Killing the Shadows

THIRTY-FOUR

Fiona was uncharacteristically silent as they walked through the busy Holborn streets from her office to the quiet cafe-bar where Steve had arranged the meeting. Her mood seemed matched by grey skies and tall, dark Victorian buildings that hemmed them in as they headed down towards Farringdon Road. In an attempt to distract her, he said, “Does your graduate student make a habit of propositioning strange men?”

“You mean Terry?”

“She asked me out to dinner.”

“I see her impulse control hasn’t improved any.” Fiona sounded amused.

“She makes a habit of this kind of thing?” Steve demanded, unaccountably deflated by the thought.

“Propositioning men? I don’t think so, no. But she is irrepressibly drawn to following her urges, hunches and inspirations without pause for thought.”

“Ah,” he said.

“It’s just what you need, Steve. Someone to jolt you out of your rut,” she said, slipping her arm through his and giving it a squeeze.

“Is that how you see me? A man stuck in a rut?”

“You must admit, you’re a creature of habit and caution. A brief encounter with a charismatic whirlwind like Terry could be just what you need.”

“You think that’s all she’s in the market for, then? A brief encounter?” Steve said, trying to keep his tone light to match Fiona’s.

“I have no idea. Sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest she saw you as nothing more than a plaything. And it’s not as if she has a reputation for playing the field. I’ve been working with Terry for nearly two years now, and all I’ve ever seen her do with blokes is put them in their place. Which is usually very firmly at arm’s-length. Not,” she added hastily, “that there’s anything wrong with that. I’ve seen too many students distracted because they’re the most attractive woman in the seminar group and they can’t resist the lure of other people’s lust.”

“But Terry’s not one of those, that’s what you’re saying?”

They side-stepped to allow a woman with a push chair to pass. “Definitely not. She’s well aware of her charm, but to her credit, she doesn’t trade on it. When she started her PhD, she was living with someone, but they split up…oh, it must be eighteen months ago. Since then, I don’t know of anybody significant. So she must have really taken a liking to you.” She squeezed his arm and smiled up at him.

“You know a lot about her,” Steve observed.

“You’re fishing. Which I assume means you said yes?”

“I did.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows. “Good for you. Time to live a little, Steve. Let yourself go. And I think Terry’s the perfect woman to do it with. She’s bright and she’s talented. And she’s good fun.”

Steve smiled. “I’d worked that much out for myself. I suspect I’m going to have to keep my wits about me with Ms Fowler.”

“Which is no bad thing in a relationship,” Fiona commented with a wicked grin.

“Hey, steady on. We’re only having dinner, not moving in together.”

Fiona said nothing, merely pinning him with an inquisitive look as she let go of his arm to turn into the cafe-bar. It had opened on the crest of the city’s coffee craze, the decor Home Front nineties, with every wall a different off-primary colour, tall aluminium vases crammed with exotic foliage scattered strategically around. The chairs were low wraparound armchairs that gripped the hips, the tables knee-high and stained the colour of herbal teas. The background music was generic Britpop played just loud enough to cover the hissing and spluttering of the coffee machines. It was marginally too far from the university for it to attract the student population. Mid-morning, only half a dozen tables were occupied. Steve led the way to a corner table at the rear, where they were unlikely to be overheard. From the elaborate menu of hot and cold beverages, Fiona ordered a cappuccino, Steve an Americano. He produced his cigars and lit up, blowing a perfect smoke ring towards the ceiling.

Fiona smiled. “You only do that when you’re nervous,” she said.

“I do?”

“I’ve noticed it before. When you’re feeling twitchy, you blow smoke rings.”

“So that’s all I am to you, a walking laboratory rat,” he said affectionately.

Before she could reply, a tall black woman in a caramel-coloured business suit toting a briefcase walked into the café and looked around her. Seeing Steve, the woman headed purposefully towards them. As she approached, Fiona took in the details. Low-heeled court shoes, powerful calves. Hair cut close to her head, high cheekbones, a parakeet nose and dark eyes behind fashionable oval-framed glasses. It was hard to gauge her age, but given that Fiona knew she was a Detective Chief Inspector, she had to be in her mid thirties at least. When she reached their table, the woman nodded to Steve and reached a hand out to Fiona. “Dr. Cameron? It’s an honour to meet you. I’m Sarah Duvall. City of London Police.”

They shook hands and Duvall sat down opposite Fiona. “Good to see you again, Steve,” she added with a curt nod.

