by Val McDermid
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 wit
h 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.”
THIRTY-FIVE
What she wanted to do was to jump in the first passing taxi and go straight home to Kit. But Fiona had always struggled against putting desire before duty, so she swept through the streets back to her office, oblivious to everyone and everything, her head buzzing with chaos, her gut knotting with fear. There was no particular reason why Kit should be the next name on the list, but equally, no strong reason why he should not be. She had to find a way to make him take her seriously without leaving him as scared as she was.
She was walking into her office when she heard someone call her name. She turned to find Steve running down the corridor towards her, a fine sheen of sweat on his face. “Wait, Fi,” he shouted as she turned on her heel and slammed her door behind her.
She hadn’t even got her jacket off when he was in the room beside her. One sleeve in and one sleeve half out, she had no way of resisting when he pulled her into his arms and hugged her close. “I know you’re scared,” Steve said.
“Fuck scared,” Fiona snarled. “I’m furious. People are at risk, and you won’t protect them.” She pulled away and dragged her jacket off, throwing it on the sofa. “You wouldn’t be keeping this under wraps if somebody was murdering police officers, Steve. Why don’t Kit and his friends merit the same consideration?”
“Apples and oranges, Fi. Police officers know how to keep the lid on things. But if we start issuing blanket warnings to crime writers, it’ll be a madhouse. We can’t offer them protection, we don’t have the bodies. So some of them will run screaming to the media about how crap the police are and the papers will whip it all up into mass hysteria. And then the cranks will start. And the stalkers. And the hoax phone calls. And then it’ll be the vigilantes taking the law into their own hands, protecting their heroes. And before you know it, somebody will get hurt who is nothing to do with this whole mess.” Steve paced as he spoke, his tension evident in every movement.
“It stinks, Steve, and you know it. If Georgia has been killed and believe me, I am praying that Sarah Duvall’s team don’t find anything in Smithfield apart from animal carcasses then I think it’s inescapable that there’s a serial killer out there. And I won’t let my lover and his friends be the stalking horses while you guys fuck around failing to catch the right person.” Fiona slammed open her desk drawer and pulled out a plastic folder, throwing it towards him. “There’re the letters. Kit’s, Georgia’s and the other four. You get them to Sarah Duvall.”
Steve’s face tightened. “Fine. Just promise me one thing. Promise you’ll do what you have to do in a responsible manner.”
Fiona looked as if she was about to burst into tears of rage. “Oh Steve, you should know me better than that.” Her voice was a reproach that cut like a whip.
Steve flinched, as she had intended. “I’m sorry, Fi. But you’ve got to see my point. We can’t afford to start a media witch hunt. Look, I’m scared too. If anything happened to Kit, I’d never, ever forgive myself.”
“So do something to make sure it doesn’t.”
Steve threw the folder of letters on to a chair in frustration. “Don’t you see? I can’t. It’s none of my professional business. The City force are totally separate from us and I can’t interfere in their case.”
“Well, there’s nothing more to say, is there?” Fiona’s voice seemed to come from a long way off.
Before Steve could respond, the phone rang. She reached for it automatically, saying, “You’ll have to excuse me. I have work to do.” Fiona deliberately turned her back on him. “Hello, Fiona Cameron.”
Steve watched her shoulders slump as she registered who was calling. “Just give me a minute, Major,” she said, covering the mouthpiece with her hand. She glanced over her shoulder. “Goodbye, Steve.” She waited until he had picked up the letters and wa
s walking through the door, then moved to the chair behind her desk.
Stifling a sigh, she spoke into the phone. “Sorry about that, there was someone just leaving.”
“I’m sorry, I have called at a bad time,” he apologized.
“Right now, believe me, there’s no such thing as a good time. How can I help you, Major?”
“I have very good news,” he said. “We have Miguel Delgado in custody.”
Fiona forced herself to sound bright in spite of the headache that was starting behind her eyes. “Congratulations. You must be very relieved.”
“Si, and pleased that we have succeeded. You were right, he had another line of defence in place. He had a friend with what my wife calls a Winnebago. Somebody he thought he could trust, because he knew this friend was himself a criminal. But his friend is only a small-time thief, a burglar. His friend, he had seen Delgado’s face in the paper and he knew whatever Delgado had done, it must be very serious. And the only really serious crimes he had heard about were the murders. He didn’t want to be implicated in crimes like that, so although he let Delgado take his van, he tipped off the local police. We found him early this morning on a camp site a few miles out of the city.”
“Well done. Has he confessed?”
She could hear Berrocal sigh. “No. He has said nothing since he was arrested.”
“Is there any solid evidence tying him to the crimes?”
“The second victim? The American? A waiter has come forward who says he remembers seeing Delgado with him a couple of days before the murder. We are hopeful that forensics will be able to match up fibres, but we won’t have that for a while yet. Also, we are testing the knives that Delgado had in the van when we caught him. Again, we don’t have the results yet. So, we have nothing much to put pressure on with.”