Killing the Shadows

NINETEEN

From below, the two women on the sheer side of the hill looked like a pair of cursors moving diagonally across a muted green screen. They had climbed swiftly from the Wye Valley at Litton Mill through the trees that lined the old railway, then out on to the bare hillside where even sheep preferred not to scramble among the limestone outcroppings. They reached the highest point of the climb and Fiona, who was quicker on her feet over the familiar terrain, chose a boulder with enough of an edge to perch on while she waited for Caroline to pant her way up the last twenty yards. She looked down at her companion with an affectionate smile.

When Fiona’s sister Lesley had been an undergraduate at St. Andrews, she’d learned as much about herself as she had about her studies. One of the things she’d discovered was the direction of her heart. At the time of her murder, she’d been tight in the grip of first love. The revelation of its nature had been another aspect of her death that her parents had found difficult to cope with. For Fiona, though, it had come as no surprise that the person who was sharing her sister’s bed was another woman. Lesley hadn’t actually told her in so many words, but Fiona had understood the meaning of the way she spoke about her friend Caroline Matthews.

Because their relationship had been clandestine, Fiona was also the only person with whom Caroline could properly grieve. It was no surprise that out of grief, the bond of friendship had been forged. Now, twelve years later, Fiona and Caroline met whenever Caroline was in London, and they communicated irregularly by phone and e — mail. And at least three times a year, they met to walk in the Peak District.

Caroline had remained in St. Andrews and was now a lecturer in mathematics. She had moved on, as Fiona had. But for both of them, the loss of Lesley was an undercurrent that would forever inform the tenor of their emotional relationships. And the debt of guilt that both bore about Lesley meant they would never let each other down.

Caroline reached the crest, scarlet and panting. She collapsed on a boulder near Fiona, her breath ragged and shallow. “Oh God,” she gasped. “I am so out of condition. The summer was such a washout, we hardly got out on the hills at all.”

“Sounds like you’ve not been to the gym either,” Fiona commented.

Caroline pulled a face. “Julia’s started going to a step class in her lunch hour, so she’s knocked the gym on the head. And we both have so many work commitments, she gets pissed off with me if I spend our two free evenings a week down the gym. I keep telling myself I’ll get up early and go before work. But somehow, I never manage it.”

“You’d feel better if you fitted it in.” Fiona opened her rucksack and took out her water bottle.

“Fiona…” There was a warning in Caroline’s voice.

Fiona laughed. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m not your mother. Shut up, Fiona.” She extended a hand and Caroline gave her a gentle smack on the wrist. It was an old routine, born of the early days of their common grief, when Fiona had fussed around Caroline as a substitute for the caring she could no longer offer her sister.

Fiona took a swig of her water, offering it to Caroline, who shook her head. “If I start drinking in these temperatures, I’ll want to pee within five minutes. And I can’t see a single bit of shelter for the next half-mile.”

“As long as you don’t get dehydrated.”

“Fiona!” This time it was a shout. “You are not my mother. Behave.”

“Sorry. It’s living with a man that does it. Especially one who spends half his time inhabiting a parallel universe.”

“Presumably one where somebody else always remembers to pick up the dry cleaning and puts food in front of him at regular hours?”

Fiona grinned. “It’s not that sort of thing Kit forgets. It’s stuff like being so engrossed in his work that he suddenly looks at the clock and realizes he was supposed to pick me up ten minutes ago. Or missing his stop on the tube because he’s busy having a conversation with himself and coming round to find he’s in Kennington when he should be in Leicester Square.”

“How is he, anyway?”

Fiona got to her feet, stuffing her water bottle into her backpack and shouldering it. “Bloody-minded as ever.”

Caroline, now breathing normally, stood up, giving Fiona a speculative look. Fiona wasn’t given to bad-mouthing Kit. And besides, if she had to divide the bloody-mindedness in that relationship between them, she’d have to award Fiona the lion’s share. As far as Caroline had observed, Kit was pretty laid back. In debate, he was quick and decisive, but never attacked the way Fiona could if she sensed weakness in the opposition that could be bulldozed aside. “Sounds like he’s rattled your cage,” she said cautiously as she fell into step behind Fiona on the narrow track that cut across the shoulder of the hill above the spectacular curve of Water-cum-Jolly Dale.

