The Shadow Man

by Helen Fields

  Death had arrived. He might be wearing jeans and a denim jacket, but there was no mistaking the lack of humanity in that gaze.

  He stopped trying to mend the wheel to free his chair and stared at the oncoming ghoul. Danny moved in again, ramming from behind. The man went down, and Danny leaned over him, delivering blow after blow to the man’s head and shoulders. He didn’t even raise his arms to protect himself, just got to his feet again. Grabbing for the back of his jacket, Danny yanked him backwards, and Xavier saw the glint of Danny’s ring flashing in the light as his friend went for the genitals.

  Xavier saw the blade before Danny. There was no drama to it. The movement of the knife through the air lasted only half a second, from drawing it out of his pocket to depositing it in Danny’s chest. There was no sound at all. Danny’s head fell to his chest, eyes still open, looking in his final seconds at the weapon that had felled him where gunfire, bombs and a terror network had failed. His hand dropped from its crushing grip on the man’s balls, which should have been enough to deter even the most determined attacker.

  When Danny tumbled from his chair, Xavier’s surrender was complete. There were some forces you couldn’t withstand. Danny was a born warrior, had never given in for a second of his glorious trail-blazing life. Xavier wasn’t the same. Somehow, letting fate take its course seemed a less terrifying prospect than engaging in conflict.

  Danny was dead before he hit the ground. It was no place to die, the back of a sports centre on a bed of asphalt and a pillow of cigarette butts. Not fit for the hero his friend had been, his legs gone in an explosion, his passion for life only enhanced by having so nearly perished.

  In the few steps it took the man to reach him, Xavier mourned. Death hadn’t wanted Danny that night. The appearance of the knife had been a cursory means of dispatching a nuisance, no more. He wished his friend had stayed in the bar for one more pint before exiting and attempting the rescue. He wished he’d skipped basketball that night rather than persuade himself that the exercise and company would be good for him in spite of his tiredness. He wished he could cheat death for one more day, write letters to the people he loved, and put his affairs in order.

  Then the black bag was in front of his face – no surprise this time. Xavier bowed his head and allowed it to be slipped on. He neither wanted to see what was coming, nor what he was leaving behind. A car boot opened. He was lifted out of his chair and deposited, quite gently, into the space. Then the rumble of an engine, the rolling movement of the vehicle, and the end of a life he had not loved a fraction as well as he should have. Xavier mourned.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Edinburgh city’s architecture was picture-postcard perfect through Connie’s monochromatic gaze. The arched windows above doorways, bold brickwork, floor upon floor of precisely measured glazing lining the broad streets and imbuing the most casual stroll with grandiosity. It seemed to her to be a place in conflict with itself. The same visitors who were its lifeblood were damming the thoroughfares, overworking the centuries-old streets and disturbing the peace night and day. In black and white, facing the right direction, avoiding shops, billboards and buses, Connie might have stepped through time.

  Gazing across the city in the direction of the castle, the hustle and commerce of Princes Street at her back, she wondered what she was missing. Her frantic information grab had yielded nothing more. Angela had regularly taken her children to various green spaces, Inch Park included. It had been Meggy’s regular haunt too, but the land area covered was vast, and the psychology involved in shifting one’s focus from adult females to a prepubescent female was immense. Sexual predators had fixed fantasies. They could change the place, the name, the finer points of a face, but rarely the race or age band of their victim.

  In spite of that, Connie’s every instinct was screaming that the same person who had taken Elspeth was also holding Meggy somewhere, dead or alive. Alive, she believed, or at least hoped. Baarda was off evidence gathering and organising officers to scope out Inch Park and the surrounding neighbourhoods. He was cynical about her theory but willing to act on it in the absence of anything more concrete to follow up.

  The police had waited too long already. They’d waited for Angela’s killer to reveal himself, and that pause had resulted in Elspeth’s abduction. Then they’d waited again for the forensics, for door-to-door enquiries to bear fruit. And Meggy, too, had been taken. It was time to stop drumming their fingers and make something happen.

