by Val McDermid
Given how she’d aged externally in three years working for Steve Preston, she shuddered to think about the condition of her internal organs. She poked her tongue out at her reflection, noting it already had its coating of yellowish fur only an hour after the alarm clock had ended the four hours’ unconsciousness she’d managed the previous night. Too much coffee and too little sleep was giving her ulcers, she was convinced of it. The cigarettes were wrecking what remained of her aerobic fitness and she didn’t even want to think about what the drink was doing to her liver. Now her boyfriend was muttering about settling down and starting a family. Judging by the state of the rest of her, all she could expect from her reproductive system was a three-headed monkey.
Men, she decided, had it easy. They mostly managed somehow to look attractively wrecked or admirably haunted like Steve Preston, making women want to take them home and mother them. Women, on the other hand, ended up labelled dog-rough, deserted by their men for next year’s model. Well, it had been her choice, joining the Met. She could have got a job in a bank or in retail management and hung on to what looks she had for a bit longer. And been bored shitless, she reminded herself as she dragged a brush through her jaw-length brown bob. Maybe if she had her hair cut? Something a bit more lively instead of the heavy curtain that hung lifeless round a face she’d once thought of as heart-shaped.
Joanne closed her eyes and sighed. Enough of this self-pitying vanity. She should remember what was important and take her pride in that, not in what she looked like in the mirror. She stuffed her make — up back in its pouch and then into her bag. Picking up the bundle of folders that represented her weekend’s work, she managed to find a spare finger to pull the door open and headed down the corridor to brief the boss.
She found Steve Preston behind his desk with his usual mug of Earl Grey tea, the smoke from the first slim cigar of the day pooling under the low ceiling. “Morning, Joanne,” he said. He looked to her familiar scrutiny like he’d had about the same amount of sleep as her.
“Boss,” she acknowledged, dumping her files on the edge of his desk and subsiding into the chair opposite him.
“You didn’t log off till half past two this morning,” he observed.
Joanne excavated her cigarettes from her bag and lit up. “I was chasing.”
“Catch anything?”
Joanne waved her hand at the files, trailing a thin ribbon of smoke. “I concentrated on the Met, the City boys and the Home Counties. I can do a wider trawl if you think it’s worth it. You know, it would make this sort of job so much easier if we had some sort of central reporting system for serious offences she said with the tired bitterness of those who have to work against inadequate systems.”
“It’ll come,” Steve said. “Too late for our sanity, probably, but it’ll come. The Bramshill boys are playing around with the Canadian system, VICLAS. It’s supposed to be more sophisticated than anything the FBI have got, but it’s anybody’s guess when they’ll actually start using it to benefit field operations, especially the ones as far down the pecking order as this has become. So till then, we’re stuck with phone calls and faxes and calling in favours. How did you do?”
“Depressingly well. I can’t say it’s been fun to be reminded of just how many rapes and serious sexual assaults get reported in any given year. But I think I’ve dug up some interesting stuff. I’ve done a digest for you. That’s what I was doing at half past two this morning.” Joanne opened the top file and took out two sheets of paper. “There you go.”
Steve glanced at the carefully collated information. “Nice job, Joanne. Want to take me through it?”
Joanne grabbed her own copy of the digest and pulled the top file on to her lap. She took a pair of reading glasses out of the breast pocket of her shirt and perched them on her nose. “How I did it, I asked for cases that matched all five criteria that you asked about,” she began, relishing as she always did the process of report and discussion that frequently stimulated new ideas. “Then I asked them to include any other cases that matched three or more of the criteria. What I was looking for was cases where the assault took place out of doors, where a knife was involved, where the victim was a young blonde female, where there were child witnesses to some or all of the assault and where the perpetrator may have made his escape by bike.
“To be honest, I didn’t expect many hits. But we’ve got four rapes and two serious sexual assaults that incorporate all five points. All six took place north of the river. The first was reported two and a half years ago, in Stoke Newington. A woman sunbathing in her garden with her baby asleep in its push chair was assaulted by a man wearing cycling gear who climbed over her garden fence. Her screams alerted a neighbour and her assailant got away.
