The Shadow Man

by Helen Fields

  ‘How dare you fuck my partner’s colleague without any visible signs of remorse, or even an acknowledgement of the pain you’re causing,’ Connie said.

  ‘I could make your professional life very uncomfortable indeed,’ Mrs Baarda had hissed.

  ‘You actually can’t. I’m a free agent. More importantly, I’m not someone you want to threaten. Take it from me. I do whatever I deem necessary to protect innocent people. No limits.’

  Anoushka Baarda took a long look into Connie’s eyes, made the best choice she had in a long time by deciding that she wasn’t going to challenge whatever she saw in them, gathered her bag and coat with nothing more retaliatory than a huff, and exited.

  An hour later, there was a gentle knock at the door. Meggy entered, holding her father’s hand. The girl was bruised and tired, but alive. That was all that mattered.

  ‘They’re letting me go home today,’ Meggy said quietly. ‘I wanted … I wanted to say …’

  There were tears before the end of the sentence. Connie went across the room and held her until they stopped.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything. Meggy, you’re amazing. You did what you had to. You saved my life, Baarda’s and Elspeth’s, too. Keep hold of that during the nightmares. You’re going to beat him and survive every time, because that’s what happened. There’ll be people to help you through this, but the truth is that you are your best defence. The strength you have, your will to survive, your spirit, Meggy. You can beat him as many times as you need to in your imagination until you really understand that he’s gone.’

  She nodded, hugging Connie harder until her father pulled gently at her arm.

  ‘We should go,’ he said. ‘Looks like your friend is waking up.’

  Meggy reached up, sliding her arms around Connie’s neck until her mouth was at Connie’s ear.

  ‘One day, when I’m a grown-up, will you tell me what really happened to him … in there?’

  In the coffin, the girl meant. Sharper than all the adults involved, more able to stomach the truth as children always were.

  ‘I will,’ Connie whispered.

  The girl released her grip.

  Connie turned. Baarda’s eyes were open a fraction. He smiled as Connie called the nurse, raised his hand an inch off the bed as a wave to Meggy, then went back to sleep.

  When he woke again the following day, Connie was still at his side.

  ‘Stop ranting,’ he whispered.

  ‘What are you talking—’

  ‘You’ve been reading me political editorials. Could you not have read me a decent novel?’

  Connie laughed, leaning over to kiss his cheek. ‘Fergus, or Harris, is dead. Properly dead. Ailsa Lambert certified it herself.’

  ‘How?’ Baarda asked.

  ‘There was an incident with a belt. The details can wait.’

  ‘You look like hell,’ he said.

  ‘Fuck you very much. I’ll call the nurse.’ She stood up to leave.

  ‘Not yet.’ He managed to catch the tail of her shirt between his fingers. ‘Tell me. Elspeth, Xavier?’

  ‘Xavier is still here recovering from the smoke inhalation and some other minor injuries. He’s going to be fine. Elspeth … was very badly hurt. Her brain was without oxygen for a long time. They were lucky the coffin wasn’t properly sealed and that there was still a little air in the cracks in the earth. Must have bought them half an hour.’

  ‘Coffin?’ he groaned.

  ‘You know what? This isn’t the right time …’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Connie sighed and sat back down on the edge of his bed. ‘He buried them, together, in one coffin. I persuaded him to dig them up again. Meggy crawled on her hands and knees to the road while he was distracted. She’s a tough one. By then other units had got concerned about us not responding. They’d found Farzana, knew that was a red herring and were wondering where we were. They tracked us using the GPS unit in the police car we drove to the cemetery.’

  Baarda raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Farzana was fine. Had a boyfriend she knew her father would hate, so she thought it would be easier to pretend to be kidnapped than just leave. Threw her phone out of the window so she couldn’t be traced. Police caught up with them at Glasgow Airport.’

  ‘Elspeth,’ he insisted.