  She dialled Baarda.

  ‘We have to appeal to the kidnapper directly,’ Connie said. ‘I know the team’s been worried about stirring up another false ransom request, but we can ask him to contact us with information only Elspeth will know. It’d be easy to avoid copycats or fake claims.’

  ‘Why is it you think he’ll respond?’ Baarda asked.

  His voice was low and slow. Not a challenge. An exploration of her thought process.

  ‘The classic psychopathic profile often lends itself to communicating. He might be waiting for us to reach out to him.’

  ‘Connie, I know you suspect the same offender in both Elspeth’s and Meggy’s abductions, but we can’t jump into a press conference because of that,’ Baarda said gently. ‘Meggy’s parents would have to be approached first, and that would be an extremely sensitive reveal given Angela Fernycroft’s death.’

  ‘I get that,’ Connie said. ‘But in all three cases, the guy has acted as if he’s invincible. Maybe normal psychosexual parameters don’t apply. It could be that he’s not playing out a single fantasy, it’s more complex than that. If Meggy is the third victim then the ramping up is exponential. We’ve gone from stalking and an indoor, carefully controlled crime scene, to a public approach and a kidnapping on a driveway, this time at a school.’

  ‘You think he feels bulletproof,’ Baarda said.

  ‘Bulletproof’s not exactly right. He’s still taking some precautions. He doesn’t want to get caught. He has purpose, even if we haven’t figured out what that is yet, whether it’s sexual, retributive or whatever. There’s planning. The choices he’s making can’t be entirely random. But removing people from public places is unique. It’s like he feels unseen.’

  ‘Which is why you want to tell him that he isn’t?’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said.

  ‘What if that’s a trigger for him? Say he feels safe while he’s invisible, as if he’s off our radar. When we start trying to communicate with him directly, is there not a risk that his behaviour will deteriorate? He’s holding one captive who we hope is still alive, possibly two if your instincts about Meggy are correct. He could easily decide that it’s less risky for him to kill them before he’s discovered.’

  ‘You got a better idea?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Failure to have a better idea doesn’t justify taking a leap into the unknown. If the risk is unquantifiable then I’m not sure I’ll be able to, or should, convince my superiors to reach out publicly to this man. Could you put a profile report together, as far as you’ve got, with hypotheses that link into the hard evidence? As little speculation or supposition as possible. The detective superintendent here – Overbeck – is asking to see results. If we want her to back us, we’ll need to reassure MIT that we’re travelling forward rather than in circles. If you can get that to me before midnight, I’ll set up a meeting and see if the media liaison team will assist.’

  ‘I have a couple of things to do first. We’ve been ignoring our possible first victim. I’d like to assess how and if she fits in.’

  ‘Connie, if you’re thinking about going to Advocate’s Close alone—’

  ‘I’m losing reception,’ Connie lied. ‘Keep your cell on. I’ll be in touch.’

  Connie stared from High Street through the tunnelled entrance into Advocate’s Close, believed to have come into existence in 1544. Edinburgh would have been a hub of crude trade and brutal human suffering. Doctors causing more harm than good, although she was living proof that some of them hadn’t ch
anged all that much. The monied classes would have controlled everything, from the courts to the military. Education would have been a gift exclusively for men. She’d have been nothing more than a chattel.

  Opposite St Giles’ Cathedral, and nestled between a cigar shop and a tourist goods emporium, the entrance to Advocate’s Close sat beneath a crushing five floors of offices and residences. She entered.

  The narrow alleyway, in spite of the life in the surrounding buildings, was as quiet as the grave. The view across the city from the steps within the close was spectacular, yet the paving flags reeked of stubborn urine, and the natural timeless beauty was marred by a pool of vomit. Footsteps echoed behind her. Stopped. Retreated. Connie continued.

