Killing the Shadows

FOURTY-THREE

The air in the room was redolent with the heavy fragrances of ylang-ylang, sandalwood and rose. The flicker of a pair of candles took the chill off the clinical white of the walls and transformed Steve’s bedroom from a monastic cell to a place where romance was possible. The massage oil and the candles were Terry’s contribution to the atmosphere; after the first night when urgency had been everything, she wanted to give their love-making a more sensual framework.

They lay in a languid tangle of limbs, a pair of champagne flutes within reach but for the moment disregarded as they gave each other the history lessons of their past. As he listened to Terry’s tale of her childhood, Steve luxuriated in the sense of having been swept out of the mundanity of his life.

When the shrill note of his mobile phone cut through Terry’s gentle ironies, it was a dislocating wrench back into his former life. “Shit,” he swore savagely, even as he was disentangling himself from her.

She chuckled. “Ignore it. You’re off duty.”

“I can’t,” he said angrily, crossing the room in a handful of long strides and abruptly grabbing the phone from the dressing table. “There’s too much on. Bloody thing.” He hit a button and barked, “Preston here.”

“Steve? This is Sarah Duvall.”

Steve stifled his exasperation and backed up to the edge of the bed, where he flopped down. “What can I do for you, Sarah?”

“Have I caught you at a bad moment?”

“No, it’s fine.”

Duvall registered his clipped tones, knew it wasn’t fine, but pressed on regardless. She wasn’t about to allow Steve Preston’s convenience to come between her and her objective. “I wanted to ask if you thought Dr. Cameron would be open to a formal approach from us to liaise on the Lester murder.”

Steve glanced uneasily at Terry. He felt faintly uncomfortable talking about Fiona in front of her. It felt almost incestuous. “I don’t see why not. The problem is with the Met, not in general. What was it you were after, specifically?”

“As you know, we’ve got a confessor in custody. But I’m having peculiar problems with checking out his authenticity because so much of the detail of the crime comes from Lester’s book. However, I think he could be tied to the letters. What I want to try for is linking him to the letters, then linking the three murders, especially if we can establish that Shand and Elias also had letters. I thought Dr. Cameron could look specifically at the letters and the flyer he distributed at the press conference, then she could review the evidence in the other two cases to see if there’s linkage. With three cases to go at, we’ve got more chance of turning up some witness evidence, or something else that would either tie in the confessor or eliminate him.”

“I’d have thought it was worth trying,” Steve said cautiously. “And there’s no better person for that kind of job.”

“I don’t want to wait till morning,” Duvall said. “Have you got a home number for her?”

“I think you’d get a better response face to face than over the phone.” This wasn’t the time to tell Duvall that her phone manner wouldn’t ingratiate her with a woman who was already predisposed to dislike her because of Duvall’s reluctance to provide protection for Kit and his fellows.

“A home address, then?”

Steve cast a quick glance at Terry, who was curled on one side, watching him with a smile. For a brief moment, he considered going through to the other room to avoid any chance of Terry recognizing her supervisor’s details. The instinct to confidentiality was bred in the bone, but he realized that if he was going to stand any chance of making this relationship work, he had to let her into his life. He took a deep breath and recited the familiar address. Terry’s eyebrows rose and her expression changed to one of curiosity. Steve ended the call and tossed the phone back on the dressing table.

“I won’t pry if you’d rather I didn’t, but I couldn’t help recognizing Fiona’s address,” she said.

Steve got back into bed and stretched out his arm to pull her into his embrace. “You heard about the guy who confessed to Georgia Lester’s murder at the press conference?”

“I saw it on the news, yes.”

“Well, City of London want to consult with Fiona about it. They think he’s a strong suspect.”

“And they want to establish linkage with the other two crime-writer killings, is that it?” Terry’s interest was piqued and she shifted so she could prop herself up on one elbow.

“That’s right. She’ll jump at the chance. Apart from anything else, it might reassure her that they’ve got the right person and she can stop worrying that Kit might be next on the hit list.”

“Of course. That’s why she’s been right off the planet the last couple of days.”

“It didn’t occur to you that Kit might be a target?”

“What can I say? I’d sort of forgotten about Kit. I’ve only met him once. Plus, Fiona never talks about her home life. And really, nobody’s been talking the serial killer angle up much. The papers all made out that there was no connection between Drew Shand and Jane what’s-her-name.” She shook her head crossly. “God, how could I be such a dummy? She must have been off her head with worry.”

Steve sighed. “She’s been as near as Fiona ever gets to frantic. We had a row over it yesterday. She was angry because she was the one who actually came up with the idea of searching Smithfield, but neither City nor the Met could commit to protecting Kit.”

Terry frowned. “Oh Steve, that’s bad. Torn between the personal and the professional. What a shit of a time you and Fiona must have been having. Worried stiff about Kit and ending up going head to head with each other.”