“Thanks for coming, Sarah. I know you’re up to your eyes at the moment,” he said.

“Aren’t we all?” Duvall replied. The waiter arrived with the coffees and Duvall asked for a large espresso. Fiona wasn’t in the least surprised. Something had to have fuelled this brisk no-nonsense woman through the ranks of the City police and it wouldn’t have been supportive praise. “So, Steve tells me you wanted to talk to me about the Georgia Lester inquiry,” Duvall said, giving Fiona a sharp look of appraisal.

“To be honest, the more I think about it, the more I think I’m probably wasting everybody’s time,” Fiona hedged, aware she was not operating in her usual assertive mode and wondering whether she was actually feeling slightly intimidated by the other woman.

“I’m willing to be the judge of that,” Duvall said. “So, if you’d care to lay it out for me?”

Fiona began at the beginning, with Drew Shand’s murder, and outlined the hypothesis she’d already explained to Steve. Duvall listened in silence throughout, her features immobile, her body still as standing water. When Fiona came to the end of her theory, Duvall simply nodded. “I see,” she said. She picked up her cup and sipped her coffee.

“I don’t think you’re wasting my time at all,” she finally said. She glanced at Steve. “I can speak frankly here?”

“Fiona understands issues of confidentiality,” he confirmed.

Duvall picked up her teaspoon and stirred her espresso thoughtfully. “The main investigation into Georgia Lester’s disappearance is being handled by Dorset Constabulary, since that is where she was last known to be and where her car was subsequently found. My involvement has come about because her London residence is on our patch. Certain inquiries needed to be made in London, and it was decided that these should be handled at a level rather more senior than would deal with most missing persons. For reasons I’m sure you’ll appreciate.” Fiona nodded, impressed with Duvall’s incisive and logical manner.

“There have been suggestions, as you rightly point out, that Ms Lester has engineered her own disappearance as a publicity stunt. And to some degree, we have been allowing that assumption to run. However, I do not believe that to be the case. Apart from anything else, she had already engaged a bodyguard to accompany her on her book tour, which I don’t think she’d have done if she was planning to disappear as a publicity stunt. Also, her husband’s distress is clearly genuine, and I have been assured by everyone I’ve interviewed that she would not deliberately cause him such anxiety. We have been monitoring Mr. Fitzgerald’s telephone and his mail, with his full consent, and there have been no communications seeking a ransom. And there would have been by now if she had been abducted. I think we can be fairly sure of that.

“As you suggest, this leaves the unpalatable option that Ms Lester is dead, and not by her own hand. There is nothing to suggest she has met with a fatal accident. And so, I have been proceeding as if I were dealing with the early stages of a murder inquiry. I find what you have to say both disturbing and also curiously satisfying, because it chimes entirely with my own instincts about this case. I do wish someone had told me about these death threat letters before now, however.”

Fiona looked penitent. “That’s partly my fault, I’m afraid. Georgia wanted to take them to the police, but my partner, Kit, was opposed to the idea. He thought they were crank letters and he didn’t want to be seen to be publicity-seeking after Drew Shand’s murder. I should have been more insistent. I’m sorry.”

Duvall nodded. There was no concession in her face, no attempt to reassure Fiona. Her expression said that Fiona really should have known better, and Fiona smarted under it. “I’ll want to see them as soon as possible,” was all Duvall said, however.

“I’ll get them to you later today,” Fiona promised. “They’re back in my office. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking straight. I should have brought them with me.”

Duvall’s lips tightened in silent agreement.

“So how do we proceed from here?” Steve asked, anxious to move away from the edginess between the women to more productive territory. “I can’t see you getting a warrant to search Smithfield Market on the basis of what Fiona’s given you.”

Duvall took another sip of her coffee. A technique designed to give room for thought, Fiona decided. “I can try,” she said eventually. More coffee. “We have one or two very understanding magistrates in the City. And we do have a very good relationship with the market authorities. We actually have a squad of officers based in Smithfield itself. What might help me, Doctor, is if you could tell me a little about what sort of person you believe is committing these crimes and whether they are likely to strike again.” She gave a tiny, tight smile. “Prevention is always a good note to strike with magistrates.”

“I’m not a behavioural psychologist,” Fiona said. “I’m an academic. I don’t do profiling based on stuff about whether your killer wet the bed or was abused by a drunken father. I leave that to the clinicians who have a range of experience to draw on.”

