Killing the Shadows

FOURTY-ONE

The conference room was packed, bright with TV lights and stuffy with the exhalations of too many excited bodies. Speculation buzzed from journalist to journalist about the nature of the announcement. The more cynical, having seen it all before, attempted to make their guesses sound like convictions. It had to be Georgia Lester, and she had to be dead. That was their flat take on the situation. It had to be Georgia because there was nothing else that important on the stocks right now. If there had been, they would have had a whisper from a contact. And she had to be dead, otherwise it would be her publishers holding the press conference. Obviously.

Besides, they all claimed inside knowledge. One of their sources said there had been a big operation last night around Smithfield Market and it had something to do with the missing writer. The more literate of them had smugly put two and two together and come up with the answer they hoped would be confirmed this afternoon. If they were right, it would be a guaranteed front page. And that was what really mattered.

It was, the more confident among them maintained, just a matter of detail now. Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. And getting one of that lesser breed of reporters, the ones who didn’t have a title like Crime Correspondent or Home Affairs Specialist, to go in search of the husband for the heartbreak photo and the tear-jerking quote.

Nevertheless, a hush descended when the police filed in. That it was serious was obvious. The Deputy Commissioner himself was there, flanked by DCI Sarah Duvall and a face none of the reporters recognized. The officers settled behind the bank of microphones, selfconscious and uneasy. The Press Liaison Chief was hovering like an anxious parent before the nativity play. When everyone was satisfied with the sound quality, the Deputy Commissioner cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming this afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I have a short statement to make, and then I will take questions.” He introduced his fellow officers. The stranger turned out to be a detective chief superintendent from Dorset. The DC looked down at the paper in his hand.

He cleared his throat again. “As a result of an operation carried out by officers of the City of London Police last night in the vicinity of Smithfield Market, human remains were recovered. These have been identified as the missing crime writer, Ms Georgia Lester. As a result of this, a murder inquiry has been set up. DCI Duvall will be in operational control of the investigation. We will be liaising with our colleagues in Dorset, where Ms Lester apparently went missing last week.

“This is a particularly horrific crime, and we would appeal for anyone who saw Ms Lester after she left her cottage in Dorset last Wednesday. Her car was found abandoned on Sunday, but we have no idea how long it had been there. We would like to narrow that time frame down if possible. We are also appealing for any witnesses who may have seen anything unusual around Smithfield Market during the course of this past week.” He looked up and pursed his lips. “I’ll take questions now.”

A hubbub of voices, hands waving. The Press Liaison Chief pointed to one. “Corinne Thomas, BBC Radio. When you say human remains, what exactly do you mean?”

The Deputy Commissioner indicated to Duvall that she should give the prescribed answer. “Ms Lester had been dismembered. The manner suggests someone with rudimentary anatomical or butchery skills.”

Second questioner. “Jack O’Connor, The Times. One of Ms Lester’s novels, which was made into a film, features a killer who kidnaps his victims then butchers them. As I recall, the bodies in the book were hidden in a wholesale butcher’s. Do you believe her killer copied the book?”

“No comment,” the Deputy Commissioner said firmly.

O’Connor wasn’t giving up. “Do you believe this crime is connected to the Edinburgh killing of Drew Shand, who was murdered recently in a manner identical to one of the victims in his book?” The background agitation of his colleagues almost swamped O’Connor’s voice, but there was no doubt from the grim faces looking down at him that they’d heard him.

“No comment,” the Deputy Commissioner said again.

A third questioner jumped to her feet. “Sharon Collier, the Mirror. Are you refusing to deny that there’s a serial killer targeting thriller writers?”

“I’m neither denying nor confirming anything of the sort, Ms Collier. At this stage, I have no evidence to allow me to offer any comment on these questions.” The DC was starting to look a little edgy. The Press Liaison Chief quickly found one of his tame hacks and prodded him into action.

“Patrick Stacey, the Express. Where exactly was the body found?”

