by Val McDermid
Coyne, not surprisingly for a sex offender, had no known criminal associates. What he did have was a bike. Darren Watson’s scrupulous notes revealed that he was a member of a local cycling club and had won several road races.
Joanne allowed a slow smile to spread across her face. “Darren, you are a star,” she said, waving the card like a winning lottery ticket.
“You like our Mr. Coyne, do you?”
“Like him? I love him.” As she spoke, Joanne pulled her notebook out of her handbag and began to copy down Coyne’s details. Address, date of birth, date of arrests and his conviction for the offensive weapon charge. And the name of his cycling club.
As she knocked on Steve Preston’s door half an hour later, Joanne was convinced her boss was also going to love the prospect of Gerard Patrick Coyne. She walked into his office, a grin spread across her face. “Have I got news for you!” she began, sitting down opposite her boss without waiting to be invited. She flicked open her notes and read out Coyne’s details. She looked up. “I’ve run his CRO. Looks like we’ve got a suspect at last, guy.” She sorted through the bundle of computer printouts, collating a set to give to her boss.
“And nothing to tie him in to Susan Blanchard,” Steve reminded her. “Nothing except informed speculation and a bit of computer analysis.” He took the sheaf of paper and stared at the top sheet, which included Coyne’s photos. “Wait a minute,” he said, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice.
“What is it, guy?” Joanne leaned forward in her eagerness, as if she would somehow see whatever it was that Steve had latched on to.
“I know that face. I’ve seen him.” He closed his eyes and frowned in concentration. When they opened, his whole face was alight with excitement. “He was at the Bailey the day Blake was set free! I know it was him, I noticed him particularly because he was in cycling clothes. Carrying a helmet. It was him, Joanne, I know it was him.”
“Are you sure?” It was as if she dared not hope.
“I’m sure. I was paying attention to the public gallery crowd, because I still had it at the back of my mind that we’d brought the wrong man to court. I was checking out the faces. Just in case I saw anybody that rang a bell.” Steve jumped to his feet and started pacing. “What we’ve got to do…Joanne, I want you to get me the video footage we shot at Susan Blanchard’s funeral. We had full cover, all angles. And see what you can get from the press. Whatever pix and footage they took outside the Bailey. And the magistrates’ court, see if you can find anything from there. You’ll have to be discreet, you know how they get on their high horse if they think we’re trying to come the heavy hand with them. Go and talk to the press office, see what they can do for you.”
“What about Coyne? Are we going to pull him in?”
Steve spread his hands in frustration. “I haven’t got the bodies for this, Jo. Let me see…” He was talking half to himself, doodling on his desk pad. “John’s relieving Neil at Blake’s place at six…Maybe Neil could go over to the suspect’s address then, keep on him till midnight…” He looked up at Joanne. “Any chance you can come in tomorrow at seven and pick Coyne up for the day?”
Joanne nodded, enthusiasm overcoming weariness. “Of course. This could be the break we’ve been waiting for. But…if you don’t mind me asking…Why are we still surveilling Blake when we’ve got Coyne to go at?”
Steve gave a resigned nod. “Good point, Jo. I suppose I’ve got a thing about Blake. Oh, I know he’s not the killer. But if Fiona Cameron’s right, and he did see what happened on the Heath that morning, I’d love to get something on him. For all we know, he’s in contact with Coyne. I’d like to stay on him for as long as we can manage it. But Blake’s not what you should be concentrating on now. Leave it with me, I’ll make the arrangements. Just get yourself to Coyne’s place for seven tomorrow and stay on him.”
She got to her feet. “If that’s all, I’m going to clock off now and catch up on some sleep.”
“You deserve it. Great job, Jo. Well done.” He smiled. “Our luck’s on the turn. I’ve got a good feeling about this.”
