Killing the Shadows

by Val McDermid

  She hoped he wasn’t looking for help from her. She wanted to tell him to fuck off, that she had far more important things to worry about. But the professional in her knew that putting an end to the Toledo murders was just as important as what was happening in her own life. When it came to value, she had to believe all human lives were equal. Otherwise there would be little point in her work. So she forced herself not to let her frustration and hostility loose on Salvador Berrocal. “I’m sure you’ve got a very experienced team to work on him,” she said, reaching for the button to switch on her computer.

  “I have never dealt with a serial killer in interrogation before. But I have a plan,” he said, sounding enthusiastic. “I figured I would make him angry. Use one of my team to taunt him. You know the kind of thing. These stupid local cops, how could they be so dumb as to arrest a pathetic specimen like him? It’s obvious that whoever did these crimes was clever enough to plan very carefully and charming enough to get his victims to go along with him willingly. And an ugly, smelly failed shopkeeper like Delgado couldn’t possibly have what it takes to be the Toledo killer. My man will act as if he’s disgusted to be wasting his time on such a pointless interview.”

  “I think that’ll make him very angry,” Fiona said. “Which will almost certainly work to your advantage. You’ve obviously thought it through very carefully.” Now go away and leave me alone, she thought. “Let me know how you get on.”

  He was still thanking her for her profile when she put the phone down. So let him think she was a rude bitch. She was past caring. Fiona headed straight for her e — mail program and started to write a new message. Kit wouldn’t answer the phone when he was writing, but she knew he checked his e — mail every hour or so.

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

  To: Kit Martin [KMWriter@trashnet.com]

  Subject: Re: Advice

  Remember the message on the front of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? Well, DON’T PANIC. I didn’t want to alarm you this morning. I had an idea, but I wanted to run it past Steve first. Overnight I discovered that the locals think the Garda have arrested the wrong man for Jane Elias’s murder. Taking into account Drew’s death and Georgia’s disappearance, I had to think about the possibility of a serial offender. So I took a look at And Ever More Shall Be So and was disturbed by certain parallels I found there. I’ve had a meeting with the officer in charge of the case in the City of London Police, and the good news is that they’re taking me seriously. The bad news of course is that if I’m right, then Georgia is probably, as we feared, dead. And the worst news is that there may be other killings. And of course, the police are already saying they don’t want to issue a general warning and start an unwarranted panic, not least because they don’t have the staffing levels to offer people any protection… There is NO REASON to suppose you’re specifically at risk (and yes, I still think the death threats are probably unrelated to the murders), but it makes sense to take precautions. Don’t answer the door to strangers. Don’t go anywhere alone. I mean, anywhere. Fuck bravado, I want you safe. I’m at work if you need to talk. Departmental meeting 2–3, seminar 3.30-5, home by 6. I hope.

  I love you. Keep safe. F.

  She hit the send button and watched her message disappear into the ether. The logical part of Fiona’s mind knew that she could not save Kit if someone was determined to kill him. But she could adopt the alarm principle. A burglar had once told her that security systems on private houses were no deterrent to the determined raider. If he wanted to get into a specific house, he could and he would. Where they were useful was in putting off the casual burglar. “You gotta make the house next door look like an easier option,” he’d explained. Well, if the price of Kit’s life was making someone else look like an easier option, Fiona was prepared to do that.

  Afterwards, she’d live with the consequences. For now, what was important was keeping Kit alive.

  In spite of what she’d said to Fiona, Sarah Duvall was conscious that she owed a duty to potential victims. She’d always been a proponent of preventative policing, but it acquired a new urgency when murder was the crime in question rather than burglary or street crime. Her first priority was the preparation of an application for a search warrant for Smithfield Market, but once that was under way, she had turned her attention to what else she could usefully achieve.

  Because she’d never worked with Fiona, Duvall recognized she was probably far more sceptical of her insights than Steve Preston, who seemed to regard the psychologist as virtually infallible. So she was wary of Fiona’s contention that the death threat letters were unlikely to be the work of the murderer. Duvall didn’t believe in coincidence. In her book, even synchroniciry was suspect. She simply couldn’t believe that a serial murderer happened to be targeting thriller writers at the same time as a completely different individual was sending them death threats. Either they were one and the same person, or the letter-writer had inside knowledge. So if she could go some way towards identifying the source of the letters, she would either have uncovered the identity of the killer or at the very least, someone who might lead her to her culprit.

  While she wasn’t willing to take everything Fiona had said at face value, Duvall was prepared to acknowledge common sense when she heard it. And it seemed to her that it was more than likely that the letter-writer could well be either a frustrated wannabe writer or someone whose career had crashed and burned. If that were the case, then the chances were that there were authors’ agents and publishers’ editors who would have come into contact with the writer of the letters and who might even be able to make a guess at their creator. These people worked with words; it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that they might recognize the prose style of the writer.

  So she had set one of her team the task of identifying appropriate authorities, including an expert in the genre of crime fiction. As a result, she had arranged a breakfast meeting for the following morning with two leading agents and three editors in the field. They had no idea what she wanted to talk to them about, though she had impressed them both with the urgency of her request and the need for confidentiality.

