by Val McDermid
He’d been back in moments, zipping up the laptop bag, far calmer than she’d have been in the circumstances. It was a measure of the toll the previous days’ anxieties had taken that so small an accident had ruffled her so thoroughly.
But at least she had a laptop to work with. She’d already used it on the flight, to record her comparisons of the death threat letters and the flyer Redford had distributed at the press conference. There was no question in her mind that the same person had composed all the documents. And she could not rule out the possibility that the letter-writer had become sufficiently obsessed with his grievances to turn his words into action. If it came to it, she would so testify in court.
Now she walked briskly from the small plane to the terminal across tarmac greasy with damp. Inside, she shook her head to free the sparkles of raindrops from her hair and followed the exit signs. The walk from the gate to the arrivals hall seemed interminable, endless corridors turning back on themselves in the kind of maze that experimental rats were better at solving than frazzled commuters.
Eventually, she emerged into the bustle of the airport. She looked around and saw a man carrying a piece of white card with CAMERON neatly inscribed on it. He was a wiry, dark-haired whippet of a man whose sharp suit hung from his shoulders as if it was still on the hanger. With his foot tapping impatiently and his restless eyes flicking across the concourse, he looked more like a villain expecting a tug than a police officer. Fiona crossed to him, put down her overnight bag and touched his elbow. “I’m Fiona Cameron,” she said. “Are you waiting for me?”
The man ducked his head. “Aye, that’s right.” He folded the card and stuffed it in his jacket pocket, then extended a hand to her. “I’m Detective Sergeant Murray. Dougie Murray. Pleased to meet you.” He pumped her hand vigorously. “I’ve got the car outside.” He released her hand and walked off.
Fiona adjusted the strap of the laptop on her shoulder, picked up her bag and followed. Outside the door was an unmarked saloon car. Murray gave a wave to the traffic warden patrolling the kerb and made for the driver’s door. Fiona opened the back door of the car and deposited her bags, then got in beside him in the front. He was already gunning the engine. “The Super sends his apologies. Meeting came up that he couldnae give the body-swerve. I’m to take you to St. Leonard’s. That’s the Divisional HQ where the investigation’s based. The Super’ll meet you there. Is that OK?”
“I’d like to go to my hotel on the way,” Fiona said firmly. “Only to check in and drop my bags off. I don’t want to be lugging my overnight bag around all day,” she added pointedly.
“No, right, ‘course you don’t. We’ve put you in Channings, so we’ll have to make a wee detour.” He spoke in a tone of satisfaction, as if it had made his day to have to plan something more creative than a straight run back into town.
They swung off the ring road at the Art-Deco Stakis casino, cutting through a chunk of green belt to join Queensferry Road. Fiona stared at the traffic without registering anything, her thoughts occupied with Kit. He’d be sitting at his desk working, the CD player loaded with whatever was the flavour of the moment. REM and Radiohead would certainly be in the stack somewhere. Maybe The Fall, maybe the Manics. He’d be alternating between bashing the keyboard and staring out of the window, choosing work to keep his personal demons at bay. But now she had to put him out of her mind and concentrate on what she’d come here to do.
The bungalows suddenly gave way to tall sandstone terraces set back from the main road, elegant Victorian family homes now mostly divided into flats with huge windows and high ceilings to swallow heat. They made an abrupt left turn on to granite setts, the car wheels rumbling as Murray swung it round the next corner. “Here we go,” he announced, double-parking outside a blond sandstone building with a canopy and a pair of ornamental lampposts. “I’ll wait in the car,” he said. Fiona wasn’t surprised.
The elegance inside matched the sandblasted facade. She checked in and followed a youth up an elegant staircase. Her room was on the first floor, looking out over the wide gardens that divided the street. Through the smirr of rain, she could see the steely ribbon of the Firth of Forth. Over on her left, a vast looming gothic pile with twin towers dominated the streets spread below her. “What’s that building?” she asked the porter just as he was leaving.