  Light came and went in pools of safety. The alley would have seemed like a haven, offering substantial respite from the biting winds. There were few windows overlooking the thin path through. Safety was an elusive concept. Here, the homeless could escape public harassment and passing police cars. They could erect their temporary accommodations against solid walls and find a little peace. Those who walked past were familiar with the city. No one could accidentally take such a passageway, save for the very drunk seeing an after-hours outdoor restroom. Or those looking for trouble.

  Part way down, the alleyway steps restricted the view back up to the High Street. Connie stopped, putting her back to the wall, imagining what it must be like to have your whole world wrapped in plastic bags, with only the money you’d begged that day to feed you, and no more than a sleeping bag to keep you warm at night.

  Footsteps again, heavy and slow. Sound could be intimidating. Her heartbeat matched the left–right, left–right of the beat, and she realised it was impossible to know for sure if she was being approached from High Street above, or from the pathway below. The noise echoed slyly off the bricks above, bearing false witness.

  Reaching into her pocket for her rape alarm, Connie realised she’d changed jackets and failed to take her usual precautions. Careless. She considered calling out, then felt foolish, then resented both the idea of shouting for help, and the fact that she was embarrassed to do so. No threat had been issued, yet the hairs on her arms were bristling.

  The figure of a man appeared at the top of the steps above her. Hood up. Tall. Shadow concealing his face. In her imagination he was holding a twenty-pound note that would flutter to the ground when she rebuffed him. He stopped still and watched her.

  Connie considered continuing her journey down the steps, but that would require her to turn her back on him.

  ‘You got a problem?’ she called to him.

  He was silent. A worm of fear slithered in her guts, and it made her furious.

  ‘Do not fuck with me tonight,’ she shouted. ‘You will totally regret it.’

  A growl issued from the back of his throat.

  Too many thoughts at once. Psychosexual killers’ propensity towards revisiting the scene of their crimes. Stupid of her for not checking if she was being followed before entering the passageway. Expertly trained in self-defence or not, a man twice her build approaching from a height advantage was likely unbeatable. She didn’t want to die without seeing Martha’s Vineyard one more time. And lastly, dying wasn’t an acceptable option. She had too much left to do.

  ‘Screw you,’ she said, shoving her fear down deep and sprinting up the steps towards him, fists hard, relying on agility and surprise.

  He jumped down towards her, taking the steps two at a time and lighter on his feet than his size had suggested he would be. Connie regretted her decision instantly, wishing she’d run for it.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a voice called from above them.

  The man was only fifteen feet from her now. Her would-be assailant looked back. Connie took the opportunity to retreat instead, racing off in the opposite direction.

  There was a shout from above, the thud of a body hitting the ground, followed by the tumble-yelp-tumble of ongoing pain. She got well clear before pausing and turning back.

  Above her, Brodie Baarda was standing over a body, holding one wrist behind the man’s back. They were talking too quietly for her to hear against the ragged gasps of her breath. Shaking her head, Connie reversed direction a final time, walking slowly back up to Baarda. Her legs were shaking. Fear turned to fury.

  ‘Get up,’ Baarda told the man, hauling him to his feet and yanking down his hood.

  The face revealed was fleshy and pockmarked, the red marbling at the end of his nose the sure sign of a long-term heavy drinker.

  ‘He says he was looking for a prostitute. A local pimp regularly leaves him a girl here late at night,’ Baarda explained.

  ‘You looked like you were waiting for me,’ the man directed at Connie.

  ‘On account of my having a vagina and being in an alleyway late at night?’ Connie asked.

  ‘I’ve got fifty quid here with your name on it,’ the man smirked.

  Baarda smashed a fist into one side of the man’s ribcage and he revisited the floor with a high-pitched gurgle.

  ‘Come on,’ Baarda said. ‘Whatever you were looking for here, he isn’t it.’

  He took Connie by the elbow and began guiding her back up the steps. She didn’t fight him.

  ‘You hit him,’ Connie said. ‘Really goddamn hard. Is that normal police procedure in the land of tea and biscuits?’

  ‘And you came out late at night with no backup plan, looking – for all your blasé toughness – as if you’d break like a twig in the wrong hands.’