  ‘Is alive. Not in great shape. It’ll be a while before they know what brain damage she suffered. There’s still a feasible level of function. She’s being kept in a medical coma to allow her time to recover.’

  ‘Well done,’ he said, pulling her closer to him.

  ‘Thank you. Also, I told your wife what I think of her. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Hey, I stopped a serial killer and rescued two females who’d been buried alive, so could you give me a pass? Best intentions, isn’t that what the British say?’

  He frowned, then laughed.

  ‘Forgiven,’ he said. ‘Fuck her.’

  ‘Wow. When you talk like that, it’s hard for me to think about leaving.’

  Baarda stopped smiling.

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘Yup. I’ve been asked to present a series of seminars about Cotard’s syndrome in Washington. The FBI are interested. I saw Harris Povey’s old brain scans. Electroconvulsive therapy is supposed to induce small seizures. That’s how it works. It closes down certain impulses. In his case, the treatment prescribed for depression created a larger lesion, possibly because not enough anaesthesia was given and he went into an uncontrollable fit. That lesion may have been the cause of the delusions. He went in as a teenager with some minor problems and came out a killer. Makes my experience of psychiatric treatment seem kind of tame.’

  ‘Really? Even now you’re making this about you?’ A voice oozed disdain from the doorway. ‘I would say don’t stand up, but it’s obvious neither of you are going to.’

  Detective Superintendent Overbeck sashayed in, spike heels clacking loudly on the tiled floor.

  ‘Ma’am,’ Baarda managed.

  ‘Don’t “ma’am” me, Detective Inspector. I’m up to my ridiculously expensive breast implants in paperwork. A freelance profiler apparently climbed into a coffin with a serial killer who you let get the better of you. A woman and child barely made it out of the same coffin alive. I have a forensics team sifting through a pile of bones, not to mention the semi-decomposed body. By the time this is over, I’ll have won an Oscar for the most impressive shitfest in policing history.’

  ‘All three kidnap victims are still alive,’ Baarda reminded her.

  ‘Harris Povey is dead,’ Connie shrugged. ‘No messy trial, no psychiatric reports. I’d say that was a decent result.’

  ‘Quite.’ Overbeck’s response was serpentine. ‘That was an ending I hadn’t anticipated. Tell me, Dr Woolwine, do you always wear that belt, or was it just blind luck on the day?’

  Baarda stared from Connie to Overbeck, then back again. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

  ‘There had better not be,’ Overbeck said. ‘Very fortunate indeed that you had such a resourceful and strong-stomached partner, DI Baarda.’ She stepped closer to look Connie directly in the eyes. ‘Takes a while for an adult to die by strangulation. Not much oxygen, tight space. He must have been kicking wildly. And the noises he’d have been making, the horror. I can barely imagine it.’

  ‘Really?’ Connie smiled. ‘It seems to me you’re having no problem imagining it at all.’

  ‘It pisses me off when I underestimate people,’ Overbeck said. ‘Leaves me feeling vulnerable.’

  ‘You can get psychotherapy for that. I’d probably diagnose you with trust issues. I can recommend you a good psychologist, if you like?’

  ‘I think I’ve had as much psychology as I can tolerate for a while,’ Overbeck said. ‘Baarda, get better quickly. There’s paperwork to do, and if you’re considering making a personal injury claim against Police Scotland, think again.’

  ‘I actually wa
sn’t going—’ Baarda started.

  ‘Other than that, officially, I’ve been sent here to say congratulations to you both, so we’ll pretend that’s what I did.’ She spun on a heel to leave.

  ‘Wait, what about the other victims?’ Connie asked.

  ‘We’re working on identifying the bodies. There are at least twelve dead. The theory is that they were buried alive in the coffin then dug up each time Harris needed the coffin for his next attempt at creating a so-called family. He cleaned the bones and hid them beneath the floor. He either got sloppy with the woman only partially decomposed, or was in a hurry to move on. Her, we’ve identified.