“That’s Fettes College,” he said. “You know? Where Tony Blair went.”
It explained a lot, she thought.
Fiona unpacked her case and made her way downstairs. Ten minutes later they’d cleared the Georgian New Town, dipped down to cross the Cowgate and zipped up The Pleasance to a modern building that housed A Division of Lothian and Borders Police. She followed Murray indoors and along a corridor. He opened a door with a flourish and said, “I’ll tell the Super you’ve arrived. You’ll be working in here, so you might as well get yourself settled in.”
As he turned away, Fiona decided it was time to start asserting herself. “A cup of coffee would be nice,” she said without a smile.
“Aye, right. Milk? Sugar?”
“Milk, no sugar, please.”
He turned on his heel and marched off, jacket flapping with the speed of his stride. Fiona turned into the room. It was surprisingly pleasant, if small. There was a pale wooden table with a desk chair in front of it. Two standard armless upholstered chairs sat against one wall. There was a small side table with a phone, a jug of water and two clean glasses. Best of all, there was a window. She could see across the car park and, beyond the wall and the rooftops, a slice of Salisbury Crag just about hanging on to its green tones through the rain.
Fiona dumped the laptop on the desk and got down on her knees to find the phone point. She was just plugging in the adapter for her modem cable when the door opened. A pair of stocky legs in trousers that strained over the thighs came towards her. Fiona leaned back so she could see the man over the desk. The sight jolted her memory. A picture formed in her mind like an image on photographic paper swimming into definition in the developer bath. A stocky man with startling red hair and a freckled face ruddy with the East Coast winds. Pale-blue eyes fringed with unusually dark lashes. A button nose and a pinched cherub’s mouth. Detective Sergeant Alexander Galloway of life Police. Instantly she was transported back a dozen years to a dark and dreary pub in St. Andrews where he’d agreed to meet for a drink so she could pick his brains about Lesley’s murder. He hadn’t been involved with the case initially, but when it had come up for review six months after the event, he’d been one of the officers assigned to it. He’d been able to tell her nothing new.
Now she gaped in shock. She hadn’t made the connection when Duvall had explained that Detective Superintendent Sandy Galloway was the officer in charge of the inquiry into Drew Shand’s murder. But there could be no doubt. The red hair had faded to a dull gingerish grey, and his flushed face had developed a purplish tinge that would worry his GP, had he ever found time to visit the surgery. But the eyes were the same pale blue, outlined with those remarkable dark lashes. The snub nose was a Jackson Pollock of red veins, and the mouth looked more crimped with disapproval than she remembered. But then, that’s what a dozen years at the sharp end of policing would do to a man, she thought. He looked down at her and gave a little smile. “No, no, Doctor, you’ve got it all wrong. It’s us that are on our knees to you this time,” he said genially.
Fiona scrambled to her feet. “I had no idea…I was just looking for the phone point.”
Galloway tutted. “Murray should have sorted you out.”
“I don’t think Murray does sorting out,” Fiona said wryly. “At least, not for older women. I’m still waiting for my coffee.”
Galloway threw his head back in a soundless laugh. “By, you’ve got sharper over the years.”
“Professional observation, that’s all. I’m taken aback to see you again, though.” Fiona extended a hand. Galloway’s grip was dry and firm.
“I mentioned to DCI Duvall that we’d met befor
e. I thought she would have told you.”
“I think DCI Duvall likes to keep us all on our toes,” Fiona said, her voice as neutral as she could manage.
“Aye, well. I was sorry, you know? That we never got anybody for your sister’s murder.”
Fiona looked away. “I won’t pretend I wasn’t angry at the time. But these days, I understand better how hard it is to find a serial offender.” She met his eyes again. “I don’t harbour any grudges. You did your best.”
Galloway rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger. “Aye, well. I learned a valuable lesson from you, you know.”
“You did?”
