Killing the Shadows

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Killing the Shadows Page 37

by Val McDermid


  “But the AC’s on leave,” Steve protested. He could see his case slipping out of his grasp and he felt powerless to stop it.

  “He’s due back on Monday morning. I suggest we have a meeting with him first thing. Until then, nothing must be done to alert the suspect.” Telford’s smile was genial. He’d found a way to pass the awkward buck, and he was happy. “We’ve waited long enough. Another couple of days won’t hurt.”

  “That’s not good enough.” Steve could feel his cheeks flush with anger as Telford’s smile changed to a frown. “My team have worked all the hours God sends on this and I am not about to sacrifice our momentum. I propose leaving a message on the AC’s home phone so he can contact me for a briefing as soon as he gets back.”

  “How dare you threaten to go over my head? You are out of order, Superintendent,” Telford shouted with all the bluster of a man who knows he is out of his depth.

  Steve got to his feet. “That may be, sir. But this is my investigation and I will not jeopardize it. I’m prepared to take full responsibility.”

  Faced with an implacability he could not shake, Telford immediately back-pedalled. “If you think it’s necessary, then do it. But you’d better be very sure of your ground if you’re going to disrupt the AC’s leave.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Steve said, his tone bordering on the insolent. He left the room before his temper escaped his control, even managing not to slam the door. It wasn’t the result he’d hoped for, but at least he had side-stepped Teflon. The Assistant Commissioner for Crime wouldn’t be thrilled to come home from whatever foreign parts he was visiting to find an urgent message on his answering machine. But although he knew how to play politics as well as any other senior manager, the AC had been a far more courageous detective than Telford had ever managed. He would understand what was driving Steve. And, he felt sure, the AC would give him the go-ahead. Till then, he would have to keep the surveillance as low-key as possible.

  Nothing, he thought as he walked back to his office, was ever as straightforward as it seemed.

  It was a sentiment Fiona would probably have agreed with. She had ploughed through the murder file on Drew Shand, which had proved to be a singularly unproductive activity from the point of view of developing strong points of linkage. Among the few things she could say so far was that in spite of careful staging, there was no indication of the sexual motivation of the fictional killings being replicated in the real murders, which was significant in itself. It meant that there was clearly some other motive behind the deaths of Georgia and Drew. They had both been stalked; they had both been abducted; neither had been killed in their own homes, but at some unspecified site; and they were both award-winning writers of serial killer thrillers which had successfully been adapted by other media. All of this was in the realm of the psychology of the act, however. There was little of a concrete nature from which further evidence could be developed.

  What had struck Fiona was that the killer was prepared to deviate from his template. In each case, there was a significant alteration between the events outlined in the book and the path the murderer had taken. With Drew Shand, the body dump was different. Although there were sites nearby that would have better matched the precise description in the book, his body had been displayed somewhere else, presumably because it was less exposed and the killer could drive right up to the location. With Jane Elias, the torture that had been carried out on a live victim had been translated into the mutilation of a body already dead. Either the killer had misjudged his initial attack or he hadn’t had the stomach for that degree of sadistic experiment. Fiona inclined to the latter view because it conformed to the element of expediency in the earlier variation.

  In Georgia’s case, the crucial difference was the discovery of the head accompanying the victim. Furthermore, according to Duvall, there was no sign that the killer had slavishly stuck to the book; there was no indication that he had had sex with the severed head. Again, a mixture of squeamishness and expediency had come into play. For the killer to be certain that his actions would be identified, he had to make sure that the meat in the freezer was clearly the remains of Georgia Lester. So he had made changes.

  It wasn’t exactly a signature, but it was a pattern. With this new realization in the front of her mind, Fiona approached Drew’s flat with more optimism than she had felt earlier. Perhaps there really was new material to be had there.

  Late in the afternoon, Murray had been despatched to navigate her through the rush-hour traffic to Drew Shand’s New Town flat. He had let her in, then left her to it, with instructions to her to lock up after her and bring the keys back to St. Leonard’s in the morning.

  It was a beautiful flat, she thought. The rooms were elegantly proportioned, with elaborate plaster friezes in the living room and main bedroom, which looked west across a large communal garden, grass and mature trees enclosed behind iron railings and separated from the surrounding houses by the road. The flat had been expensively fitted out, with heavy curtains and comfortable furniture. Framed film noir posters adorned the walls, an interest mirrored in the collection of videos that filled an entire bookcase in the living room. In spite of that, and the books that lined the freakishly tidy office, it felt more like a display for a magazine feature than a home. Even the bathroom was preternaturally tidy, with all the normal clutter hidden behind handsome mirror-and-chrome cupboards. Not even a half-squeezed tube of toothpaste disrupted the order.

  This much she learned from her first pass through the flat. But Fiona was no behavioural psychologist. It wasn’t her business to try to read the crime by reading the victim. In this instance, her primary goal was to find something in Drew Shand’s life to connect him to Charles Cavendish Redford. She knew the police had searched the flat thoroughly, but at that point they’d been looking for a connection with the gay S&M world, not a communication from a frustrated writer.

  She pulled the desk chair over to the filing cabinet and started going through the files. The bottom drawer was devoted to personal papers mortgage, accounts, household receipts, car insurance, the general detritus of modern life. The next drawer contained a series of suspension files that seemed to relate to Drew’s published work and work in progress. She searched the files quickly, on the off-chance that he really had stolen an idea from Redford. But there was nothing to indicate any source for his material other than his own imagination.

  The top drawer was devoted to correspondence. There were files for his agent, his publisher, his publishing contracts and, finally, one marked ‘Fan Mail’. It was a surprisingly thick file, Fiona thought as she pulled it out of the drawer. She’d lived with Kit for long enough to have an appreciation of the sort of volume of mail a successful writer would ordinarily receive, but Drew’s file exceeded her expectations. The first dozen letters were much as she expected; letters of appreciation for his first novel, inquiries about when the second would be out, requests for signed bookplates, the occasional, slightly embarrassed pointing out of a minor error in the text. There were a couple of letters expressing disgust at the violence of Copycat, but nothing that would stir any great feeling of concern in the recipient.

  The bulk of the file, however, consisted of letters and printed-out e — mail from men who expressed an interest in meeting the author of Copycatbecause they found him attractive and were intrigued to know if his personal sexual tastes were reflected in his novel. These were held together with a paper clip. Stuck to the top sheet was a Post-it note that read, ‘Saddo file’.

  As she flicked through, a single letter dislodged itself from near the back of the sheaf. It was a folded sheet of A4. Fiona unfolded it, and let out a long sigh of satisfaction. Drew Shand, she read,

  Your career has barely begun, but already it is based on the dangerous ground of theft. You have stolen from me. You know that you have taken my work and passed it off as what you have yourself made. And your lies deprive me of what is rightfully mine. Your work is a feeble reflection of other people’s
light. You take, you destroy, you are a parasite who lives off the life force of those whose gifts you envy. You know this to be true. Search your pathetic grimy soul and you will not be able to deny what you have deprived me of. The time has come for you to pay. You deserve nothing from me but my contempt and my hatred. If killing you is what it takes to grant what is rightfully mine, then so be it. It is a fair price for stealing my soul. The hour and the day will be of my choosing. I trust you will not sleep easy; you do not deserve so to do. I will enjoy your funeral. From your ashes, I will rise like a phoenix.

  There were differences between this letter and the ones she had already seen. But the similarities were overwhelming. There was no doubt in her mind that Drew Shand had received a letter from the same person who had written to Georgia and Kit, and who had also composed the flyer distributed to the press conference where he had admitted his guilt.

  It was hard to find an argument to contradict what Fiona was now beginning to accept was the case. The coincidences were piling too high. Whoever had killed Georgia had also killed Drew. And it looked as if that person really was Charles Cavendish Redford.

  FOURTY-SEVEN

  Her flat was like her, Steve thought. Light, bright and smart. Stylish and bold. Terry lived on the top floor of an old brick building off City Road. The three floors below her were occupied by a graphic design business, a leather goods workshop and a company providing post-production facilities to independent film makers. The label by the third-floor button in the goods lift read simply, Fowler Storage. Steve suspected there was no planning permission for residential use for the top storey. He also suspected that Terry didn’t give a toss.

  Her living space consisted of a large open room around forty feet by fifty feet. A door at the far end gave on to a narrow bathroom and a shower cubicle. The main area was whitewashed, the floor painted a dark glossy terra cotta There was a sleeping area with a brass bed and brass rails for hanging clothes, a sitting area with half a dozen beanbags and a mini stereo system, a work area with a desk, a computer and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A kitchen area was squeezed into a corner by the windows, complete with a round pine table and six folding chairs. A portable TV and video on a trolley were stowed in one corner. The walls were decorated with framed Keith Haring prints, their bright splashes the main source of colour.

  She’d opened the door with a flourish, imitating a trumpet fanfare through pursed lips. He’d stood on the threshold, appraising the room with a professional eye. He nodded. “Great views,” he said. “I like it.”

  Then he was through the door and in her arms, their hungry mouths searching for satisfaction. No time to undress, just the urgent fumbling aside of whatever clothes got in the way, desire sweeping everything away except the consciousness of each other’s body.

  Afterwards, they lay in untidy array, breath mingling, both for once entirely lacking in selfconsciousness. “So, what’s the main course?” Steve asked.

  Terry giggled and snuggled her hands under his shirt. “That wasn’t even the starter. Think of it as an amuse-bouche.”

  “Consider me amused.”

  Terry freed herself from his arms and stood up, lithe movements that he followed with his eyes. “Let’s get comfortable,” she said, pulling her dress over her head and kicking off her shoes.

  “Sounds good to me,” he agreed, getting to his feet. He scooped his mobile phone and pager out of his pockets and crossed to the desk, where he put them down next to the keyboard. He shrugged out of his clothes, throwing them over the desk chair. “Bathroom?” he asked.

  Terry pointed. “Down there.”

  “Don’t go away,” he said.

  “As if.” As soon as the bathroom door closed behind him, she jumped to her feet and moved purposefully to the desk. She stared down at the phone and pager. The mood had been shattered the previous evening by a phone call that hadn’t even been his case, bringing to the surface all his worries and fears for his friend. And, even worse, thrusting Fiona Cameron into the space between them. She wasn’t sure what the past history there was, but all her instincts told her there was more to it than mere friendship. His body language changed whenever Fiona’s name cropped up, betraying something lurking beneath the surface. Tonight, she didn’t want Fiona in bed with them. Impulsive as always, Terry reached out. It was the work of a moment to switch off both phone and pager. Besides, she reasoned as she crossed to the bed, tonight was Friday night and the end of the working week. If she was going to have a relationship with this man, Terry knew she would have to change his workaholic ways. And there was no time like the present.

  Sarah Duvall stood under the feeble spray from the shower head and wondered why every police station she’d served in had had crappy showers. She’d spent the last hour in the computer room where the officers on her squad were patiently entering the results of all the Smithfield interviews that had been conducted already and were still going on all over Greater London. While the interviews with Redford remained so unproductive, she’d decided to crack the whip in other areas of the investigation. She’d only walked away from the computers when she realized that the lines of print on the screen were wavering before her eyes as if through the lens of a swimming pool. If she had any more caffeine, her system would probably go into cardiac crisis, so she’d headed for the women’s showers in the hope that a cascade of cool water would restore her brain to something approaching working order.

  The first twenty-four hours were crucial to a murder investigation. Unfortunately for Duvall, those essential hours had passed over a week ago. And she was left picking over a very cold trail. So far as she could tell, not a single witness statement apart from that of the literary agent had anything approaching a positive lead that would tie Redford more strongly into the crime. And that only spoke to motivation, not direct connection to the murder. The only concrete thing they had was a sighting of a metallic-grey four-wheel-drive, possibly a Toyota or a Mitsubishi, seen by a passing motorist parked behind Georgia Lester’s Jaguar on the day of her disappearance. The driver hadn’t seen either Georgia or the occupant of the 4x4. But there was no record of Charles Redford possessing such a vehicle. She already had someone checking with car hire firms to see if he’d hired one recently.

  Duvall turned off the trickle of water and stepped out of the cubicle. She towelled herself dry and climbed into the only clean clothes in her locker a pair of blue jeans and a Chicago PD sweatshirt. Not exactly ideal, but better than the crumpled outfit she’d been wearing for the past thirty-six hours. The clean material against her skin made her feel more refreshed than the shower had. A cursory glance in the mirror, and she was ready to roll again.

  When she walked back into the operations room, she instantly plugged in to the fresh sense of excitement that buzzed under the hum of the computers. She was two steps into the room when one of her sergeants bounded up to her. “We’ve got something in from Dorset,” he said, unable to keep his face solemn.

  Duvall felt her tired face trying a smile on for size. “Tell me more,” she said, pulling out the nearest chair and sitting down.

  “There’s an outhouse at the bottom of a field at the back of the property. They didn’t realize it belonged to the cottage, which is why they haven’t searched it before now. Anyway, it turns out the husband mentioned it to one of their officers, so they broke in there a couple of hours ago and that’s where he butchered her. It’s got stone benches along one wall, and there are bloodstains all over them. Even better, he left his tools behind. Knives, hacksaw, chisel, hammer, the lot.”

  Duvall nodded. “Probably thought that was safer than hanging on to them or trying to dispose of them somewhere else. I take it they’ve got a full forensic team in there now?”

  “They’re going over it inch by inch.”

  “Great. Keep me informed.”

  He moved off, glad to have some definite purpose. He had completely missed the troubled look on his boss’s face. For the first time since Redford had grandst
anded his way into her interview room, something had come up that didn’t gel with what he had said. She’d have to double-check. But Duvall was as sure as she could be that he had said he had taken Georgia to, “a place he’d known about for years, a place they’d never find.” That squared with what the book had said.

  It was, however, entirely at odds with the Dorset Police’s discovery.

  Uneasiness crept through Duvall’s weary body, as palpable as nausea. What if her instinct had led her astray? What if Redford was nothing more than an attention-seeker? What if there was still a killer on the loose? She shook her head, unwilling to concede the possibility. It couldn’t be. Redford was so right, she felt it in her heart.

  But what if she were wrong?

  The pain came first. A desperate localized agony inside his head, red, yellow and white waves behind his eyes. When he tried to groan, Kit found his mouth couldn’t move. Then the secondary pains began to take focus. His shoulders ached, his wrists smarted. He tried to shift his position and found himself rolling helplessly from his side on to his back. His hands dug uncomfortably into his spine, and he had to rock his shoulders furiously to get back into the less painful position he’d started off in. Nothing made sense. Opening his eyes was no help. The darkness was more profound than it had been before he’d forced his eyelids apart.

  His stomach grumbled. The waves of pain from his head seemed to be directly connected to his gut, producing an uncomfortable queasiness. Slowly, he realized that wherever he was, he was in motion. Now he could hear the low grumble of an engine and the hiss of road noise. Muffled voices separated out and he understood that a radio was playing. It dawned on him that he was inside a moving vehicle and the driver was listening to the radio.

  Comprehension brought memory back with bewildering swiftness. The courier at the door with the box of books. The movement out of the corner of his eye. Then nothing, till now.

 

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