Killing the Shadows

TWENTY-FOUR

Kit closed the last of the books with a flourish and put down his pen. “Thanks, pal,” he said to the bookseller who moved the pile of hardbacks to one side.

“Do you mind doing some of the paperbacks as well?” the woman asked.

“Happy to.” He glanced across to Steve, who was browsing the true crime section. “I’ll not be long,” he called.

“No problem,” Steve said, pulling a book about forensic anthropology from the shelf.

“I thought it went well,” he said absently as he signed.

“It was great,” the bookseller enthused. “It’s the first time we’ve done a whole week of themed events, and it’s been terrific. We’ve really put on sales, not just at the events but during the day as well.”

“That’s because you’ve promoted it so well in the store,” Kit said. “The windows look the business, and that pulls the punters in. It was a good audience tonight.”

The woman pulled a face. “Apart from the nutter in the front row.”

“You always get one.”

“Oh, I know, but the way he kept going on about poor Drew Shand and Jane Elias…what a sicko. Doesn’t it worry you that weirdos like that are reading your books?”

Kit stood up and shrugged. “Not really. It’s the ones who keep their mouths shut you have to worry about. Isn’t that right, Steve?”

Steve looked up, startled. “Sorry, you speaking to me, Kit?”

“Yeah, I was saying it’s not the nutters who mouth off that want watching. It’s the ones that don’t let on that they’re candidates for the locked ward that really cause the problems.”

Steve snapped the book shut. “That’s right. The perfect murders are committed by people who are smart enough to make them look like accidents and strong enough to keep their mouths shut afterwards.”

Kit snorted. “Unlike that bloke in Sheffield who cut his wife’s head off and brought it round to show the girlfriend how much he loved her.”

The bookseller shuddered. “You’re making that up.”

“I wish he was. Truth is usually much more horrible than even his fiction,” Steve said. “You done, Kit?”

They walked down the hill from the bookshop in companionable silence. By unspoken consent, they turned into the first pub with beer that Kit classified as decent, an establishment where no expense had been spared to make it look like a 19305 public bar, all bare floorboards and wooden chairs. All it lacked was sawdust on the floor. As they elbowed their way to the bar, Kit finally spoke. “You don’t think there’s any connection between Drew Shand and Jane Elias being murdered, do you?” he asked.

“I don’t know enough about either case even to speculate,” Steve responded. He pushed through the drinkers and caught the barmaid’s eye. “Two pints of bitter, love.”

Kit grinned. “Lack of knowledge never stopped Fiona. She reckons it’s about as likely as Man United getting relegated from the Premiership. But she might just be saying that to stop me worrying.”

Steve took a mouthful of his beer then grinned. “And you think I’m going to contradict her? And risk bringing down the wrath of God on my head?”

“You know what your trouble is, Stevie? You let Fiona get away with far too much. You defer to her like you do to nobody else I’ve ever seen you with. But with a woman like Fiona, you can’t afford to roll over. Give her an inch and before you know it, her flag’s flying over the whole world.”

“Old habits die hard,” Steve said, aware that Kit was marking his territory as obviously as an un doctored torn cat. He knew his friend was right. When the shape of his relationship with Fiona had been forged, he hadn’t understood that she needed someone who would stand up to her and challenge her. Now, it was too late to change. Worse still, it had become the established pattern of his personal relationships with women. He could be tough with female colleagues and subordinates, never making any allowance for their gender. But as soon as the possibility of romance entered, Steve reverted to the wimp who had failed to win Fiona. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have sufficient time or motivation to change it. Even supposing he could.

Steve snapped out of his thoughts and tuned back into what Kit was saying.

“I don’t need humouring. I just need to know whether you think I should be watching my back, with these threatening letters going the rounds.”

They made their way to a table in the corner that they knew from experience was in one of the dead spots of the sound system. They could have a conversation there without risking laryngitis or eavesdroppers. Steve took a cigar from his breast pocket and lit up. “Run that past me again, Kit. I couldn’t hear you over the racket at the bar.”