“The second was in Camden about ten weeks later. A woman was walking along the canal towpath with her three-year-old son when a man jumped out from behind a wall and held a knife to her throat. He told her he was going to rape her, but they were disturbed by a group of students who came along the towpath. He jumped back over the wall and pedalled off on a bike before anyone could stop him.
“The third one was on the top floor of a multi storey car park in Brent. Fifteen weeks later. This time, he raped a woman shopper. She had installed her kid in the car seat and he came up from behind, pushing her down on the seat and raping her at knife point According to the investigating officer, she thought he was wearing a cycle helmet.
“Nearly six months go by before the next reported rape. This time, he moved further west, to Kensal Rise. The victim was taking her new baby for a walk in the cemetery.” Here, Joanne’s professional mask slipped and she glanced up at Steve. “It’s not as weird as it sounds,” she said defensively. “These old Victorian cemeteries can be quite attractive, you know. Especially where there’s not much green space around.”
Steve shook his head. “I never said a word, Joanne. My mate Kit reckons Highgate Cemetery is the best source of inspiration he knows. Of course, he’s not a copper…”
“Anyway, she was walking the baby in the cemetery when she was jumped by a bloke in lycra shorts and a top, with a cycle helmet and goggles and what looked to her like one of those expensive kitchen knives that are made from one solid piece of metal. She fought back pretty hard and got seventeen stitches in her arm for her pains. She saw him take off afterwards on a mountain bike. It’s the best description we’ve got.”
“ICi male, between five-ten and six feet, slim build, dark hair, pale complexion,” Steve read wearily. “Well, that makes half the male members of the Metropolitan Police suspects.”
“Not half of them, boss. I reckon there’s not more than ten percent could make anything like a decent getaway on a bike.”
Steve grimaced at his cigar. “You’re probably right. What’s interesting is that the description doesn’t fit Francis Blake. He’s too short, and I don’t think anyone would describe him as slim. He’s far too broad in the shoulder. OK, let’s hear the rest of it.”
“Number five was a school cleaner in Crouch End. She was last out of the building one Friday night eighteen months ago. He was waiting for her. As she locked up, he came up behind her and held a knife to her throat. He dragged her into some bushes at the edge of the path and raped her. She had no kids with her, but I’ve included this one because it took place in a primary school playground and he was definitely on a bike. What do you think?”
“It’s worth keeping in the cluster for now. And the last one?”
“Now, this one’s really interesting. It was only five weeks before Susan Blanchard’s murder. And it was a bit further afield, actually in Hatfield. But it was in a park. A nanny was out with the little boy she looks after, walking in the woodland garden area. She was knocked to the ground, reckons she was actually unconscious for a few minutes. When she came round, she’d been dragged into the bushes and he was raping her. He had a knife at her throat and told her he’d stick her like a pig if she made a sound.”
“Fuck,” Stev
e swore softly. “Why didn’t we pick up on that when Susan Blanchard was killed?”
Joanne’s mouth tightened in a prim line. “Principally because Hertfordshire didn’t tell us about it.”
“Why the hell not? It’s not as if we kept the Blanchard murder a secret! It was all over the media. Didn’t it occur to them that it might be the same bloke?”
“Apparently not. The reason being that they reckoned one of their own for it. They had an accused rapist out on bail and they thought this was him taking one last bite of the cherry before he went down. As the investigating officer charmingly put it to me,” Joanne added tartly. “By the time Susan was killed, chummy was inside doing a seven stretch for three rapes, so they didn’t bother telling us because it couldn’t have been him, could it?” Sarcasm saturated her voice.
“Great.” Steve crushed out the stub of his cigar and sighed. “Did their rapist admit to the nanny as well, then?”
“Apparently so. But all his other rapes were late-night back street jobs, and none of his other victims were blondes. Hertfordshire believed him, but I don’t.”
“No, me neither. But I suppose at the time they had no good reason not to, and it cleared the books for them. They’re not the only ones who snatch at the easy option.”