  ‘Okay, hold on there, are you saying this is my fault? That women walking around looking vulnerable somehow attract trouble?’

  Baarda indicated his car. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘How exactly did you plan to deal with that particular situation?’

  ‘I normally carry a rape alarm,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, forgive me, then. Obviously, the fact that you normally carry a rape alarm would have kept you completely safe in this instance. I clearly shouldn’t have intervened. Now, we have another crime scene to get to, so perhaps we could argue inside the vehicle.’

  ‘I just wanted—’

  ‘I understand precisely what you wanted to do,’ Baarda said. ‘I’d have come with you if you’d asked.’

  Connie sighed as she climbed into the car. ‘I don’t need babysitting. Women, in fact, don’t need men to protect them. Men need to stop attacking us. That’s what’ll keep us safe.’

  ‘I’d never figured out that particular social equation before. Thank you for explaining it to me. Did you get what you wanted from the experience?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe not what I wanted, but probably what I needed. Advocate’s Close seems like a safe place, but actually the second a woman goes in there, she’s vulnerable. It’s narrow and dark, no overlooking windows, the proximity to pubs meaning there would be a fair amount of screaming and noise at night, so passersby wouldn’t know what to take seriously. If you wanted to hold a knife to someone’s throat, it’d be a simple manoeuvre.’

  ‘A good place to locate an easy target then,’ Baarda said.

  ‘Yeah.’ She ran her hands through her hair and let herself relax. ‘Hey, thank you. Sometimes I try so hard to be unafraid that I step right into the eye of the tornado. I didn’t mean to be a bitch. I’m grateful you came to find me tonight.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he said.

  ‘It was pretty hot watching you punch that bastard. Not a move I was expecting you to pull.’

  ‘If anyone expected me to pull a move like that, it wouldn’t be terribly effective, would it?’ Baarda smiled.

  Connie turned in her seat to look at him. His curly hair was tousled, but otherwise Baarda was completely unaffected by the incident, and entirely in control.

  ‘You’re incredibly attractive, Detective Inspector Baarda. Do you know that?’

  ‘I know we have another crime scene to get to,’ he said. ‘Could we talk about that instead?’

  ‘Sure,’ Connie agreed. ‘But I saw what I saw. You’re a da
rk horse, Brodie. Women just know.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Baarda dropped her as close as he could get to the crime scene, then drove off to park the car where it wouldn’t disrupt traffic. The area at the back of the sports centre had been sealed off, as had the car park at one end and the road that met the pathway at a junction the other end.

  A uniformed officer barred her entry as she stepped over the crime scene tape.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Overbeck asked me to attend,’ she announced before the constable could speak. ‘I’m the forensic psychologist profiling the Dunwoody and Fernycroft cases.’ She flashed her ID.

  ‘I think it’s still an essential police-personnel-only situation, ma’am. I can go and ask—’

  ‘I gather there’s an eyewitness,’ Connie said.

  ‘Um, yes, but he’s a bit drunk from what we can gather, that or drugs. If you’d just wait here.’

  ‘My orders came from the superintendent directly,’ Connie lied.

  ‘I’ll vouch for her, Sam. Let the lady in,’ a reedy voice came from behind.

  ‘Of course, Dr Lambert.’ The young constable spoke deferentially to the forensic pathologist.

  ‘Why do I not have your gravitas?’ Connie asked, following her in.

  ‘You’re too young, too pretty, and around here you’re also too American. If it makes you feel any better, I spent the first twenty years of my career being referred to as the wee lassie with the glasses who never smiles. Now, suit up. I assume there’s a reason for you being in attendance.’

  ‘Too many deaths and disappearances, too few answers, and I don’t believe in coincidences,’ Connie said, grabbing a white suit and shoe covers, pulling her hair into a band and pushing it into the hood.

  ‘We have that in common. This, however, is a far cry from your Angela Fernycroft murder scene. If it’s linked, it’ll be hard to see how.’