Kit shook his head. “You weren’t listening. You were thinking about women. I was telling you about these death threat letters that seem to be going the rounds among some of us crime writers. I’ve had one, Georgia Lester’s had one. Fiona suggested I ask around to see if anybody else has had one, and I sent out some e — mails today about it. So far, I’ve got three others admitting to it. Jonathan Lewis, Adam Chester and Enya Flannery. And my agent’s had one too. And they all sound like they’ve been written by the same person. Plus, Enya and Jonathan both said they’d had similar messages on their answering machines. Though the voice was too muffled to recognize, even if they’d know the person.”

“And you’re wondering if there’s a connection to these two murders? If there’s somebody out there with a grudge against crime writers?” Steve tried not to look as incredulous as he felt. He knew Kit had a healthy ego about his own work, but he hadn’t realized that he and his fellow writers actually thought they were important enough to provoke someone to serial murder.

“Well, it had crossed my mind,” Kit said. “I don’t think that’s unreasonable in the circumstances. One crank letter is easy to dismiss, but six makes me a bit uneasy. And I wondered if you could maybe put a call in to your oppos on the other side of the Irish Sea and maybe check out if Jane Elias got one of these death threat letters.”

“Kit, the papers are full of Jane Elias’s affair with this Garda Siochana officer. Frankly, I’d have thought that had a lot more to do with her murder than anything else. From what I hear, Pierce Finnegan made plenty of enemies over the years, inside the tent as well as outside. There’s no better way of getting to someone in law enforcement than going for the people they love. So no, I don’t think you should be losing sleep over the idea that somebody might be coming after you.”

“But you’ll make the call? To put my mind and Fiona’s at rest?” Kit eyed Steve over the rim of his glass. If he wouldn’t do it for friendship, he’d do it for his quaint notion of courtly love. Kit would have put money on it.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Steve said. He knew he was being manipulated, but it was more effort to fight it than he could be bothered expending.

Kit nodded, satisfied. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Fiona’s saying she doesn’t think there’s likely to be a connection, but I’m not sure if she really thinks that or if she’s only saying it to keep me happy. I sometimes feel like Fiona thinks I’m some fragile little flower that needs protecting from the wind and rain.”

Steve spluttered a mouthful of beer over the table. “Fuck’s sake, Kit,” he got out. “You’re about as fragile as the Forth Bridge.”

Before Kit could respond, their peace was shattered by an announcement that a live Irish band was about to start playing. Kit drained his pint and stood up. “Let’s get out of here. Come back to ours, it’s only ten minutes’ walk.”

Neither of them noticed the bearded man who had sat at the back of the bookshop event abandoning his half-drunk pint of Guinness and following them out of the pub at a cautious distance. He’d left the shop before the signing and waited patiently in a nearby doorway until Kit and Steve had left. He’d walked down the hill in their wake and when they entered the bar, he’d loitered outside for long enough to allow them to buy their drinks and settle down. Then he’d attached himself to three other men heading for the bar, bought himself a drink and found a seat where he could see the back of Kit’s head and Steve’s profile.

Now, he pursued them through the night streets, careful to keep well back. He smiled to himself. His caution was a waste of time, really. The stupid fools didn’t have a clue. When they turned into a gateway, he stopped in his tracks, pretending to tie his shoelace. Then he continued down the street, glancing to one side as he passed the house they’d gone into. He couldn’t help a spasm of jealous anger as he took in its elegant proportions. If he had his way, Kit Martin wouldn’t be enjoying his smug and cosy life for much longer. He had plans to make things much less comfortable for Mr. bloody Martin.

They arrived to find Fiona in the kitchen finishing the pen he puttanesca that Kit had left for her. “You’re back early,” she said.

“We thought we’d try and catch you with your secret lover,” Steve teased.

Fiona poked her tongue out at him. “Too late. She’s just left.”

“The Paddies invaded the pub,” Kit said. “You know how I hate that bloody bogus bogtrotter music.” He snagged two bottles of Sam Smith’s Organic Bitter from the drinks cupboard. “So we thought we’d come back and spoil your evening.”

“You’re too late for that as well. Salvador Berrocal called earlier to tell me there’s been another body in Toledo, so I’ve been ploughing through Spanish scene-of-crime reports and entering data on the computer instead of indulging myself with a long hot bath.”

Kit pulled a face. “Bummer,” he said.

“How was the gig?” Fiona asked.

“Not a bad turnout, considering I didn’t have a new book to promote. Sold a fair few books and signed every bit of stock I could lay hands on.”

“He’s being modest again, He had them in the palm of his hand. They loved him. All the women wanted to take him home and all the blokes wanted to take him for a pint,” Steve said as he sat down opposite her.

“And you two got to be the lucky ones,” Kit said. “Somewhere in your youth, or childhood…”

“We must have done something ferociously wicked,” Fiona responded. “How’s things with you, Steve?”

He made a gesture with the flat of his hand to indicate, so-so. “We got a lucky break on a serious racist attack down in Brick Lane, three lads in custody and one of them singing like a diva. That’s about the best of it. Blake hasn’t come back from Spain, but we’ve had a look through his finances and there’s nothing to indicate any blackmail proceeds. The only large payment into his account is the money he made from selling his story to the papers. He took a chunk of that out in cash, which is presumably what he’s spending in Spain.”

“Scumbag tabloids. Makes you sick,” Kit commented.

Fiona sighed. “He’s technically an innocent man. There’s nothing to stop them paying him.”

“He’s not innocent if he watched Susan Blanchard get killed and said nothing,” Kit protested.

“We don’t know that, though. It’s only my theory,” she reminded him.

Seeing she’d pushed her plate away, Steve took out a cigar and lit up. “I did take my own advice about a second trawl through the eyewitnesses, however.”

“Any joy?” Fiona asked.

“Well, it’s early days yet, but there might be something. I read through the original statements again, and I noticed that one person mentioned seeing a cyclist coming from that general direction. She was walking her dog, and she remembered this cyclist because he was going much faster than people on bikes generally do on the Heath. We didn’t follow it up at the time because Blake emerged as such a strong suspect so soon.”

Fiona frowned. “You know, I remember making a note of that when I was on the case officially. I think I might even have mentioned it in my preliminary report,” she said thoughtfully.

“So have you interviewed her again?” Kit asked.

“I went to see her personally,” Steve admitted. He held his hands up as if to stem a protest from Fiona. “I know it’s pathetic, a detective of my rank going out and taking witness statements, and I know I should be able to delegate, but if we screw up again and I’m left carrying the can, at least this time it’ll be my can.”

“What did she have to say?” Fiona asked.

“She didn’t have a lot to add. Her walk had already taken her past the shrubbery where the murder took place, and she’s still racked with guilt because she was wearing a Walkman. She’s convinced that if she hadn’t been listening to the Mozart Requiem, she’d have heard something and been able to raise the alarm. Anyway, about ten minutes later, a bike came up behind her and raced past. She took notice partly because cycling isn’t really permitted on that part of the Heath at that time of the day, although some people ignore the rules. But mostly she remembered him because of his speed. He was going like the clappers, she said.”

Fiona sighed. “Not much chance of a decent description, then.”

Steve shook his head. “I’m afraid not. She only saw him from behind and she doesn’t know anything about bikes so we don’t know whether it was a racing bike or a mountain bike. She remembers he was wearing a helmet and proper lycra cycling gear. Black trousers, she thinks, and a dark top. Maybe purple or dark-blue or even maroon.”

“Like that narrows it down,” Kit said.