  But that was for the morning, and she’d work out how best to handle that later. What she had to focus on now was finding out who might be the future targets of her putative serial killer.

  It was a goal that had brought her to Clapham and a quiet row of terraced cottages set a couple of streets back from the Common. According to her detective constable, what Dominic Reid didn’t know about contemporary crime fiction wasn’t worth knowing. As the car pulled up to the kerb a couple of houses away from Reid’s, Duvall switched on the interior light. “Give me a minute,” she said to the DC who was driving her. She used the time to refresh her memory on the brief he’d prepared for her earlier.

  Dominic Reid, forty-seven. He’d started off working in BBC Radio, then branched out as an independent producer. His company currently made a couple of Radio Four quiz programmes, and he had a list of credits in radio documentary, mostly concerning one aspect or another of mystery writing. He’d written a guide to crime fiction for a major book selling chain, reviewed the genre for a couple of magazines, and had recently published Paging Death, a critical study of modern British crime fiction. If anyone could tell Duvall who might be in the sights of a serial killer, it was Reid. “Do you read this stuff?” she asked the constable. “Crime novels?”

  He shook his head. “I tried to read one once. I counted five mistakes in the first twenty pages, so I binned it. Too much like a busman’s holiday. What about you, ma’am?”

  “I never read fiction of any kind.” Duvall sounded like a tee totaller talking about strong drink. She clicked off the light. “Let’s do it,” she said.

  Reid opened the door almost before the twin tones of the bell had died away. He was a lean, gangling man with an engaging, bony face under a thatch of untidy greying blond hair. “Detective Chief Inspector Duvall?” he asked, suppressed excitement
obvious in his expression.

  “Mr. Reid,” Duvall acknowledged with a nod. “Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice.”

  He stepped back, gesturing that they should enter. Duvall and the DC filed into the hall. There was barely room for the three of them; stacks of books leaned against one wall, reaching above waist-height. They followed Reid into the front room, where three walls were lined with shelves crammed with more hardbacks. Apart from books, the only furnishings in the room were four battered armchairs and a couple of occasional tables. On one chair, a large black and white cat lay curled, not twitching so much as a whisker at their arrival.

  “Please, sit down,” Reid said.

  Duvall gave the chairs the once-over for cat hairs, and opted for the one nearest the door as being least likely to do major damage to her suit. She caught the DC’s eye and nodded to the far chair.

  “Can I get you anything to drink?” Reid said eagerly. “Tea, coffee, soft drinks? Or something stronger?”

  “Thanks, Mr. Reid, but I don’t want to eat into your time any more than necessary. Please?” Duvall waved a hand at the remaining empty chair.

  Reid folded his long body into the chair. “I’ve never actually met a senior police officer before,” he said. “Seems strange, I know, since I’ve read about so many. But there it is.” He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bounced in the open neck of his shirt.

  “I appreciate you making time for us. And I’m sorry my colleague wasn’t able to explain why I needed to see you so urgently.”

  “Very mysterious. But of course, you would expect that to appeal to me, wouldn’t you?”

  Duvall acknowledged his remark with a thin smile. When necessary, she could be as warm and confiding with a witness as anyone. But anoraks like Reid didn’t need to be cosseted to part with every piece of knowledge they possessed. “It’s a highly confidential matter. Before I can lay it out for you, I have to be certain of your discretion.”

  Reid sat up straight, a look of surprise on his face. “That sounds serious.”

  “It is very serious. Can I rely on you not to repeat this conversation to any third party?”

  His head bobbed up and down several times. “If that’s what you want, yes, of course I’ll keep it to myself. Is this anything to do with Georgia Lester’s disappearance?” he asked.

  “What makes you say that?”

  He gave an awkward little shrug. “I just assumed…You’re from the City Police, and I know that’s where Georgia lives. And with her disappearance being in the news…”

  Duvall crossed her legs and leaned forward from the waist. “It’s true that I am the officer investigating Ms Lester’s disappearance. But I have a further concern. In the light of the recent murders of Drew Shand and Jane Elias, we are considering the possibility — and I put it no stronger than that — that there might be a connection.”

  Reid folded his arms across his chest in an automatic gesture of defence. “You wonder if there’s a serial killer targeting crime writers.” It was a statement, not a question. “Yes, I can see why you might be thinking along those lines. I won’t pretend it hadn’t crossed my mind, but he inclined his head towards the bookshelves ‘I put it down to too much reading.” He gave a lopsided half-smile.

  “And it may well be that we’re letting our imagination run away with us too,” Duvall acknowledged. “But we have to explore every possible avenue. And that’s why I want to pick your brains. I’m anxious to try to establish who else might be at risk, if our theory proves correct.”

  Reid was nodding. “And you think I can help. Well, nobody knows more than me about the genre. Tell me what you want to know.”

  Duvall allowed herself to relax slightly. She was going to get what she needed with almost no expenditure of energy. Which was just as well, because she was beginning to feel the day had gone on altogether too long. “If there is a connection, there seem to be certain linking factors. All three have written serial killer novels. All three have won awards for their books. And all three have had their books successfully adapted for TV or film. I imagine there aren’t too many others who fit that category?”