“It’s not been easy,” he acknowledged. “At least it looks as if Kit is safe now, for which I am profoundly grateful. The guy’s my best mate, and if anything had happened to him, I don’t know how I would have coped. The only thing is, I’m afraid it’s really screwed things between me and Fiona. She’s not a woman who forgives easily.”

“She’ll come round in time,” Terry said with breezy confidence. “Especially if you do a bit of serious grovelling. She always responds well to a good grovel, in my experience.”

Steve shook his head. “It’s going to take more than that this time, I think.”

Terry cuddled into him. “All my hard work, getting you relaxed, and now you’re wound up like a spring again.” She reached for the bottle of massage oil. “There’s nothing for it. You’re just going to have to put Kit and Fiona out of your mind and lie down and take your medicine like a man.”

Steve managed a smile as he shuffled on to his stomach, feeling his muscles fluttering as she straddled him. “Whatever you say, Doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor yet,” she said. “Just think how much better I’ll be when I’m qualified…”

He groaned as her hands, slick with oil, began to massage his shoulders. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that.”

“We’ll work up to it gradually, soldier.” Her strong fingers kneaded the powerful muscles of his back, erasing all thoughts of Sarah Duvall and even Fiona Cameron from his mind.

Fiona was in the kitchen making coffee when the doorbell rang. Frowning at the unexpected interruption, she walked down the hall to check the spy hole in the door. The chances were it was some hack who had decided that he needed to try Kit for a juicy quote for the morning’s paper. If it were, Fiona would take great pleasure in blowing him off. One thing was certain. No friend would have called round this evening without checking ahead by phone first.

To her surprise, Fiona recognized the person on the doorstep, though what Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Duvall was doing there was beyond her. Muttering, “Hell and damnation,” under her breath, Fiona opened the door. “DCI Duvall,” she said.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your evening,” Duvall said stiffly, as if apology were a stranger in her mouth. “But I hoped you could spare me some time.”

Fiona stepped back and indicated that Duvall should enter. “Second left, the kitchen. We’ll talk in there.”

Duvall walked down the hall, taking it all in as she went. Good-quality wooden flooring, expensive oriental rugs, a couple of dramatic landscapes in oils on the walls. At the turn of the stairs, a man she recognized as Kit Martin appeared, looking curiously at her.

“It’s work, Kit,” Fiona called. “I need to have a word with DCI Duvall.”

“Can’t wait till morning, eh? No problem,” he said, turning and vanishing back upstairs.

“I saw on the news that you’ve got someone in custody,” Fiona said as she followed Duvall into the kitchen. “Please, have a seat.”

Duvall pulled out a chair and sat, crossing her legs precisely.

“I was making coffee. Would you like a cup?”

“Thank you.”

“Black, wasn’t it?” Fiona didn’t wait for a response, reaching for a second mug and filling it up from the cafetiere. She put milk in her own mug and brought them both to the table, where she settled down opposite Duvall. Carefully keeping her face blank to match the police officer’s, she said, “So, what brings you to my door?”

“As you said, we have someone in custody. We had little choice, given the very public nature of his confession,” Duvall said, an ironic note in her voice. “But the position is far from clear-cut. His name is Charles Redford and he’s admitting the killings, but he’s giving us nothing that isn’t already accessible to anyone who has studied newspaper reports and the Georgia Lester novel that the murder appears to be based on. A search of his flat produced nothing conclusive. He had copies of the three crucial books by Shand, Elias and Lester on his desk. There was a stack of newspapers containing stories about the three murders, but so far, nothing for forensics to have a serious go at.

“We have had one break, in that his phone bill shows that he made calls to both Shand and Lester’s numbers within the last three months. And an agent has given us a statement saying that Redford threatened her. She had been considering taking him on, but she’d decided against it. When he got her letter of rejection, he turned up at her office and barged past the receptionist. He got into her inner office and shouted abuse at her. He snatched a paper knife that was lying on the desk and waved it in front of her face, telling her she should be careful who she insulted. Then he threw the knife at the wall and stormed out.”

Fiona sipped her coffee and said nothing, merely raising her eyebrows slightly. Her earlier encounter with Duvall had left her with no desire to make this any easier for her.

Duvall cleared her throat and continued. “She says she decided not to call the police because she was flying out to New York the following morning and she didn’t have time for the quote, ‘hassle’.” Her expression was of grim disapproval. “We also took a look at his computer, but so far we haven’t found any trace of the threatening letters. I’m hopeful that the computer specialists will be able to find something when they examine the hard disk more closely, but I’m not prepared to pin my hopes to that.” She lifted her slim briefcase on to her lap and opened it. “I’ve brought with me copies of the letters and also a copy of the flyer he distributed at the press conference this afternoon.” She extracted a handful of transparent plastic envelopes, each of which contained a photocopied sheet of paper. She closed her briefcase, replaced it at her feet and placed the envelopes on the table. “I believe the language is distinctive enough to demonstrate they were all written by the same person. I intend to place these with a linguistics expert, in the hope we can demonstrate that.” Duvall met Fiona’s eyes. There was no help there, but she continued regardless. “What I hoped was that you could look at them from the point of view of a psychologist and tell me what you think.”