  ‘A particularly skilled scumbag called Finlay Wilson was involved in human trafficking until recently. He brought in hundreds of women over a few years, mostly from Eastern Europe. Fortunately, he was dispatched in suitably violent form last year. Ended up losing his head, I recall. The young woman was one of Wilson’s victims, pregnant when she was trafficked. He let his clients indulge their fantasies, then sold her along with her baby.’

  ‘Harris bought her?’ Baarda asked.

  ‘It appears so,’ Overbeck confirmed. ‘One of the many reasons why I’m not as concerned as I might otherwise have been about the circumstances of his death.’ She glanced at Connie, who raised her eyebrows.

  ‘And the other bones?’ Baarda asked.

  ‘We’re checking missing persons records. Runaways, the homeless, prostitutes, not just from Edinburgh but across Scotland. It may also be that others were provided from trafficking. We’ve had two confirmed DNA matches. The first is a girl called Emily, a ten-year-old, believed to have drowned in a loch two years ago. Her shoes and a hairband were found floating in the water. We now believe that Fergus abducted her from the campsite. In addition, five years ago, a young woman was abducted from—’

  ‘Advocate’s Close,’ Connie said quietly.

  ‘Indeed,’ Overbeck confirmed.

  ‘He was still refining his methods at that point,’ Connie said.

  ‘God knows how many more he might have killed had he not been stopped,’ Overbeck said. ‘And there I was thinking that engaging a forensic profiler was a waste of money.’ She crossed her arms. ‘I should get back to work. You two have a lovely restful afternoon. I take it, Dr Woolwine, that you’ll stay out of my way until everyone in the United Kingdom has forgotten the name Harris Povey?’

  ‘Sounds like an order,’ Connie said.

  ‘Sodding right it’s an order,’ Overbeck said. ‘Lovely chatting with you.’

  She exited, and the warmth returned to the hospital room.

  ‘I told you she likes me,’ Connie grinned.

  ‘I think there’s a lot you haven’t explained to me yet.’

  ‘Nothing important. I probably just didn’t explain what happened very coherently in my final report.’

  ‘You killed him,’ Baarda said. ‘With your belt? Overbeck was right. That can’t have been easy.’

  ‘Self-defence,’ Connie said. ‘Easier than you think when it was his life or mine. There was limited oxygen in the coffin, and I didn’t know how soon I’d be found. I want that belt back when the case is over. You’d better remember to send it to me. I’ve had it a long time.’

  ‘Stop kidding around.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not, that belt was handmade in Italy.’

  ‘Connie, what you went through …’

  ‘Let’s not,’ Connie said. ‘I survived. You survived. It could have been much worse.’

  Baarda lay unmoving, silent, watching her. Connie broke eye contact first.

  ‘I wish you weren’t going back to America,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ she grinned. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been offered another consulting job in London when I’m done in Washington. I suppose I could consider it.’

  ‘Don’t get cocky,’ Baarda said.

  ‘Too late for that.’ She stood up. ‘I’ve got a plane to catch, Detective Inspector Baarda.’ She kissed him briefly, gently, on the lips. ‘But I expect a call every day. Just be aware of the time difference. I hate being woken up.’

  ‘Noted,’ he said.

  ‘When I get back, then,’ Connie said from the doorway. She gave a half salute, half wave.

  ‘Hey, any chance you could show me Martha’s Vineyard one day? Sounds like somewhere that might be good for the soul.’

  ‘It is,’ she said. ‘And I will. There’s no one I’d rather share it with.’

  Baarda smiled and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Dr Constance Woolwine was gone.

  The next gripping standalone thriller from Helen Fields is available to preorder now. Click here to find out more.

