Val Mcdermid - Killing the Shadows

If she had allowed her imagination to run away with her instead of forcing what she knew from The Blood Painter into a locked box in the back of her mind, she could probably have conjured up a reasonable approximation of what was happening right then a couple of hours’ drive away.

Kit was groggily struggling back to consciousness, a woozy giddiness shot through with flashes of excoriating pain. He’d taken a second strike to the head, his long containment in darkness leaving him unequal to avoiding the blow that fell as soon as the tailgate of the Toyota was opened.

Apart from pain, the first sensation he was aware of was cold. He was freezing. He managed to open his eyes and found himself in the middle of a scene that felt like the worst sort of deja vu. He knew this place because it was his; he knew this situation because he had created it. He was sitting naked on the toilet, both arms handcuffed to steel eyes that had been bolted into the wall. His legs were chained together, the chain passing round the back of the toilet bowl, rendering him almost incapable of movement.

He was alone. But he didn’t expect that to last.

He knew what was coming next.

Caroline pulled up outside an old two-storey stone building with a peeling red and white sign that read ‘Fraser’s Garage’. It looked as if it had been there long before the existence of the internal combustion engine. Most of the facade was taken up by a pair of wide wooden doors with a Judas gate cut into one. To one side, there was a plain wooden door with the number thirty-one on it. On the upper storey, a light shone from behind a frosted-glass window. Fiona leaned across to hug Caroline. “Thank you,” she said. “I owe you big time.”

“Hey, it’s not over till it’s over,” Caroline said. “You don’t think I’m pulling out now, do you?”

Fiona leaned back in her seat. “Don’t, Caroline. You have to go home now.”

Caroline shook her head. “No way. I’ve not come this far to turn my back and leave you to it. You can’t bring me all this way and then send me home when the trouble really starts.”

“This isn’t a game, Caro. If I’m right, the man who’s got Kit has already killed three people. Without compunction. He won’t think twice about killing anyone who stands between him and what he wants to achieve. I won’t put you in that place.” Fiona’s resolve was clear in her voice as well as her face.

“Since he’s that ruthless, you need to even up the odds a bit.”

“No. I know what I’m doing. I can’t take the chance of ending up with your blood on my hands. I can’t live with that.” Fiona undid her seatbelt and opened the door. “Please, Caro. Go home. I’ll call you later, I promise. I’m getting out of the car now, and I’m not going any further till I see you turn around and drive away.” She pushed the door wide and climbed out, then leaned back in. “I mean it.” She closed the door gently and stepped back.

Caroline smacked the flat of her hand against the steering wheel in a gesture of frustration, then put the car in gear and moved off. Fiona watched as she did a three-point turn and headed back in the direction they’d come from. As the taillights of the Honda disappeared round the corner, she turned to face the small door. She took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell.

There was a long moment of silence, then heavy feet thundered down a flight of stairs. The door opened to reveal a man in his late twenties dressed in work boots, jeans and a padded tartan shirt hanging loose over a grey T — shirt. In one hand, he held a mug of tea. His expression revealed a mild and friendly curiosity.

“Lachlan Fraser?” Fiona asked.

He nodded. “Aye, that’s me.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you so early…”

He grinned. “It’s not that early. And I’m not disturbed. How can I help you?”

“My name is Fiona Cameron”

His grin widened as he interrupted her. “You’re Kit’s bidie-in. Of course! I should have recognized you from that picture Kit’s got up in the bothy. Hey, it’s great to meet you at last.” He looked past her. “The man himself isnae with you, then?”

“No, I got a lift up with a friend of mine. I’m meeting up with Kit later. I’m supposed to pick up the Land Rover. Is that OK?”

“Aye, fine, nae bother.” Lachlan fished in his pocket and shooed her forward. “I’ll just get the keys.” He passed her and unlocked the Judas gate. “They’re in here. I’ll no’ be a minute.” He disappeared indoors and a light came on. He emerged moments later with a bunch of keys. “Follow me. It’s round the back. It’s got a full tank, and the jerry cans for the generator are all diesel led up,” he added over his shoulder as he led the way down a narrow alley to an area of waste ground behind the garage. Half a dozen elderly vehicles appeared to be parked at random. Lachlan headed towards a Land Rover that looked like a relic from some forgotten war.

“There you go,” he said, unlocking the driver’s door and standing back to allow Fiona to climb up into the driver’s seat. “You driven one of these before?”

She shook her head. “I’ve never had that pleasure,” she said ironically.

Lachlan took her through the vagaries of the Land Rover, explaining the four-wheel-drive, then waited while she manoeuvred it out of its parking space and into the mouth of the alley. Then he waved cheerfully as she headed out into the grey morning.

In the area under the jurisdiction of the City of London Police, there are three hundred and eighty-five separate closed circuit camera systems. Together, they employ one thousand, two hundred and eighty cameras. Smithfield Market is well served by their system, with almost every nook and cranny covered by one camera or another. Inevitably, some of the cameras produce better images than others, given the variation in lighting and lines of sight.

One of the first steps Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Duvall had taken was to bring every available videotape from the previous ten days to the City police station in Snow Hill, where she had set up her incident room. All through the night, detectives had been scanning the hours of videotape, trying not to lose concentration as they searched for Charles Cavendish Redford.

Duvall herself had managed four hours’ sleep. They had persuaded a magistrate to allow an extension to Redford’s custody, then she had snatched her nap. She hadn’t bothered going home to her riverside flat in the Isle of Dogs, just made her way to her own office and curled up on the two-seater sofa she’d had installed for precisely that purpose. Four hours was a lot less than her body craved, but it was enough to function on. Probably.

She was back in the incident room just after seven, eagerly scanning the overnight reports to see if anything confirming Redford’s involvement had turned up yet. When she had confronted him with the discrepancy between his statement and the discovery of the outhouse, there had been no flicker of discomfort. He had simply shrugged and said, “Isn’t that what you wanted? To catch me out in a lie? Isn’t that what criminals are supposed to do?” It went some way towards confirming her belief that he intended to give them nothing that could corroborate his confession.

Sooner or later, either one of her own team or one of the Dorset detectives was going to come up with that crucial piece of information that would tie Redford indisputably to Georgia Lester’s brutal murder. Anything would do, she thought bleakly. Anything at all, since all they had right now was a big fat zero.

As she flicked through what seemed to be a large pile of nothing, one of the officers called her name. She looked up to see him holding a phone. “Yes?”

“Can you pop down to the video room, ma’am? One of the lads there says he’s got something he wants you to take a look at.”