Duvall took the initiative. “We discovered Ms Lester’s remains in a disused freezer in a storage area in Smithfield Market. According to the owner, the freezer had been awaiting transport to another meat depot and had been there for about five weeks. So if anyone saw someone using that freezer during those five weeks, we are keen to hear from them.”

The questions were coming faster now. “Do you have any suspects?”

“What leads do you have?”

“Is her husband a suspect?”

“Is there a serial killer on the loose?”

“Is an arrest imminent?”

“Have you called in the services of a profiler?”

Abruptly, the Deputy Commissioner rose to his feet. “That’s all for now, ladies and gentlemen. When we have any more to report, we will keep you informed.”

“Wait a minute!” A shout rang out across the room. A bearded man in a tweed sports jacket, check shirt and red tie was pushing his way through the ranks of journalists.

The DC looked to the Press Liaison Chief, who made a shooing motion with his hands, indicating they should leave now. The Dorset officer started to move to the side of the room, but Duvall sat still, staring at the man who was making determined progress, apparently unconcerned about the people he was shoving out of his path.

“Why don’t you tell them the truth?” he shouted, his face flushed. “Why deny what everybody knows is the truth? There’s a serial killer out there and he’s killing crime writers who have stolen his stories.”

By now, several uniformed officers were attempting to reach the source of the disturbance. But the floor of the press conference was in chaos as journalists tried to see and hear what was going on. There was a hubbub of voices, but still the man in the tweed jacket could be heard. “How do I know?” he yelled at the top of his voice. “I know because it’s me. I killed them. Drew Shand. Jane Elias. Georgia Lester. They stole my stories and I made them pay.”

Duvall was on her feet now, pushing past her boss and diving down into the melee. Disregarding obstacles, she fought her way through the excited throng, driving a path to her quarry. No pause to apologize to the photographer she elbowed in the ribs, nor the radio reporter who took a crack on the jaw from her outflung arm. By now, the man in the tweed jacket had managed to free himself from the crowd around him sufficiently to start scattering sheets of paper in the air. He threw the leaflets high above his head and they fluttered in the air like albino bats unnerved by sudden light. Journalists were pushing and shoving each other, trying to grab a flyer for themselves, while others were baying questions at the man in the tweed jacket, who was grinning with the fixed rictus of a gargoyle.

Two of the uniforms grabbed him just as Duvall made it through the final rank of the press pack. Panting, her jacket ripped across one shoulder, she faced the stranger. “Get him out of here,” she commanded. “Custody suite. Now!”

The journalists howled in protest as the uniformed officers led the man away. Duvall noticed he put up no struggle. She stood, marooned in the middle of the media, watching the man and his escorts leave through the door she’d entered by. She became gradually aware that the Deputy Commissioner was shouting into his microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, this press conference is over. Please leave the building. I repeat, please leave the building.” He might as well have been singing ‘Yellow Submarine’, Duvall thought. At least that would have caught their attention.

Ignoring demands for her reaction, Duvall snatched one of the crumpled flyers and pushed her way back through the outraged and frustrated journalists without a word. Approaching the platform, she gestured with a sweeping motion that they should all get out of there. The DCS from Dorset looked eager to be somewhere else, while the Deputy Commissioner looked furious. As they shuffled out, Duvall took the chance for a quick flick through the flyer.

The author, one Charles Redford, claimed to be the murderer of Drew Shand, Jane Elias and Georgia Lester. In a style that was disturbingly reminiscent of the threatening letters Duvall had already examined, Redford announced that they were being punished for stealing his ideas and preventing him being published. He had previously sent them all manuscripts, soliciting their help in finding a publisher. Not only had they failed to give him a leg up, they had rubbed salt in the wound by stealing his ideas and using them in their own books. The conspiracy outlined in the flyer was daft enough to catch the attention of the seriously paranoid, but as a motive for serial murder, it seemed a little thin, Duvall thought. It never ceased to amaze her how little it took to tip some people over the edge from common or garden nutters to homicidal maniacs. No doubt Fiona Cameron would have a technical term for it.