“Aye. Never forget that murdered folk have families that need to know what happened. It doesnae hurt to keep that at the front of your mind.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, it’s good of you to come at such short notice. What I’ve done is I’ve got one of my officers bringing down the murder file. Is there anything else you want to see?”
Fiona unzipped the laptop case. “I want to spend some time in Drew Shand’s flat.”
“It’s been searched thoroughly, you know.” He leaned forward, fists on the desk, frowning. It should have been an aggressive pose, but somehow Galloway made it merely eager.
She looked him straight in the eye. “I’d just like to get a feel for it. And I want to double-check that there’s nothing there to connect Drew Shand with Charles Redford.”
Right on cue, there was a knock on the door and a uniformed PC wheeled in a trolley stacked with files. He brought them over to the desk. “Will that be everything, sir?” he asked.
Galloway looked a question at Fiona. “Coffee,” she said. “Either point me in the direction of the best coffee in the building, or have somebody bring me a cup every hour.”
“You heard her, Constable,” Galloway said. “Away up to my office and bring down the tray with my filter machine and the coffee.” He smiled at Fiona. “I can always come down here for a cup if I get desperate. Now, I’m just going to leave you to it. If you need anything, or you want to discuss anything with me, just pick up the phone and ask the switchboard to find me. And when you’re ready to go over to the flat, just let me know and I’ll organize a car for you.”
“Thanks. Looking at this lot, I’m going to be pretty busy for the rest of the day,” Fiona said. “I’ll probably be ready to go over there late afternoon, but I’ll call you when I can see light at the end of the tunnel.”
Left to her own devices, she loaded her software on to Kit’s computer. Before she began the work, she sent him a quick e — mail to say she’d arrived safely. Then, making sure her mobile was switched on, she set about the task. She was familiar with police files by now, and although she skipped nothing, she had learned how to skim for material of interest.
What she was looking for were factors common to all three murders that, taken individually, were insignificant but which, taken together, built to form a conclusion that was inescapable. Fiona suspected that in this case, there was little she could achieve that any intelligent police officer couldn’t do equally well. But the advantage for the police in having her do the work was that she could testify as an independent expert witness who was an acknowledged authority in the field of crime linkage.
For once, she had something firm to hang her analysis on. It was clear that each of the three murders had been modelled on an episode from a book written by the victim. The Irish Police’s arrest of a suspect had diverted attention away from that, but Duvall had made it clear to her that the Garda would be reviewing their position in the light of Redford’s confession. She had no doubt that their suspect would be freed shortly.
What was clear was that each of the victims must have been stalked. One of the things she’d have to check out over the next few days was how much information about each of them was readily available in the public domain. With luck, some of that material would be in the murder files already. And of course, the police forces involved would be trawling for fresh witnesses now they had a suspect whose photograph they could release.
For Fiona, the task was more subtle. And for once, she could work at her own pace. The chances were, as Kit pointed out, that Duvall was right. This time there was no ticking time bomb of a killer preparing to strike again.
FOURTY-FIVE
DC Joanne Gibb walked down the corridor to Steve Preston’s office with a bounce in her stride that seemed to deny the hours she’d spent hunched over her computer running criminal-records checks against everyone on the electoral roll in a clutch of streets on the borders of Kentish Town and Tufnell Park.
She’d been practically cross-eyed with fatigue and on the point of tears of frustration at the fruitlessness of her task when the phone had rung. The previous day, she’d tried to contact the local information collator at the police station serving the area Terry had identified, only to discover the constable who ran their card index was on holiday and not due back until Monday. It had felt like the last straw, but she’d hacked on through her lists, hoping against hope she’d still turn something up.
Then, late morning, the call had come through. The collator, Darren Watson, had dropped by the station to pick something up and he’d seen the message marked ‘urgent’ from Joanne. At the end of her rope and almost without hope, Joanne had outlined what she was looking for.
“Right,” Darren had said. “A couple of likely lads spring to mind. Why don’t you come over and we’ll have a look?”