Duvall nodded. “I know. Personally, I prefer a little intellectual rigour in criminal investigation,” she said wryly. “But based on what you know of this sort of killer, is there anything you can tell me?”

“These killings are fuelled by rage. Most serial homicides are sexual in their nature, but occasionally there are other motives. For example, the missionary type, who sees his goal as ridding the world of a particular group of people who don’t deserve to live. I’ve recently been working on such a case with the Spanish police. In that instance, I’d characterize the motivation as loss.”

“Loss?” Duvall interrupted.

“Most adults develop their sense of self as a complex matrix of interlocking factors,” Fiona explained. “So if we lose a parent, if our lover leaves us, if the career we had worked so hard for is shattered, we feel bereft and upset but we don’t lose our sense of who we are. But there are some people who never achieve that sort of integration. Their sense of self becomes entirely bound up with one aspect of their lives. If they lose that element, they are entirely cast adrift from the normal checks and balances. Some commit suicide. A smaller group turn the rage and pain outwards and seek their revenge on those they perceive to be somehow responsible.”

“I see,” Duvall said. “And you think that’s what may have come into play here?”

Fiona shrugged. “That’s what my experience would lead me to think.”

Steve leaned forward. “So what sort of person would see serial killer thriller writers as his nemesis?”

“Or her nemesis,” Duvall interjected. “We’re equal opportunity coppers in the City, Steve. Unlike the Met.” Again that thin, tight smile behind the barb.

Steve shook his head. “If it’s a serial, it’s a man. Drew Shand was a gay man who was last seen leaving a gay pub with another man who has not come forward as a witness. So we have to assume he was the killer.”

Duvall inclined her head in concession. “I’ll grant you that. For now, at least.” She turned to Fiona again. “Humour us, Doctor. What sort of person would want to kill these writers?”

Fiona refused to allow herself to feel patronized or intimidated. She had a point to make and Sarah Duvall wasn’t going to keep her from making it. “Creative writing. It’s a field where passions run high. I know, I live with a writer. I suppose it could be a deranged fan stalker out to make a name for himself, a Mark Chapman type of killer. But they mostly stop at one. That’s enough to make the statement. And they’re not usually sophisticated enough to develop so complex a killing structure.

“It could be a wannabe writer who is eaten up with resentment at the success of others. In his parallel universe he might believe they’ve ripped off his plots, stolen his ideas, either by conventional means or by creeping into his mind while he’s asleep. I would characterize the writer of the death threat letters as being most likely to fit in that category, based on their content.

“Or it could be a writer whose career has gone into terminal decline. Maybe someone who sees those particular writers as having snatched the success he should have had.” Fiona spread her hands. “I’m sorry, I can’t be more specific than that.” Duvall, she noticed, was looking sceptical.

“I’d never have imagined that anyone could feel so threatened by writers that they’d want to kill them,” Steve said.

“Whoever is doing this has become obsessed with the notion that this particular group of writers has somehow done him a deep and destructive wrong. And this is his way of righting that wrong,” Fiona said.

Duvall frowned. “It’s not as if writing books changes anybody’s life.”

“You don’t think the pen is mightier than the sword, then?” Fiona asked.

“No, I don’t,” Duvall insisted. “Book are just…books.”

“Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never harm me? That’s what you think?”

Duvall considered. “I don’t think I’ve ever read anything that changed my life. For good or ill.”

“‘Poetry makes nothing happen’,” Fiona said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Something W.H. Auden wrote. Do you think the same thing is true of film and TV?” Fiona asked Duvall. This was between them now, Steve sidelined as they stared intently at each other.

Duvall leaned back in her chair, considering. “We’re always being told by your colleagues that when kids watch violence on TV, they copy it.”

“There’s certainly anecdotal evidence of that. But whether it influences our behaviour directly or not, I think what we read and what we watch alters our view of the world. And I can’t help wondering if this killer is someone who doesn’t like the way that these writers and the adaptations of their books have presented the world,” Fiona parried.

“Sounds a bit far-fetched to me.”

Fiona shrugged. “But strange as it seems, logic seems to dictate that if Georgia is dead and if these killings are linked, the motive lies in what the victims have written.”

Duvall nodded. “The victim as teaching aid.”

“Read the scene, learn the killer,” Steve said. “Rule one of stranger murder.”

“And he is going to kill again,” Duvall stated baldly.