Joanne glowered. “With respect, sir, Blake wasn’t the easy option. He was a plausible suspect.”
“That’s history, Jo. I’m more interested in the future than the past.” Steve got up and paced restlessly behind the desk. “And these six cases are all still unsolved?”
“Apart from the Hertfordshire one, yes. He doesn’t leave much in the way of evidence. He used a condom. And cycling gear doesn’t leave a lot of fibre evidence. What we do have is a few pubic hairs from the Kensal Rise rape, which has given us a DNA profile. But so far there’s no match with any of the DNA samples on record.” Joanne closed her file and replaced it with the others. “There are no viable suspects in any of the outstanding cases. I don’t know where we start to look, boss.”
“Me neither. But I know a woman who might.” Steve came to a halt opposite the window and stared unseeingly at the depressing view beyond.
“Dr. Cameron?” Joanne asked.
Steve nodded.
“I thought she’d refused to work with the Met again?”
“She did. And she meant it.” He turned back to face her, an ironic smile on his face. “Hand me down my grovelling shoes.”
“You’ll be wanting a flak jacket as well,” Joanne said, remembering Fiona Cameron’s icy stare.
“I don’t doubt it, Jo. I don’t doubt it for one minute.”
TWENTY-NINE
A handful of miles away, Kit Martin was sitting in a greasy spoon, waiting for an HGV driver who should have crossed from Belgium overnight. According to a mutual friend, the trucker could fill Kit in on some of the scams that smugglers were pulling on the cross-Channel routes. The man claimed he was no smuggler himself, but he knew all the wrinkles and for a surprisingly small price, he was prepared to give Kit as much background as he could.
He hadn’t mentioned the meeting to Fiona; he knew his source was vouched for, but Fiona might place the trucker in the category of the strangers Kit wasn’t supposed to be meeting alone. But he needed the information this contact could provide, and besides, he felt at no risk here. Probably the most dangerous thing in the café was the heart attack on a plate disguised as the King Size All Day Breakfast. And now he’d heard from Steve that the Garda had found no evidence of death threats at Jane Elias’s home, he was even less inclined to live like a recluse afraid of his own shadow.
Kit looked at his watch. The man was ten minutes late, but that was no big deal. He’d warned Kit he couldn’t be sure when he’d get to their rendezvous. It would depend on the eternally unpredictable traffic on the Mi5. Kit stirred his mug of tea, rearranging the film on the orangey-brown surface. The two men at the table next to him scattered a handful of coins on the table to pay for their breakfasts and walked out, leaving behind a copy of the Daily Mail. Kit reached across and snagged the paper. He ignored the political splash on the front page and flicked forward. The story that caught his eye was the lead on page five. Missing thriller writer’s car found at beauty spot A car belonging to missing crime writer Georgia Lester has been found abandoned in woods near a popular tourist destination several miles from the best selling author’s country cottage. Dorset police revealed that the car was spotted by walkers yesterday near Burman’s Pond, a local beauty spot near Dorchester. The car, which was unlocked, contained an overnight bag and a distinctive Moschino jacket, both belonging to Miss Lester. A police spokesman said, “There is no sign of a struggle or any indication that Miss Lester met with an accident. If she is safe and well, we would urge her to get in touch with her nearest police station as soon as possible. If anyone saw Miss Lester or her car prior to Sunday evening, we would also ask them to contact Dorset police.” He refused to say whether police were regarding Miss Lester’s disappearance as suspicious. Fears have been growing for her safety since she failed to turn up for a lecture she was due to deliver at the British Film Institute on Wednesday evening. Her husband, Anthony Fitzgerald, said last night, “I am very worried about Georgia. I spoke to her on Tuesday evening and she told me she was looking forward to the BFI event. The first I knew that she had missed her lecture was when I returned home on Wednesday evening to find several urgent messages from the organizers on our answering machine. I have been trying to contact her ever since, without success. I did report her missing to the police on Friday morning, but they didn’t seem to be taking it very seriously. But I know my wife, and I know she would never let her fans down willingly. Something has happened to her, but I have no idea what.” There has been speculation that Miss Lester has deliberately gone missing. Colleagues have suggested that she was angry with her publishers, Carnegie House, for refusing to supply her with bodyguards for an upcoming book tour. Miss Lester claimed that following the murder of fellow thriller writer Drew Shand, she was in fear of her life. A friend said last night, “We all thought Georgia was overreacting, but she was adamant that her publisher was recklessly putting her at risk. When she didn’t show up at the BFI, some people reckoned she was trying to punish them. But now we’re beginning to wonder if she was right after all.”