“You could say that.” Fiona clamped her mouth shut, her eyes on the ground in front of her.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m so cross with him,” Fiona said fiercely. “We had a blazing row the other night. He got this death threat in the post, and he refuses point blank to take it to the police. He says it’s just a routine crank letter, but I’m not so sure. It felt very unpleasant to me. And after what happened to Drew Shand…”

“But surely that was a one-off?” Caroline said. “According to all the reports I’ve seen in the Scottish media, they reckon it was a pick — up for S&M sex that went wrong. There’s been no suggestion that anybody outside the gay community could be at risk.”

Fiona scowled at the horizon. “That’s only one possibility. And we don’t know if Drew Shand had any death threats, because all we know is what the police are telling us. I know it’s a long shot to suggest that the killing might have more to do with Drew’s writing than his life, but it’s a possibility, and while it’s a possibility, I think Kit should be taking this more seriously.”

“And that’s what you had a fight about?”

“We’ve hardly spoken since.”

“Presumably Kit understands why you’re so wound up about this?” Caroline said, taking advantage of the path splitting into two parallel tracks to catch up with Fiona.

“I think he’s got the message that I’m concerned about him,” Fiona said frostily.

“But that’s not really what it’s about, is it?”

Fiona said nothing, simply ploughing on resolutely and making great play of looking down at the river as it widened into the still expanse of water created by the dam for the Georgian mill at Cressbrook.

“This isn’t just about Kit, Fiona. It’s about Lesley.”

Fiona stopped in her tracks. “It’s nothing to do with Lesley.” Her jaw was set in a stubborn line.

Caroline came to a halt a few feet ahead of her and turned to put a gloved hand on her arm. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Fiona. You can’t bear the thought of losing him because you’ve already lost Lesley and you know what it feels like when someone you love is murdered. And that fear magnifies the slightest danger into something life-threatening, turning you into a one-woman nanny state.” Caroline paused. Fiona said nothing, so she pressed on. “I understand the phenomenon, because I do it myself. It drives Julia crazy. If she’s in town without the car, I always pick her up. She says it makes her feel like a teenager whose mother doesn’t trust her not to be snogging the local ruffian behind the bike shed.”

Caroline gave a weak laugh. “One time, early on in our relationship, she insisted that I not pick her up after a parents’ evening. So I hung around outside the school and waited till she came out. I followed her home. And I nearly gave her a heart attack because when she was cutting through one of the alleys in the town centre, she heard footsteps behind her and thought she was going to be mugged. That was when she realized that my insistence on picking her up was more about my fears than about her capabilities. So now she goes along with me, in spite of how it irritates her deep down. Fiona, you need to tell Kit why you’ve let this threatening letter take on such huge proportions. If he says it’s nothing, he’s probably right. He knows what his post is like. But he needs to know that you’re not just fussing. That there’s a valid reason for the way you’re behaving.”

Fiona glared at the limestone cliffs on the other side of the dale. “I thought I was the psychologist around here.” Her voice shook slightly.

“Yeah, well, psychologist, analyse yourself.”

Fiona studied the scuffed toes of her walking boots. “You’re probably right. I should explain myself better.” She met Caroline’s steady gaze. “I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to him.” Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

Caroline pulled Fiona into a tight hug. “I know.”

Fiona drew back and managed a frail smile. “I’ll talk to him when I get home. Promise. Now, are we going to stand here till we get hypothermia, or are we going to the Monsal Head pub?”

Caroline pretended to consider. “I think, on balance, I’m going to go for the pub.”

“Race you to the dam,” Fiona said, setting off across the hillside at a killer pace.

“You win,” Caroline muttered, following at a more reasonable speed. Twelve years on, and still Lesley’s death was the denning event in both their lives. No matter how much they tried to put it behind them, it was there, ready to ambush them, she thought. Sometimes she wondered if they would ever be free of its embracing shadow. Or even if they actually wanted to be.

Fiona marched up Dartmouth Park Hill from the tube station, determined to set things straight with Kit. Caroline was right; she just hadn’t allowed herself to accept what was driving her determination that he take the letter seriously. Head down, she scuffed through fallen leaves, easily out pacing the late commuters coming home from the office. She reached the left turn into their street in record time, gathering speed as she headed downhill. She was eager now, more than ready to apologize and explain.

So her heart sank when she opened the door and heard Kit call, “We’re upstairs.” Whoever the other component of ‘we’ was, she wasn’t in the mood for their company.

“Just taking my boots off,” she shouted. Backpack on the floor, jacket tossed over the newel post, Fiona undid her laces and stepped free. She wiggled her toes at the pleasure of release. Comfortable as her well-worn boots were, they still caged her feet. She stopped in the kitchen to pick up a glass, reckoning that if Kit had company, the wine would already be open, then she made her way up to the first-floor living room.

The lamps were on, casting scattered pools of warm light through the wide room. Kit was in his favourite armchair, glass in hand. That would have been perfect if he’d been alone. But his companion was the last person Fiona felt like seeing.

Curled up on the sofa, her strappy sandals kicked off on the rug below her, was Georgia Lester. A legend in her own lifetime, Georgia had published over thirty novels in a twenty-five-year career that had seen her rise to challenge P.D. James and Ruth Rendell to the title of Queen of Crime. She’d been one of the first crime writers to have her work successfully adapted for TV, and that had guaranteed her a slot in the bestseller lists ever since. She was a darling of the media, shamelessly exploiting every possible opportunity to appear in print, on the radio or on TV. Men fell for her flirtatious flattery and her undeniable generosity; most women, including Fiona, cheerfully loathed her. “She’s the Barbara Cartland of crime fiction,” Fiona had once remarked to Mary Helen Margolyes, who had choked on her drink and then promptly passed the remark around the bush telegraph. Without attribution, of course.

The soft illumination flattered Georgia, softening the tautness of cosmetically tightened skin, minimizing the elaborate make — up that Georgia skilfully employed to keep the years further at bay. In this light, she could pass for early forties, which Fiona regarded as nothing short of miraculous for a woman who couldn’t be a day under fifty-seven. “Fiona, darling,” Georgia purred, tilting her head upwards in a gesture that demanded an air kiss.

Fiona obliged, conscious of her wind-burnt skin, her unbrushed hair, and that her fleece probably smelled of sweat. Georgia, naturally, was fragrant with Chanel No. 5 and dressed immaculately in a flowing midnight-blue garment that clung only to the strategic points of breasts and hips. Her hair, an improbable but convincing ash-blonde, appeared to have come straight from the salon. “I wasn’t expecting to see you, Georgia,” Fiona said as she turned away and helped herself to a glass of wine. She crossed to Kit and kissed his cheek. “Hello, love,” she said, hoping the action would combine with her tone of voice to indicate that she was offering a truce.

He caught her round the waist with his free arm and hugged her, relieved that a day in the hills with Caroline seemed to have broken down her hostility. It unsettled Kit when things were scratchy between them, but he’d realized early on that he would either have to get used to that or learn to apologize even when he didn’t believe he was in the wrong. Now, he mostly gave in, for the sake of a quiet life. But sometimes, he dug his heels in, tolerating the edgy atmosphere for as long as it took for Fiona to acknowledge she might possibly have been less than right. “Did you have a good day, then?” he asked.

“We were lucky with the weather,” Fiona said, perching on the arm of his chair. “We did about ten miles; great views.”

Georgia shuddered. “Ten miles? I don’t know how you do it, Fiona, I really don’t. Wouldn’t you rather be tucked up somewhere warm and cosy with this delicious man?”

“The two are not mutually exclusive, Georgia,” Fiona said. “I enjoy the exercise.”

Georgia’s smile was the equivalent of a teacher patting a small child on the head. “I’ve always preferred to take my exercise indoors,” she said.

Fiona refused to rise. “So, how are you, Georgia? I hear you’re feeling a bit nervous about your safety.”

Georgia immediately switched on an expression of tragedy. “Poor, poor Drew. Such a terrible fate, and such a dreadful loss to us all.”

“I didn’t realize you knew Drew,” Fiona said, trying not to sound as bitchy as she felt.