Before the door had even closed, Steve was on the phone. Within fifteen minutes, he had everything in place. Neil had agreed to take on the extra surveillance, and another CID officer was lined up to cover Blake the following day while Steve’s core team were elsewhere. It was far from satisfactory, but it was the best he could manage at such short notice. And given the way things had started to run in his favour, he couldn’t help feeling optimistic. Maybe they’d finally get their hands on the real killer of Susan Blanchard. Nothing would make him happier.
Then he remembered Terry Fowler and amended the thought.
Now everything was in place. It didn’t matter that the van he’d hired using one of his false driving licences had no logo on the side; courier companies often hired anonymous white vans when their own fleet was overstretched. Anyway, it was only a minor prop. The key vehicle, the four-wheel-drive Toyota, was already parked in the narrow lane that ran behind the row of houses where his target lived.
All it had needed was patience. He’d cruised by the target’s house a couple of times earlier in the day. No surprises there. If there had been any kind of protection in place, it had disappeared in the smoke and mirrors of the previous day’s confession. He couldn’t believe his luck when he’d switched on the TV the night before. Just when he thought things were going to get even harder for him, the police had fallen for a faker. Now nobody would be expecting him, least of all his target.
Everything was in place. Even the weather was working in his favour. A grey drizzly afternoon meant empty streets and poor visibility. He turned the key in the ignition and flicked the indicator down. Ready or not, here I come.
Kit stared at the screen without seeing the words. Time had drifted past without him noticing, engrossed as he was in the process of grieving for his friend. He replayed Georgia in his mind like a series of videotapes, recalling her gestures, her facial expressions, the way she laughed. Whole chunks of conversation dropped out of his memory and reverberated round his head. So many times they’d stayed up late in hotel bars, talking about their work, their colleagues, the publishing business and gradually moving on to more personal issues. She’d talked fondly of Anthony, lasciviously about her lovers. He’d confided the whole process of falling in love with Fiona to Georgia, and right up to the end he’d still shared more of their relationship with Georgia than anybody else.
It wasn’t that they lived in each other’s pockets. Weeks could go past without them meeting, but theirs was the sort of friendship that always picked up where they’d last left off. He missed her already, a dull pain like the beginnings of hunger. He wished Fiona were with him. She understood the mechanism of loss; she could be his guide through the uncharted terrain of grief.
He shook his head, like a dog worried by a fly, and opened his e — mail program. He downloaded Fiona’s message and read it. Words at a distance, but still they soothed.
Kit glanced at the clock and was surprised to see how late it was. The detective from the City of London Police was due to take his statement in half an hour. Not that he had much to say. His vague recollection of being sent a manuscript by Redford wouldn’t advance their case much, he suspected. He wondered if Georgia had also been on the receiving end of one of Redford’s unsolicited offerings. If so, there would probably be a record somewhere. Unlike Kit, Georgia had employed a part-time secretary to deal with her correspondence. Somewhere, there would doubtless be a copy of any covering letter that had accompanied the manuscript on its return journey.
The creak of the gate interrupted his meandering thoughts and he looked out of the window. A courier was struggling up the path with a large cardboard box, the sort that contained author copies of books. A clipboard was balanced on top of the box.
Kit got to his feet and walked out into the hall. He opened the front door before the courier had even managed to ring the bell.
“Parcel
for Martin,” the man said, peering over the top of the box.
Kit reached out to take the box. It was as heavy as he’d expected and he stepped back so he could turn round and put it on the floor clear of the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. He half turned as the courier’s arm came down in a savage arc. He saw the blow coming, half raised his arm to ward it off. He knew as soon as the impact hit his skull that he was too late. Red and white pain bloomed behind his eyes. Then everything faded to black.
The courier walked back down the path, swinging his clipboard. He climbed into his van and drove off. Two streets away, he found a parking space. He pulled off the tight uniform jacket and replaced it with black leather. He climbed into the back of the van and stripped off the coarse blue trousers, pulling on a pair of black jeans in their stead. Then he locked up the van and walked back to the lane that ran behind Kit Martin’s back garden.
He pushed open the garden gate he’d left unbolted a few minutes earlier, then, in the gathering dusk, he made his way past the bare branches of the plum trees and across the patio through the french windows he’d unlocked. Handy of Kit to have left the key in the lock. Across the kitchen and into the hall. Nice place, if you liked that sort of thing. Himself, he preferred the more traditional, farmhouse kitchen to all this stark modernity.
And there he was. Victim number four. Trussed up like a chicken, cuffed hand and foot with those convenient plastic restraints. Mouth stopped with a wide strip of elastoplast that would allow him to breathe even if his nose got bunged up. He didn’t want him dead yet. Not by a long chalk. Not so powerful now, Mr. Kit Martin, creator of false gods. Destroyer of lives.
Time for him to face his own destruction.
But first, more patience was needed. Darkness was what was required. It wouldn’t do for the neighbours to see their friendly neighbourhood celebrity rolled down the garden path like a lumpy carpet and dumped in the back of a four-wheel-drive.
He checked his watch. Half an hour should do it. Then they’d be on the road for the long journey home.
FOURTY-SIX
The video viewing room was as high-tech as anything a broadcasting company could have provided. Steve wasn’t quite sure how the techies had managed to swing the budget for such a sophisticated suite, but for once he felt it was worth every penny taken away from more direct forms of policing. He was sitting beside a technician who was taking him through the videos of Susan Blanchard’s funeral.
It had been a sparkling, sunny day, which had doubtless felt grotesquely inappropriate for the grieving family and friends, but which had made the police camera operators’ job easier. Three video cameras had been set up at a discreet distance from the graveside, taking advantage of the aged yew trees that ringed the churchyard. They had filmed the mourners arriving at the church, then assembling at the graveside for the interment. Then, as the crowd had dispersed, one camera had remained to film the grave itself for the remainder of the afternoon.
Steve’s eyes were glued to the screen as the video played out before him in slow motion. Every now and again, he asked for a freeze-frame and zoom so he could take a closer look at individual mourners. The first tape had yielded nothing concrete, although there were a couple of rear views that could have been Coyne.
By the time they were halfway through the second tape, his eyes had begun to feel gritty and tired. “I need a break,” he told the technician, pushing back his chair and stretching. “Give me ten minutes.”
He left the video suite and climbed the two flights of stairs to his office. On his desk there was a thick brown envelope with, “Urgent. FAO Detective Superintendent Steve Preston,” scrawled across it in black felt-tip. He ripped it open and pulled out half a dozen black and white photographs. A compliment slip fluttered to the desktop and he saw it had come from the picture editor of a national daily, a man he’d shared a drink and a few jokes with at one of Teflon’s ghastly cocktail parties the previous Christmas. Nothing could beat personal contact for results in that grey area of press and police cooperation.
The photographs had all been taken outside the Old Bailey on the day of Francis Blake’s acquittal. Steve rummaged in his top drawer for his magnifying glass and began to study the prints methodically. As he worked his way across the third picture, he let out a sigh of relief. His memory hadn’t been playing tricks on him. On the fringe of the crowd surrounding Blake was the unmistakable face of Gerard Coyne. Steve scanned the remaining photos and found Coyne on two others. In one, he was full-face to the camera, in the other two he was in profile. But there was no possibility of error.
The man who had been identified by Terry’s geographic profile had been there at the trial of Susan Blanchard’s putative killer.
Fired with fresh enthusiasm, Steve ran down the stairs to the video suite. “Let’s roll,” he said. “He’s here somewhere, I know it.”
His patience was rewarded a mere ten minutes later. The second tape had picked up Coyne emerging from the trees at the side of the graveyard. He was wearing a dark suit, with collar and tie, appropriate to the occasion. He had hung back from the main body of mourners round the grave, staying on the fringes. A significant number of people had respected the family’s grief and stayed well back while Susan’s twins had thrown roses on their mother’s coffin and watched it lowered into the ground. But they had all dispersed fairly quickly after the ceremony was over. Coyne, conversely, had melted back into the trees then, when the last of the congregation was long gone, he had re-emerged and crossed to the path that led to Susan Blanchard’s grave.
