Killing the Shadows

FOURTY-EIGHT

The M6 was practically empty this far north of Manchester. Most of the Friday evening traffic had peeled off on the M$$ to Blackpool or at the first junction leading to the southern end of the Lake District. As the road climbed up Shap, there were only a few cars and a scattering of lorries heading back to Scotland for the weekend.

In the fast lane, a dark-grey metallic Toyota 4x4 cruised at a comfortable eighty-five. Not so fast it would attract the attention of the traffic police, but a good enough speed to eat up the miles between driver and destination. He’d given up on the radio, replacing the civilized voices of the BBC with a talking book. The Blood Painter, by Kit Martin. Read by the author. Apart from anything else, it would keep him firmly on track in case he’d slipped up on any details.

He couldn’t think of anything that would make the miles pass more quickly.

Detective Superintendent Sandy Galloway was halfway down his postprandial glass of Gaol Ila. His teenage twins were upstairs competing to lay waste some distant planet courtesy of their Sony Play Stations and his wife was loading the dishwasher. He’d have to go in to work tomorrow morning, in the light of this London business. But sufficient unto the day, that was his motto. And so he settled down with his whisky to watch a cop drama on TV and savour all the things they got wrong.

When the phone rang, he ignored it. But he couldn’t ignore the teenage bellow from upstairs. “Hey, Dad, it’s some Englishwoman for you.”

“Aw, shite,” he muttered, hauling himself out of his chair and through to the hall. He picked up the phone and waited for the click that indicated the upstairs extension had been put down. “Hello, Sandy Galloway speaking.”

“It’s Fiona Cameron. I’m sorry to bother you at home. I got your number from the incident room sergeant. He didn’t want to tell me, but I’m afraid I gave him a rather hard time, so don’t be angry with him.” It poured out in a breathless rush.

“No bother, Doctor. How can I help you? Or is it you can help us? Have you found some more letters at Drew Shand’s?”

There was a pause. He could hear her draw breath. “This is going to sound like paranoia. You know my partner is Kit Martin, the crime writer?”

“Aye, I knew that.”

“I’ve been aware since I first formed the theory that there might be a serial killer at work that Kit fitted the victim profile perfectly. I’ve been worried that he might be a target. When the City Police arrested Redford, we all relaxed. But I’ve just spoken to DCI Duvall and she says there’s a chink in the case against Redford. And I can’t get hold of Kit. He’s not answering the phone, he’s not been in touch via e — mail.”

“Could it not just be that he’s working?” Galloway tried to sound calm and unconcerned. If there was a serious crack in the case, Duvall would have let him know.

“He wasn’t there when the police were round earlier to take a statement. And I’ve never known him not respond to e — mail. The thing is, if Kit’s a target, the book the killer will be following is The Blood Painter. He’ll be holding him somewhere till he’s ready to kill him.”

He could hear from her voice that she was frantic with worry. “I understand your concern, Fiona.” He slipped into her first name, hoping it would soothe. “The trouble is, there’s no evidence to suggest that anything’s happened to him. He could be spending the evening with friends. Raising a glass to Georgia Lester somewhere.”

“That’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. But I spoke to one of his friends, and he’s not turned up. And anyway, if that’s what he had planned, he would have let me know,” Fiona insisted.

“Anything could have happened. He could have bumped into somebody on the way there and gone for a drink with them first. He could have been held up by transport problems. Fiona, if there was any serious problem with the case against Redford, City of London would have been on to us. You can be sure of that.” Galloway genuinely believed she had no grounds for her fears. The police officer in him knew that without any evidence of a crime, there was no way to justify any sort of formal inquiry. And the man in him knew that people didn’t always know their partners as well as they thought they did. Not even if they were psychologists. “Sometimes e — mail doesn’t get through,” he pointed out. “Servers go down. Maybe he thinks he has let you know.”

He heard her exasperated sigh. “And maybe he’s in the hands of a killer. The police should be checking out that possibility.”

Galloway took a deep breath and inched out on a limb. “If and it’s a very big if he is, then where should the police be looking?”

“According to The Blood Painter, the killer should take him to a holiday home. Only, we’ve never rented a holiday home in the UK. But Kit’s got a bothy up in Sutherland where he goes to write. I think that’s where they’ll have gone.”

“Whereabouts in Sutherland?”