“I meant his work, Fiona, dear. To see such talent snuffed out so young is indescribably tragic.”

Fiona resisted the impulse to gag. “But surely, Drew’s death is no reason for you to feel under threat?” she asked.

“That’s why Georgia’s here,” Kit interrupted. He didn’t want the sparring between the two women to drive Fiona from the room. It had happened before; rather than allow it to develop into all-out hostility that might damage the unlikely friendship between Kit and Georgia, Fiona would invariably remove herself from the fray. Tonight, however, he wanted her to stay.

“Absolutely, my dear. When Kit told me about the terrible letter he’d had, I knew at once I had to come. He was taking it so lightly, you see. And when he told me your reaction, I knew I had an ally in you, my dear.” She gave Fiona the benefit of the full radiance of her cosmetically enhanced smile.

“Georgia’s had a letter like mine,” Kit said. “Show it to Fiona it must be from the same person.”

Georgia picked up a folded piece of paper from the occasional table by the sofa. She held it out, forcing Fiona to get up and collect it from her. Fiona crossed to the other armchair before she opened it and studied it. The paper and the typeface looked the same as Kit’s letter. And the style was similar. As far as she could recall, whole sentences were identical. Georgia Lester, she read, you call yourself a Queen of Crime, but all you are monarch of is plagiarism and protectionism. Your fame is based on what you have stolen from others. You give no credit where it is due and your lies deprive others of what is rightfully theirs. Your work is a feeble reflection of other people’s light. You would be nothing without the ideas of others to feed on. You have striven to ensure that competition is driven from the field. When you could have offered help, you have trampled the faces of those who are greater than you will ever be. You are a vampire who sucks the blood of those whose gifts you envy. You know this to be true. Search your sluttish soul and you will not be able to deny what you have deprived me of. The time has come for you to pay. You deserve nothing from me but my contempt and my hatred. If killing you is what it takes to grant what is rightfully mine, then so be it. The hour and the day will be of my choosing. I trust you will not sleep easy; you do not deserve so to do. I will enjoy your funeral. From your ashes, I will rise like a phoenix.

Fiona carefully folded the letter closed. She had no doubt it had come from the same source as the one that had so disturbed her a couple of nights before. “When did you get this, Georgia?”

Georgia waved one hand negligently. “A fortnight ago? I can’t be sure. I came back from Dorset last Tuesday and it was among the mail waiting for me.”

“Did you do anything about it?”

Georgia stroked the hair over her right temple. “To be honest, I thought it must be one of those crank letters Kit tells me he gets regularly. It’s not something I’ve ever had much experience of the letters I get are invariably from admirers. My work is so much less provocative than Kit’s, you see. But when Kit told me he’d had so similar a letter, I felt sure we shouldn’t ignore them. In the light of Drew’s murder, I mean.”

“Georgia thinks we should take them to the police,” Kit said. “Like you.”

Fiona looked at him in dismay. She was caught on the horns of a dilemma of her own making. While she found the letters profoundly disturbing, she was also loath to take any course of action that would link Kit with Georgia in the eyes of both police and public. If they took these letters to the police, then within twenty-four hours, a media circus would descend upon them. Whatever Georgia might promise here and now, Fiona knew the lure of publicity would be far too strong for her to resist. It would be a nightmare.

Not only would the invasion of her and Kit’s privacy be hideous. But if he didn’t have a stalker before, he soon would have. Photographs of their house would appear in the tabloids, an easily identifiable target for any of the seriously strange who found something in his books that tapped into their own mental frailties. She knew she wasn’t being paranoid; they knew at least one crime writer whose life had been rendered so intolerable by a stalker that the family had been forced to move house and to change their children’s schools.

But she was the one who had pushed so hard for action when Kit had received his death threat. If she was going to change her tune now, she’d better have a good reason lined up. “I agree you should take them seriously,” she said cautiously. “But I’m not convinced that anything would be gained by taking these letters to the police. As you said yourself, Kit, there’s little they could do with them. It’s not likely there will be any forensics on the letters, they offer no clues to the sender’s identity, and the police don’t have the resources to protect either of you. All it would do would be to attract unwelcome attention to the pair of you from the very kind of person you’re nervous of.”