“Oh, shit,” Kit muttered under his breath, hastily turning the pages. What struck him most forcibly was Anthony’s reaction. To have reported Georgia missing to the police suggested this was no stunt on Georgia’s part. And Kit couldn’t quite believe that Georgia would have kept Anthony in the dark, leaving him to worry and fret needlessly. Causing deliberate pain to those she cared about just wasn’t part of Georgia’s make — up.
Almost the whole of page eleven was taken up with a feature article, illustrated with a large photograph of the instantly recognizable Agatha Christie. Inset into it was a smaller shot of Georgia, looking haughtily glamorous as ever, her artfully blonde hair swept up in a convoluted arrangement on top of her head. The Lady Vanishes The mystery surrounding the whereabouts of contemporary Queen of Crime Georgia Lester has strange echoes of another famous disappearing act. The most distinguished crime writer of them all, Dame Agatha Christie, went missing for eleven days in 1926 before being discovered in a hotel in Harrogate where she had registered under the assumed name of her husband’s mistress. Agatha’s disappearance followed a row with her philandering husband Colonel Archibald Christie. He had packed his bags and gone to spend the weekend with his mistress, Nancy Neele. That evening, leaving their daughter Rosalind asleep in bed, Agatha drove off from her Sunningdale mansion in her grey Morris Cowley. She left a letter for her secretary, saying her engagements should be cancelled and that she was off to Yorkshire. But she also posted a letter to the Deputy Chief Constable of Surrey, claiming she feared for her life and asking for his help. Her car was found abandoned next morning. Like Georgia Lester’s Jaguar, Agatha’s Morris was found near a local beauty spot, Silent Pool.
Inside the car was Agatha’s fur coat and a small suitcase containing three dresses, two pairs of shoes and her expired driving licence. The newspapers of the time fell upon the story, speculating on whether the missing mystery writer had been murdered or committed suicide. This newspaper even offered a 100 reward for information leading to her discovery. Suspicion naturally fell on her unfaithful husband while the manhunt continued. Silent Pool was dredged, light aircraft flew low over the area looking for traces and a pack of Airedales and bloodhounds were tracked over the ground, all to no avail. The police of four counties coordinated a mass search of the Downs, in which 15,000 volunteers took part. Criminologist Edgar Lustgarten wrote a piece for the Daily Mail, commenting that Agatha was indulging in “a typical case of ‘mental reprisal’.” Sales of her books boomed, naturally. Meanwhile, at the Hydropathic Hotel in Harrogate (now the Old Swan) a woman registered as Mrs. Neele was enjoying all the facilities the hotel had to offer for seven guineas a week. She was chatting to guests, claiming to be from South Africa, taking meals in the restaurant and enjoying the ballroom dancing. But a sharp-eyed banjo player in the hotel band recognized her from the press photographs. Police were called in and watched her for two days before her husband arrived and confirmed that the mysterious Mrs. Neele was in fact his wife. The press accused her of publicity-seeking, although two doctors testified that she was suffering from a genuine case of amnesia brought on by stress. Agatha Christie carried the truth behind her vanishing act to her grave. We will never know if she really lost her memory or if she was taking public vengeance against her husband. And today, similar questions must arise from Georgia Lester’s disappearance. With her new book due out, is she simply seeking publicity? Is she taking her revenge against her publisher for not taking her fears of a stalker seriously? Or has something more sinister happened to Britain’s contemporary Queen of Crime? Her legions of fans anxiously await the answer.