“However…” Steve held up one finger and smiled. “She has agreed to be hypnotized to see if there’s anything else lurking in her subconscious about this cyclist. And, when we reinterviewed the other witnesses who came forward and asked specifically if they’d seen anyone cycling that morning, we got one other hit. A nanny was sitting on a bench at the bottom of the hill when he went past her. She said he was going so fast she thought he wouldn’t be able to make it round the bend, but he cleared it and headed for the exit on to Heath Road.”

“How come you didn’t pick that up first time round?” Kit asked, never reluctant to put Steve on the spot in spite of their friendship.

Steve looked embarrassed. “She’s Filipino. Her English is pretty good, but it isn’t her first language. When we spoke to her before, we didn’t have an interpreter. The DC who did the preliminary interview decided she had nothing useful to tell us, so he didn’t bother setting up a second interview with an interpreter. This time, we did it properly.”

“And did you get some useful product?” Fiona asked.

Steve took a long pull from his bottle of beer and nodded. “Sort of. She reckons he was wearing goggles and a helmet and a dark outfit. She thought it was a mountain bike. She reckoned it looked like the one her employer has. We’ve identified the make and model, though of course she might be wrong about that.”

“That’s pretty good recollection after all this time,” Fiona said thoughtfully. “How much prompting did it take?”

“Almost none,” Steve said with a hint of bitterness. “As soon as she was asked about a cyclist, she started nodding and got quite excited. She said she’d tried to tell the policeman who came before, but once he’d established she hadn’t seen Blake, he’d lost interest. In our defence, I have to say we didn’t get her on the first appeal for witnesses. It was about ten days or so later that she came forward. Her employers had been away the week of the murder and she was nervous about coming to the police without their permission. So by the time she made herself known to us, Blake was already our prime suspect.”

“Not much of a defence,” Kit commented. “And you have the nerve to get pissed off when I put the occasional dozy detective in my books. So where do you go from here?”

Steve fiddled with his cigar. “I’m tempted to bring Blake in and ask him to make a witness statement.”

Kit snorted in derision. “I can imagine the statement you’d get from Blake. I’d lay money that it would contain the words ‘fuck’ and ‘off’.”

Steve threw a mock-punch at Kit’s shoulder. “Don’t mince your words, Kit, tell us what you really think.”

Ignoring them, Fiona said slowly, “You’d have to handle it very carefully. You’ve taken the public position that you’re not actively seeking anyone else in connection with this. If you pull Blake in for questioning, it would be very easy for him to shout harassment since by your own admission, the investigation is closed. If you defend yourselves by saying the inquiry is still ongoing, then you alert the real killer to the fact that you’re looking for him more actively than you ever were.”

“But we’d have to balance that against what Blake might tell us,” Steve argued.

“I think Kit’s right. I don’t think he’ll tell you anything useful,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s got too much to lose if he really did witness the murder.” She counted off the points on her fingers. “One, he risks prosecution for obstruction of justice for not revealing what he has known all along. Two, he loses the edge he might have if he knows the killer’s identity and wants to blackmail him. Three, he loses the power of his secret fantasy. And four, he loses the public protestation of innocence that’s already earned him a lot of money from the newspapers and will net him much more in compensation from the Home Office.”

“So if it was up to you, you’d leave him alone,” Steve said baldly.

Fiona raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t say that. I just said I wouldn’t question him about the murder.”

Steve smiled. “On the other hand, if the traffic division know that when he drives through King’s Cross at thirty-one miles an hour, they should check he hasn’t been drinking…”

Kit shook his head, pretending sorrow. “That would be harassment,” he observed.

“Only if we’re clumsy about it. And I intend to keep tabs on him when he does come home.”

Fiona gave a nod of approval. “It’s an outside chance, but he still might lead you straight to a killer.”

Steve’s face was grim. “I’ve seen slimmer chances pay off. Believe me, if Francis Blake has anything to hide, I’m going to find out what it is.”