  Reid unfolded his arms. “More than you’d think, Chief Inspector. Obviously, you’ll be thinking about thriller writers like Kit Martin, Enya Flannery, Jonathan Lewis.”

  Duvall blinked quickly at the mention of Kit Martin’s name, but otherwise showed no sign that his name held any more significance than any other. But if he was the first name out of the expert’s hat, Fiona Cameron might well be justified in her fears, Duvall thought as she listened to what Reid was saying.

  “But as well as the pure serial killer novels, some authors of police series have included serial murderers in their books. Ian Rankin and Reginald Hill, for example.” He got to his feet. “I’ve got a database on my computer next door. All the factors you describe are among my criteria, so we can do a multiple search and find out exactly who fits the bill. Why don’t we go and see what that comes up with?”

  Duvall uncrossed her legs. “That sounds like a very good idea. Lead on, Mr. Reid.”

  Susannah’s teeth were chattering. Uncontrollable castanets rattling through her head. She didn’t remember the cottage being cold when they’d been here. But then, the weather had been mild in September. An hour of the gas fire in the late evenings had been enough to take the nip off the air. That and Thomas’s warm body next to hers. Now, there was no warm body. And only the chill of damp November air to caress her body. Her captor clearly wasn’t about to spend his money on the gas meter just for the sake of her comfort.

  Her naked skin was gooseflesh. That had as much to do with ambient temperature as fear. Though certainly her fear was enough to produce goose pimples in a tropical climate. One minute she’d been working on her monthly billing, the next minute there had been a knock at the door. She’d looked out of the window. An unfamiliar white van in the drive. But the man standing on the doorstep with the package and the clipboard wore the familiar uniform of the courier that her company always used to send her packages of work.

  She hadn’t been expecting anything from head office that afternoon. And it was late for the courier, who usually arrived mid-morning. It must, she thought, be something urgent. Perhaps the Brantingham contract. Phil had mentioned in that morning’s e — mail that it was close to finalization. Susannah had opened the door and smiled at the courier.

  She never knew what hit her. Only that something did.

  The next thing she knew was excruciating pain. Pain expanded to include blackness and movement. And the low thrum of an engine. She was lying on her side, drool running from her mouth. And she couldn’t move. Slowly, as if she was very drunk, she identified the pain. The principal source was her head. Like a very bad migraine, except that this originated in the back of her head, not the front.

  Next in the hierarchy were her shoulders. Her arms seemed to be pinioned behind her. That was the information her screaming muscles sent her. She tried to straighten up and a new wave of pain swept up her legs. As far as she could figure out through the blitz of sensory overload, her feet were fastened together and linked to her wrists. Hog-tied, wasn’t that what the Americans called it?

  By keeping perfectly still, the pain diminished. Still unbearable, but at least now she could think of something else. Blackness and movement. And the rough feel of carpet under her cheek. What else could it be but the boot of a car?

  That was when the fear kicked in.

  She had no idea how long they’d been travelling. There was no way to measure the duration of pain.

  At last, the movement stopped with a jerk. Then the engine noise ceased. She strained to hear something but nothing came. Then the boot cracked open. The shock to her eyes triggered a nauseating pain in her head. Then they adjusted and she saw a dark silhouette against the night sky.

  Susannah opened her mouth and screamed. The man laughed. “No one to hear you, pet,” he said. The accent was Geordie, she registered that
much.

  He bent over and grunted with the effort of lifting her out of the car. He staggered slightly under the weight as he walked. With her face jammed against his shoulder, Susannah could see nothing. The quality of the air changed and she realized he had taken her indoors. A few more steps, a turn to the right and suddenly they were in glaring fluorescent light. He let her fall and she screamed as she hit cold tile. Her head cracked against something cold and hard.

  The next time she came round, she was naked. She was sitting on a toilet, her right arm handcuffed to a towel rail firmly bolted to the wall. Dazed, confused and in pain, she worked out that her legs were shackled, the chain passing behind the bowl so she was anchored to the toilet seat.

  But at least now she knew where she was. Thomas had rented the cottage on a remote Cornish headland to celebrate their first anniversary. They’d spent a week here, walking on the cliffs, watching the birds, cooking simple meals, making love every night. It had been idyllic.

  This was a nightmare.

  And it had only grown worse.

  When she had called out, he had reappeared. Tall and broad, with the muscles of a weightlifter. His dark hair cropped in a crew cut over a face that seemed oddly familiar. She couldn’t figure out where she’d seen him before. But then, his face was unremarkable. Nondescript. If she’d written an inventory of his features, it would have fitted thousands of men. Dark eyebrows, blue eyes, pale complexion, straight nose, average mouth, slightly receding chin. The only strange thing about him was that he was wearing a white lab coat and he had a stethoscope hanging round his neck like a doctor. He stood in the doorway, appraising her.

  “Why are you doing this?” Susannah croaked.

  “That’s none of your business,” he said. He produced a second set of handcuffs. “If you struggle, it’s going to hurt a lot more.”