In the anteroom, away from the clamour, the DC shook his head. “What the hell was that all about?” he demanded. “How did that lunatic get in there?”

Duvall shrugged out of her jacket and inspected the damage with pursed lips. Let the DC slug it out with the media creep; she wasn’t about to get into that particular war.

“He must have had some sort of press credentials,” the Press Liaison Chief stammered defensively. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have been allowed in.”

The DC waved a hand as if seeing off a troublesome wasp. “Never mind that. Who the hell is he?”

Duvall looked up from her torn jacket and took a deep breath. “According to the leaflet, which the world’s press are now in possession of, he’s called Charles Redford and he’s a wannabe thriller writer who thinks the victims stole his plots.”

“Is he for real?” The DC looked bemused.

“That’s what I plan to find out right now. I told them to take him straight down to the custody suite. I’m going to arrest him on suspicion of murder and take it from there.”

“Do we need to arrest him at this point? He could be nothing more than a time-wasting attention-seeker.”

It was, Duvall thought, a long time since the DC had done policing without the politics. “I want this by the book, sir. If he is the killer, I don’t want the slightest chance of it falling down in court on some procedural glitch. I want him under arrest, I want him legally represented and I want him on the record all the way.”

To her surprise, the DCS from Dorset weighed in on her side. “I think DCI Duvall’s quite right,” he said, the edge of a country burr in his voice adding unexpected authority to his quiet bass. “I’d want the same thing in her shoes. And I’d very much appreciate being able to sit in on the interview.”

“I don’t think we can accommodate that,” the DC said dubiously. “A matter of jurisdiction, you know?”

“We’ve got one interview suite with an observation room,” Duvall pointed out. “Surely there would be no problem with our colleague using that facility? I think it could be helpful, sir. Another pair of eyes, another pair of ears.” She didn’t for a moment think the provincial DCS would spot anything that wasn’t obvious to her, but she knew she was still going to need cooperation from Dorset in putting her case together. It would cost her nothing to keep their senior officer happy.

“Fine.” The DC nodded and drew her to one side. “But that’s as far as it goes, Duvall,” he added in an undertone. “This one’s ours.”

Maybe not if he killed her in Dorset, Duvall thought. But if there was a name to be made here, she was determined it was going to be hers. He’d confessed on her patch. He was going to stay hers if it was humanly possible. “I’ll get down to the custody suite, then,” she said.

The two men watched her swing her ruined jacket over her shoulder and stride off confidently down the corridor.

“God help him if he’s wasting her time,” the Dorset man said.

“She’s going to have her work cut out,” the DC said.

“How do you mean?”

“How do we usually weed out false confessions? We catch them out on the details that haven’t been made public. Only, this killer has been using previously published material as his blueprint. He’s going to know all the answers, whether he killed them or not.”

The Dorset DCS drew his breath in sharply. “Oh shit,” he said.

“And I’m not sure if DCI Duvall has worked that one out yet,” the DC added, pursing his lips in a superior smile.

Fiona closed her eyes, blotting out the e — mail on the screen in front of her. Confirmation of what she had been dreading was the last thing she wanted in her face. Eventually, she forced herself to reread Kit’s e — mail. This wasn’t the time for self-indulgence. He needed her support, not for her to whimper in the corner like a scared bunny. She composed herself and hit the reply button.

From: Fiona Cameron [fcameron@psych.ulon.ac.uk]

To: Kit Martin [KMWriter@trashnet.com]

Subject: Re: Bad as it gets

My darling Kit,

I’m so, so sorry about Georgia. You must be hurting, my love, and I wish I could do something to take the pain away. I fear I can be of little use on this particular case, even supposing DCi Duvall wanted my help. It’s already clear to anyone with half a brain that these cases are connected, and you know I don’t get into the touchy-feely wet the bed when he was 9 and tortured the neighbour’s cat stuff. So what could I give them? Not much except common sense. So, my love, it is important that you take extreme care of yourself. I’ll be home at the usual time, or earlier if I can manage it.

I love you. F.