Kit looked faintly baffled. “That’s not what you said the other night.”

Fiona gave an embarrassed smile and half-shrug. “I’ve been giving it some thought today. I realized I was overreacting and that you were right.”

Kit’s eyebrows rose. “Can I have that in writing?” he said.

“That’s all very well,” Georgia said, her mouth drooping in petulance. “But we could be at serious risk here. Are you seriously suggesting that we forget all about this, Fiona?”

Fiona shook her head. “Of course not, Georgia. You and Kit must take every care.” She forced an artificial smile. “I understand you wanted your publisher to provide you with bodyguards for your book tour? That would be a good place to start.”

Kit stared at them, open-mouthed. He couldn’t believe Fiona had kept a straight face. “You want me to get a minder?” he asked, incredulous.

“Not if you take sensible precautions. Don’t be out on the street at night alone. Don’t strike up conversations with strangers when you’re on your own.” She grinned. “And don’t go to gay S&M bars.”

“I don’t think this is a joking matter, Fiona,” Georgia said huffily.

“No, sorry, you’re right, Georgia. But what you must bear in mind is that it’s unlikely the person who sent these letters is the same person who killed Drew.”

“How can you be so sure?”

It was Fiona’s turn to adopt an air of patronage. “There’s a saying in law enforcement. “Killers don’t call and callers don’t kill.” Psychologically speaking, people who write threatening letters seldom carry out their threats. What they want is to cause fear without getting their hands dirty. And people who murder generally fail to advertise their intentions ahead of time. It would make their plans much harder to carry out, for one thing. If you like, I’ll take both of these letters and subject them to professional psycho linguistic analysis. If, after that, I think there is some substantive reason to be genuinely worried, I’ll come to the police with you. Is that a deal?”

Georgia pursed her lips. If she could have seen how it revealed the fine lines around her mouth, she’d never have done it again. “I’ll allow myself to be guided by your professional judgement, Fiona. But I’m not entirely happy, I have to say. And I will be speaking to my publisher about providing me with a bodyguard.”

“Wise move,” said Fiona, struggling to stifle the giggle that threatened to erupt.

“And now,” Georgia said, gathering her dress around her and elegantly slipping her feet into her shoes, “I must away. Dear Anthony and I are dining with the culture minister and his partner, and I’m already fashionably late.”

While Kit saw Georgia to her car, Fiona reclaimed the sofa and stretched out full length, letting her muscles relax. The letters were disturbing. But now she had recognized what was really eating at her, she was able to put them into perspective. They contained, she believed, no credible threat.

She heard Kit running upstairs, and he collapsed on the sofa beside her, cuddling her close. “You are a very wicked woman,” he said, laughter in his voice.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bodyguards would be a good place to start,” he mimicked.

“Well, she deserves it. Honestly, Kit, I don’t know how you can put up with all that archness.”

“I’ve always had a weakness for high camp,” he confessed. “She’s good fun, Fiona. And generous to a fault.”

“Only if you’re a chap, darling,” Fiona said, in a parody of Georgia’s grand manner.

“And they say men are bitches.” He slid his arms around her, pressing his body against hers. “Have we stopped fighting now?”

Fiona sighed. “I overreacted. I always have Lesley at the back of my mind. Even when I don’t know it myself.”

“Thank you, Caroline.” He buried his face in her hair and kissed her neck. Then he pulled away. “Oh, and by the way. I just wanted to say, I’ve never heard a bigger load of bullshit in all my time with you. “I’ll subject the letters to professional psycho linguistic analysis.” Honestly, Fiona.”

“Georgia seemed to think it was a good idea.”

“Yeah, but Georgia’s grasp on reality is shot to fuck. Let’s not forget she actually believes our policemen are wonderful. And that accusations of racism and corruption against the Metropolitan Police are wicked lies spread by left-wing conspirators.”

“They’re not?” Fiona’s eyes widened in mock-horror.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Fiona, but there’s no Father Christmas either.”

She pulled his head down towards her. “I’ll just have to see what you’ve got in your sack for me, then.”