He felt her hesitation. “That’s the problem. I don’t know, exactly. I’ve never been there, you see. All I know is that it’s near Loch Shin.”

“You don’t even know the address?”

“No. We only ever communicate by e — mail when he’s up there. He’s got a satellite phone, but he doesn’t use it for voice calls. We both find it harder to get through the time apart if we actually speak to each other, you see? Somehow, e — mail is more bearable when he’s away for weeks at a time.” Suddenly realizing that she was wittering, she forced herself back to the practicalities. “But surely the local police must know where it is? I thought everybody knew everybody up in the Highlands?”

Galloway rubbed his hand over his mouth. Her fear had transmitted itself to him and he had sweat on his upper lip. “‘Near Loch Shin’ is a hell of a big area, Fiona. The loch itself must be, what, fifteen, seventeen miles long. I doubt very much that there’s anything they could do about it tonight, even supposing we could convince them there was any real reason why they should be looking.”

“There must be something we can do! We can’t just sit around doing nothing when Kit’s life could be at risk.” Now anger had taken over from fear in Fiona’s voice.

“Listen, Fiona, the chances are that you’re getting yourself worked up over nothing. Now, this fictional killer of Mr. Martin’s what does he do with his victims?”

“He keeps them captive for a week and draws their blood and paints murals with it.”

“Well, that suggests that time is not as much of the essence as it would be if this killer gave his victims a swift death, doesn’t it? Besides, if you don’t know where this bothy is, how would the killer know? Why don’t we wait till the morning? It might well be that Mr. Martin has turned up by then. But if he hasn’t, we’ll get Highland Police on to it first thing. That’s a promise. Meet me at St. Leonard’s at half past seven and we’ll see what’s what. OK?” His voice was reassuring without being patronizing. “No, it’s not OK,” she said bitterly. “But it’ll have to do, won’t it?” “Aye, I’m afraid it’s the best I can do. And I will talk to DCI Duvall in the meantime and see if there are any genuine grounds for concern. Try to get some sleep, Fiona. I know you’re imagining the worst, but the chances are, Redford’s our man and your chap’s alive and well and on his way out for a night’s drinking with his mates. Coming to terms with Georgia Lester’s death. You know yourself that’s by far the likeliest scenario. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He replaced the phone and stood for a long minute in the hall, pondering. No, he was right. There was no point in trying to get anything moving tonight on something as tenuous as this. Without something more solid than Fiona had, there was no prospect of getting Highland to take this seriously. By morning, he could maybe convince them there were reasonable grounds for action if Kit Martin hadn’t shown up safe, sound and hungover in his own bed. And really, there were no good reasons to think otherwise. Convinced that Fiona was overreacting because of what had happened to her sister all those years before, Galloway headed back to his TV show and his whisky.

Fiona slumped in her chair. She’d done her best. But sometimes, that wasn’t enough. After Lesley, she had done her best too. She couldn’t change the fact of her sister’s death, but she had taken every step she could to make sure the person responsible paid the price. She’d failed then, and she knew the price that failure had exacted. She couldn’t give up on Kit now, not just for his sake but for her own. Duvall and Galloway might think she was a hysterical idiot, but she knew Kit and she knew she had grounds for her worries. Galloway had tried to reassure her with his suggestion that the killer couldn’t know the location of the bothy. But Fiona knew him to be resourceful; he’d tracked each of his victims so far. She couldn’t afford to be complacent.

She reached for the phone and keyed in a number she knew by heart. Three rings, then the machine clicked in. “This machine takes messages for Steve Preston. Please speak after the tone and your call will be dealt with at the earliest opportunity.” Bleep.

“Steve, it’s Fiona. Call me on the mobile whenever you get this message. I need your help.” She ended the call with a finger on the receiver rest and immediately dialled his mobile. Silence. Then the impersonal voice. “The number you are calling has not responded. Please try later. The number you are calling—” She cut the line. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, reaching for her personal organizer to find his pager number. When the pager service responded, she left a message asking Steve to call her straightaway on her mobile.

There was, she supposed, an outside chance he was still in the office so she dialled his direct line. She let it ring ten times before she gave up. Where the hell was he when she needed him?

It never occurred to her to try Terry’s home number.