It was the issue that Fiona wished she could avoid, the question that had been haunting her since she’d found the key passages in And Ever More Shall Be So. “Yes. Unless he’s stopped, he’ll kill again. And what you need to do now is draw up a list of potential victims and see they’re protected.”

Duvall’s composure slipped momentarily and she looked at Steve for guidance. This time, it was his face that remained impassive. “I don’t see how we can do that,” Duvall stalled. She clearly objected to being told how to do her job by someone she perceived as an outsider.

“I’d have thought it was pretty straightforward,” Fiona said crisply. Now she was dealing with Kit’s fate, her normal assertiveness was back in the driving seat with a vengeance. “You’re looking for award-winning crime writers who have written serial killer novels that have been adapted for film or TV. Get in touch with the Crime Writers’ Association. They’ll be able to put you in touch with one or other of the crime buffs who will be able to give you chapter and verse.”

“But there must be dozens,” Duvall protested. “We couldn’t possibly offer them all protection.”

“At the very least, you should warn them.” Fiona’s voice was as implacable as her face, her hazel eyes intense in the gloom of the café.

Duvall’s face had closed down. “That’s impossible. I don’t think you’ve thought this through, Dr. Cameron. The last thing we want is to start a panic. There’s enough of a media circus as it is and we don’t even know yet whether Georgia Lester is alive or dead. It would be totally irresponsible to go public at this stage.”

Fiona glared at Duvall. “Some of these people are my friends. I live with one of them. If you’re not going to warn them, then I certainly am.”

Duvall’s narrow nostrils flared. She turned to Steve. “I thought you said she understood confidentiality?”

Steve put a hand on Fiona’s arm. She shrugged it off impatiently. “DCI Duvall’s right,” Steve said gently. “We don’t know anything for sure yet and it could seriously damage our chances of putting a stop to this man if we panic prematurely. You know that, Fi. If this didn’t touch Kit, you’d be the first to say we should avoid giving this killer the oxygen of publicity.”

“Yes, Steve, I probably would,” Fiona said angrily. “But it does touch Kit, and I owe him far more than I owe the City of London Police.”

There was a dangerous silence. Then Duvall said, “By all means warn your lover to be on his guard. But I must insist that you keep it to yourselves.”

Fiona snorted derisively. “These aren’t idiots you’re talking about here. These are intelligent men and women who live by the power of their imagination. Since Drew Shand died, the Scottish crime writers have formed a phone tree so they can check on each other daily. I’ve already had one of them on to me looking for reassurance. A lot of them know what I do for a living. If you do find Georgia in pieces in Smithfield, my phone is going to be red-hot. I’m not going to tell these people there’s no cause for alarm.”

“Fi, you know there’s a big difference between suggesting they should be on their guard and telling them there’s a serial killer on the loose who might be targeting them. And you also know that’s a line you’re perfectly capable of walking,” Steve said.

Fiona pushed herself out of her chair. “You might have forgotten Lesley, Steve. But I never will. And I’m going to deal with this as I see fit, not as you think best.”

Steve watched her stride out of the café, hair flowing with the speed of her passage. “Oh fuck,” he groaned.

“I’d appreciate knowing what the hell that was all about,” Duvall said. “Sir,” she added more as calculated insult than an afterthought.

Steve crushed his cigar out impatiently. “She’s right, I wasn’t thinking about Lesley,” he said, half to himself. He straightened up in his chair. “Lesley was Fiona’s sister. She was murdered by a serial rapist when she was a student. They never made an arrest. It’s why Fiona became a criminal psychologist. She always believed that if the university had given their female students proper warning, Lesley would have been safe. She’s probably wrong, but survivors have to find someone to blame. Otherwise they end up blaming the victim, and that’s even less healthy.”

Duvall nodded, understanding dawning. “No wonder she’s worried about the boyfriend.”

“I’m worried about him too, Sarah. He’s my best mate.” Steve’s face was stern.

“You’d better go after her, calm her down. I don’t want her running around like a loose cannon in the middle of my investigation. However helpful she’s been.”

Steve, who liked being told what to do about as much as Duvall herself, gave her a hard stare.

Duvall held up one hand in a placatory gesture. “And when I get back to Wood Street, I’m going straight to my guvnor to get a full murder squad working the case. I’ll be working on my search warrant application this afternoon. You can tell her that to reassure her.”

“I will, Sarah. I’m glad you’re taking this seriously. Because if anything were to happen to Kit Martin, Fiona wouldn’t be the only one baying for blood.”