Steve felt his pulse quicken as Coyne moved in slow motion down the path. As he drew level with the open grave, he didn’t so much as glance sideways. Instead, he continued along the path. Two graves along from Susan Blanchard, he stopped abruptly and turned to face that headstone. “Damn,” Steve swore softly. “We can’t see his face. I bet he’s looking at her grave. I’d put money on it.”
Coyne stood, head slightly bowed, for a couple of minutes, then he turned and went back the way he had come. There was nothing in his behaviour to suggest anything untoward. He could, if pressed, have claimed he’d delayed his planned visit to the grave near Susan’s because there was a funeral in progress. But taken in conjunction with his presence at the Old Bailey and the geographic profile, it was another brick in a circumstantial case that might yet prove sufficient to put him behind bars.
“I want you to print me a series of stills from that video,” Steve said. “The best views of his face. Blow them up so we get the best possible definition. I don’t want there to be any doubts about this.”
“No problem,” the techie said. “I suppose it’s urgent?”
“It’s urgent.” Steve was already heading for the door. He checked his watch. Teflon had a habit of finding excuses to be out of the office early on Friday afternoons, but he might just catch him.
Commander Telford was actually waiting for the lift that Steve emerged from. “I’m glad I’ve caught you, sir. I need to speak with you urgently about the Susan Blanchard case,” he said firmly.
“Can’t it wait, Superintendent? I’ve got an appointment.”
With a large gin and tonic, Steve thought cynically. “I’m afraid it won’t wait, sir. Perhaps you could call ahead and tell them you’ve been unavoidably delayed?”
Telford pursed his lips and snorted through his nose. “Oh, very well. But keep it as brief as you can.” He turned on his heel and marched back to his office.
Steve had barely closed the door behind him when Telford said, “What is it that’s so important, then?”
“We have a viable suspect in the Blanchard case, sir. It’s my intention to bring him in for questioning and search his premises. I thought you’d want to be kept informed.” He crossed to the visitor’s chair and sat down, ignoring the fact that Telford was still standing.
“Where has this come from?” Telford said, unable to hide his scepticism.
“If you remember, sir
, you authorized a crime linkage and geographic profile based on cases with similar components. Using the results of that, my officers did a trawl of criminal records and we emerged with a likely name.”
“That’s it?” Telford interrupted. “You think that’ll stand up in court as a reasonable excuse for pulling someone in and turning over his home?”
“There is more, sir,” Steve said, biting back his frustration. “The suspect is a member of a cycling club and we have two witnesses who put a cyclist at the scene of the crime. Even more significantly, when I saw the suspect’s photograph, I recognized him. I had seen him before, sir. He was present at the Old Bailey when Francis Blake was in court. I’ve verified that from photographs taken there that day. And I’ve since examined the videos we took at Susan Blanchard’s funeral. He was there too. After the funeral, he walked past her grave. In my opinion, sir, we have enough circumstantial evidence to arrest him on suspicion of murder. And to conduct a search under Section Eighteen of PACE.” He held Telford’s eyes, willing him to agree. He knew his strength should be more than Telford’s weakness could withstand, but he’d never tested it in a head-to-head before. Maybe he should have done it months ago, when Telford had pushed through the decision to dump Fiona and use Horsforth. But he had backed down then, and the price had been too high for him to be comfortable with the idea that the same cost might be extracted again.
“It’s thin,” Telford complained. “And you’ve already come a cropper with this case. I don’t want another disaster on my hands.”
“We can keep the lid on it, sir. There’s no need to make any kind of announcement until we’re ready to charge him. Nobody need know about the arrest and search. I can keep it really tight just me and my immediate team.”
Telford shook his head. “You make a convincing case. But I want to run it past the AC Crime before we go any further.”