Gerard Coyne’s flat could have been made for surveillance. It was on the first floor of a terraced house a couple of streets back from the Holloway Road. Neil assumed from the fact that there were two narrow front doors that there was no back entrance; Coyne’s front door would give straight on to a flight of steps leading up to the first floor. What made the flat so perfect for Neil’s purpose was the pub opposite. The Pride of Whitby was a typical North London corner pub cosy, cramped and busy. But the old — fashioned etched glass had been replaced by clear glass windows allowing a perfect view across the street. Neil had arrived just after half past six and had a quiet word with the licensee, impressing on him the need for discretion. He hadn’t specified who he was watching or why, only that he didn’t want to be pointed out to the locals as a copper.

The landlord had no problem with that. He kept an orderly pub and relied on the local police to turn up on the rare occasions there was trouble. As far as he was concerned, as long as Neil didn’t expect free booze, he was welcome to sit by the window for as long as he wanted.

Neil had already established that Coyne was home. There was a smart mountain bike chained up in the front garden. He’d seen lights on in the first floor flat and, as a double-check, he’d rung Coyne’s phone number. When it was answered, Neil had pretended he had a wrong number. Satisfied, he settled down with a copy of the Evening Standard and a glass of alcohol-free lager.

At half past seven, he’d ordered lasagne and chips from the bar snacks menu. It arrived at ten to eight. He’d finished eating it by five past. He returned to his paper, making sure the lighted windows of Coyne’s flat were in his peripheral vision. If there was any movement, he’d register it, tired though he was.

By half past eight, the place was heaving. Every other seat at Neil’s table was taken, the other occupants crowded round with their pint glasses and cigarette packets. Occasionally, one or other of them would try to draw him into conversation, but he kept himself on the fringes, answering in monosyllables and barricading himself behind his paper.

A few minutes before ten, Coyne’s light snapped out. Suddenly alert, Neil folded his paper and drained his third drink. He pushed his seat back slightly, on the alert for whatever was going to happen next. A light appeared in the glass panel above Coyne’s front door, then the door itself swung open. Neil couldn’t see Coyne very well against the light hitting him from behind, only the silhouette of a slim frame of medium height. Neil readied himself for the off.

Coyne pulled the door to behind him and emerged on to the street. Thank God he wasn’t taking the bike, Neil thought. Coyne glanced both ways past the parked cars that lined the street, then crossed the road.

Oh shit, Neil thought, he’s coming in here. He unfolded the paper and pulled his chair closer to the table. When he looked up again, Coyne was walking towards the bar, greeting a couple of the men standing there with their pints of Guinness.

There was no mistaking those deep-set eyes in the narrow face coupled with the goatee beard and moustache and the slightly prominent teeth. This was the man whose CRO photograph was etched on Neil’s memory. As far as he was concerned, the evidence might be circumstantial, but it had convinced him. If he’d been a gambling man, Neil would have staked a year’s salary that he was looking at Susan Blanchard’s killer.

He fought to hide his excitement and watched as Coyne bought himself a pint of bitter. Neil pushed back his chair, covered himself by saying good night to the others at his table, as if they’d been his drinking companions, and pushed through the crowd to the door.

The cold night air took his breath away after the stuffiness of the pub. But it did nothing to calm the thrill of anticipation that surged through him. It had worked. Good solid policing, helped along with a bit of flair and inspiration, and he was looking at the first serious suspect for Susan Blanchard’s murder since Francis Blake. Only this time, they’d got it right. He had a feeling in his bones.

He hurried along the street to where he’d parked his car earlier. It had a view both of the pub door and, at an angle, of Coyne’s front door. He dived behind the wheel and pulled out his mobile. Time to report. He stabbed the speed dial buttons to connect him to Steve’s mobile. He couldn’t believe his ears when he heard, “The number you are calling has not responded. Please try later.”

“Bugger,” he said, trying Steve’s home number. When he got the answering machine, he swore softly. But he knew better than to hang up without leaving a message. “This is Neil McCartney, guy. I’m outside the suspect’s house. He’s just gone across the road for a drink in his local. I know I’m supposed to go off duty at midnight, but I’m going to stay on here till Joanne relieves me or until I hear from you. I don’t want him to get away from us.”

Finally, Neil left a message on Steve’s pager. Surely he’d get that? The boss was never out of touch, especially since they’d been running this operation on a shoestring. He’d known Neil was watching their new suspect, so he’d be expecting a call. Sooner or later, he’d ring back.

Till then, there was nothing more he could do now except watch and wait.