“Now?” Joanne could hardly believe her luck. In her experience, police on their day off would do almost anything to avoid being dragged on duty.
“Sure. I’ve just come back from a week in a cottage in Cornwall with my other half, and frankly, anything that keeps me out of the house for an hour or two would be a bonus. Get yourself over here and we’ll see what we can dig out.”
Joanne didn’t need asking twice. She’d practically run downstairs to her car and invited several outbreaks of road rage on her way to the North London police station where Darren Watson might just have the answer to her prayers. Local Information Officers were responsible for maintaining the informal intelligence of the station. As well as keeping a card index file of every known villain on the patch with details of their convictions, a good collator recorded associates, suspicions and gossip. There were sound reasons why much of what they had tucked away was never entered into a computer. A card could always be conveniently misplaced, whereas even deleted computer records left traces. Omniscience coupled with deniability was the hallmark of a good collator. Joanne hoped that was what she was going to find.
Barren was in a small subterranean office that had the atmosphere of a wartime command bunker. One wall was covered with large-scale maps of the area, with pins in a variety of colours marking specific locations. Another was lined with filing cabinets. Shelving along a third wall sagged under the weight of box files piled along its length. Darren was sitting on the edge of the desk that occupied most of the fourth wall, dressed in his civvies: a navy fleece over a white T — shirt, blue jeans and brilliant-white trainers. Joanne’s first thought was that if his appearance was anything to go by, Barren’s files would be immaculate. Joanne was acutely aware that the attrition of the day’s work on top of too little sleep had left her a long way behind the collator in the grooming stakes.
They introduced themselves and Joanne came straight to the point. “Like I told you, I’m trying to develop a suspect in a series of rapes. We have reason to believe he might be on your patch. I’ve done a trawl through electoral records, but I’ve come up with a blank. We think he might have a record for minor sexual offences maybe even attempted rape. What we’re looking for is an offender who works out of doors, who targets white women, usually blonde. He may ride a bike in his getaways and he uses a knife in his attacks. It’s possible that some of his attacks may have been witnessed by small children.”
Barren pushed off from the desk and headed for his filing cabinets. “I’ve been giving it some thought and
I’ve come up with two names.” He hauled open one of the card index drawers and flicked through. “There we go.” He took out a small bundle of cards held together with an elastic band. “Gordon Harold Armstrong.” He handed the cards over to Joanne and moved to another drawer.
Gordon Harold Armstrong was twenty-five, unemployed, and had been in and out of prison for burglary and indecent assault. His technique was to grab women on their way home from work, fondle their breasts and expose himself. He had threatened three of his victims with a knife. There was no mention of a bike. But for Joanne, the crucial disqualifying factor was that Gordon Harold Armstrong was black. And based on both Fiona’s analysis of Susan Blanchard’s murder and the evidence of the rape victims, the man she was looking for was white.
Darren turned to her with a single card. “Any joy, do you think?”
Joanne shook her head. “I think I’m looking for an ICi.”
Darren proffered the card. “Try this one.”
Gerard Patrick Coyne, twenty-seven years old. New Zealand-born, he had arrived in the UK as an eighteen-year-old student. Which explained his absence from the voters’ roll, Joanne realized. Having graduated from Kent University with a social sciences degree, he had worked for various market research companies as a data analyst ever since. His first arrest had come four years previously after a woman had complained he had attacked her in a local park. He had pushed her to the ground and tried to have sex with her. But she’d struggled and got away from him. The charges were later dropped on the grounds of insufficient evidence. He’d been arrested for the second time a few months later. A foot patrol had found him lurking in the bushes of another park, this time carrying a knife. He’d been charged with possession of an offensive weapon and had been given two years’ probation. According to the notes on the back of the card, Coyne had been a suspect in two other sexual assaults. In one case, the victim had been too traumatized to take part in an identification parade. In the other, the woman had been unable to pick Coyne out of the line-up.