  Acknowledgements

  This book came into existence through a series of extraordinary coincidences that I would never have dared to write. When we moved to America from England one of the most painful moments was saying goodbye to my gorgeous friend Andrea Gibson who has been my beta reader and staunchest supporter since I began writing. To make our transition to the USA easier, Andrea had a friend – Matthew Sparks – from University who was living ‘somewhere in California’. It turned out, as these things do, and because statistically in a country of 320 million it was inevitable, that Andrea’s old friend lived less than a mile from our new home. In fact, I’d unknowingly met Matt’s dog in the road long before I ever met him. Matt’s wife, Marie Lewis, turned out to be a lawyer so we had a lot in common straight away (also a love of movies, cheese, dogs and cocktails which helped). Marie had a contact who had a friend working as a profiler. Emails were sent, calls were made, and THAT is how I ended up with a conference call to the FBI’s Office of Public Affairs with SSA Jeffrey Heinze and the lovely SSA Molly Amman, to whom I am extraordinarily grateful.

  You can research to a good level for books like these, but you really can’t pick up the language, the processes and insider knowledge, without first-hand contact. I sent my idea for the book off, and Molly came back with a detailed appraisal of how she would approach the case. It was absolutely invaluable. So to all the people named above, thank you. Not just for this, but for all the love and laughs and support. You all know how invaluable you’ve been in this last year.

  Of course, back in England, there was still a whole team of people guiding me. My first port of call for the idea for The Shadow Man was my amazing literary agent, Caroline Hardman. She picked up the pieces of it, polished them and made them look presentable (none of this without her), and passed it along to my publisher. The Avon imprint of HarperCollins is full of dedicated, passionate hard-working book obsessives. There are a lot of people to name and I won’t apologise for that. Books, in spite of their small size, are giant feats of creation. Thank you to Phoebe Morgan who has never once rolled her eyes at me, even though she would have been entitled to a thousand times. To Helen Huthwaite, Sabah Khan, Oliver Malcolm, Bethany Wickington, Ellie Pilcher, Caroline Bovey, Claire Ward, Holly MacDonald, Hannah O’Brien – know that I think you’re all amazing, and that I appreciate every last one of you.

  To everyone at Hardman & Swainson Literary Agency who got me here and who, to my amazement most days, are still putting up with me. I’m so grateful.

  To David, who has not yet asked me to go and get a proper job, and Gabriel, Solomon and Evangeline who know my ‘writing face’ and don’t ask me for food when I’m wearing it – you know how this sentence ends.

  And finally to the readers, reviewers, bloggers, booksellers and librarians – thank goodness for you. Without you, these pages would have no purpose and no destination.

  If you enjoyed The Shadow Man, you’ll love the D.I. Callanach series from Helen Fields …

  On a remote Highland mountain, a body is burning …

  A gripping crime thriller that will leave you breathless.

  Click here to buy now!

  Welcome to Edinburgh.

  Murder capital of Europe.

  A dark and twisted serial killer thriller that fans of M. J. Arlidge
and Karin Slaughter won’t be able to put down.

  Click here to buy now!

  The worst dangers are the ones we can’t see …

  D.I. Callanach is back in the stunning third novel from the bestselling Helen Fields.

  Click here to buy now!

  When silence falls, who will hear their cries?

  Relentlessly dark and twisty crime that will keep you up all night …

  Click here to buy now!

  Your darkest moment is your most vulnerable …

  An unstoppable crime thriller from the #1 bestselling Helen Fields.

  Click here to buy now!

  He had never heard himself scream before. It was terrifying …

  A gripping, fast-paced crime thriller from the bestselling author.

  Click here to buy now!

  About the Author

  Helen Fields practised criminal and family law as a barrister. She prosecuted and defended in the Crown Court, as well as undertaking courts martial and Coroner’s Court cases. Together with her husband David, she runs a media company. She is best known as the author of the DI Callanach series set in Scotland. She splits her time between Europe and the United States.

  Helen can be found on Twitter at @Helen_Fields.

  By the same author

  Perfect Remains

  Perfect Prey

  Perfect Death

  Perfect Silence

  Perfect Crime

  Perfect Kill

  About the Publisher

  Australia

  HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.

  Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street

  Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

  www.harpercollins.com.au

  Canada

  HarperCollins Canada

  Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower

  22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor