind you, it doesn’t take a doctorate in psychology to work that one out. All it takes is the ability to read. Still, there must be a few thriller writers sleeping easier in their beds tonight. Because if Redford hadn’t conveniently spilled the beans, you can bet your bottom dollar it would have been a long time and a few more bodies before the police managed to nail him.

REMEMBER YOU READ IT FIRST ON MURDER BEHIND THE HEADLINES

Angry with herself for succumbing to the insidious nastiness of the website, Fiona disconnected from the Internet. It had taken her almost an hour to get no further forward.

Frustrated, she tried Steve’s numbers again. No change. He was still out of reach. Fiona closed her eyes and massaged her temples. Somewhere locked away in her mind, she must know something that would lead her to the bothy. Think about anything else, she told herself. Let your subconscious do the work. Easier said than done, though, when all she could think of was Kit and the ordeal he could be going through.

A walk, that would do it. A quick turn through the local streets, where she could force herself to look at the details of the houses and gardens. That might just free her mind sufficiently to open the door to the information she knew must be there.

Glad to have something positive to do, Fiona jumped up and grabbed her mac, still lying on the bed in the damp heap where she’d thrown it when she came in. She pulled it on, picked up her mobile and practically ran out of the door and down the stairs into the street.

She turned to her right and started walking along the terrace, looking intently at the houses as she passed, glancing down into basement areas and taking stock of what people had done to make them attractive. She checked out curtains, appreciated a particularly vigorous Russian vine, made a mental note of an elaborate door knocker. Knitting for the brain.

At the end of the street, she turned left and walked down the hill towards Stockbridge, describing the tall sandstone buildings to herself as she passed them. At the bottom of the hill, she stared in the off licence window, making a mental selection from the bottles on display. She crossed the road and walked back up the hill, never faltering in the catalogue of her surroundings.

She was halfway along the street where her hotel was when her mind released the treasure she’d known was in there. “Lee Gustafson,” she said out loud in a tone of wonder. Then she was running, racing back to her hotel room to apply the gift she’d just been given.

Oblivious to the appalled stare of the night porter, Fiona sprinted across the reception area and up the stairs. Almost before her door was closed, her mac was thrown into a heap again and she was back in front of the laptop. Lee Gustafson was an American crime writer who wrote ecological thrillers. He shared the same US publisher as Kit. They’d been sent on a promotional tour together a couple of years previously, where they’d drunk their way round the mystery book shops of the Midwest and forged a friendship that endured through e — mail. Just over a year ago, Kit had lent Lee the bothy so he could do some background research into conservation of rare species in the Highlands. Lee Gustafson must know exactly where the bothy was.