“What I think about what?”

Duvall pursed her lips. She hadn’t been expecting an easy ride. Open hostility she would have handled easily. But Fiona’s stubborn failure to give anything back was too similar to her own style for her to understand how to get round it. “Whether the same person wrote all these. Whether that person is capable of escalating from letters to action. Whether there are clues in this material to indicate a connection to the crimes. Whatever you find there, I’m interested in.”

Fiona held her mug in both hands and looked steadily at Duvall. “Do you think he’s the killer?”

Duvall pushed the bridge of her glasses against her nose. “Does that matter?”

“I’m curious. I have something at stake here, if you remember,” Fiona said coldly.

Duvall uncrossed her legs. “I’m not someone who operates on instinct. I work on evidence and experience. Based on that, I’d say he’s more likely the killer than not. He’s arrogant and overconfident. He’s vain, very vain. He’s convinced that he has been ripped off. I think he’s planned this very carefully, so that he’ll be charged and tried and found not guilty. Then he’ll finally get his chance to show off to his heart’s content. I think your partner is safe, Dr. Cameron.”

Fiona had heard what she needed to hear. “I’ll do it,” she said.

Duvall placed a hand on the envelopes. “There’s something else,” she said.

Fiona didn’t like the way Duvall worked. There was a cold calculation to everything the detective did and said that made her feel used. If it hadn’t been for her personal connection to this case, she would never have gone as far as she had. But she was irritated by the assumption that having gone this far, she could be pushed further. “It’s late, Chief Inspector,” she said, her voice cold. “Let’s cut to the chase.”

Duvall blinked. “I’m not here to waste time, Doctor. Yours, or mine. I’m well aware of your work on crime linkage. If we are to get this case into court, I believe it’s important that we make a convincing case for connecting the three murders. I’ve already spoken to my colleagues in Edinburgh and Ireland and they’re willing to let you review their evidence with a view to formulating a tenable theory that we can take to court that the three murders are the work of the same person.”

Fiona shook her head, an expression of disbelief on her face. “You took for granted that I would agree to this?” she said.

Duvall shook her head impatiently. “I hoped you would. If you say no, I’ll find someone else. But I’m told you’re the best. And, as you pointed out to me, you have had something personal at stake in this case.”

Fiona stared at Duvall, a mixture of reactions battling inside her. She was outraged at the woman’s presumption, angry that she had been out manoeuvred flattered in spite of herself, and intrigued as she always was by the prospect of a professional challenge. This wasn’t one she wanted to hand over to someone else, she admitted to herself. But the knowledge that Duvall would see her agreement as some kind of triumph smarted. “The circumstances of these murders are very different,” she said, determined not to give Duvall what she wanted right away. “It’s unlikely that I’m going to be able to come up with the sort of concrete connection that juries like.”

Duvall gave her small, tight smile. “We both believe that the same person killed Drew Shand, Jane Elias and Georgia Lester. We both know if that is the case, they have to have left their signature on each crime. You know how to read the invisible ink. I know how to translate that into hard evidence. Are you in or out?”

The two women stared at each other across the kitchen table. It was, Fiona knew, time to put up or shut up. And this case was too close to home for her to bear the thought of leaving it up to someone else. She reached out for the envelopes. “I’m in,” she said.

Charles Cavendish Redford leaned against the cold wall of his cell. He knew there was no point in trying to get some sleep. They’d be watching him through the peephole in the door and they’d simply wait till he nodded off, then wake him up to take him back to the interview room, hoping he’d be disorientated enough to let his guard drop and give them something only the killer could know. He wasn’t going to fall for that. The beauty of having read so many detective novels and true crime was that he knew all the tricks of the trade. He was going to stay awake and alert, fuelled by adrenaline. There was a strict time limit on how long they could keep him without charge. Whatever they did then would suit him fine. Charged or released, he’d still be within the plans he’d made so carefully.

It was all going beautifully. That policewoman was a godsend. He could wind her up, and the more antagonism that built between them, the more likely she was to charge him with Georgia Lester’s murder. He would have his hour in the sun.

He wasn’t afraid of being found guilty. He was far too clever for that. One way or another, he would walk out of this a free man. And then publishers would be falling over themselves for his work.

He shifted on the thin mattress, making sure he didn’t get too comfortable. He smiled inwardly. For far too long, Charles Cavendish Redford had put up with being slighted, robbed and cheated. Soon, however, that would be history. Soon he would be a household name. Just like Drew Shand, Jane Elias and Georgia Lester.