hapter 40

Fiona left the lecture theatre, heading for her office. She had no recollection of what she'd spent the last fifty minutes saying. She'd been flying on automatic pilot, looking down on her students with the distance of dissociation. Her anxiety hummed inside her like a high-tension cable, shutting her off from everything else. She wanted to be home with Kit. She wanted him where she could see him, or at the very least, sense his presence. Knowing that would be intolerable to him didn't make it any easier to be without it.

Something had to break soon, she told herself. Either they would be able to dismiss the notion of a serial killer, so they could all relax and return to something approaching normality. Or everyone would accept that Kit and a handful of others were at serious risk and take steps accordingly. If the police wouldn't protect him, then she'd arrange it herself. She knew there were agencies around who provided bodyguards and Fiona had no reservations about surrounding Kit with professional protection. He'd go ape, of course. But then, he might not have to know.

Whatever happened, their lives would never be quite the same again. Kit had been confronted with his own physical vulnerability, however much he chose to scoff at it. That would inevitably change his view of himself. And Fiona had been forced to recognize that all these years on, she was still no nearer a position where she could effectively protect those she loved. Ignorance may have been a valid excuse when it came to saving Lesley; but even now, with all the knowledge and experience in her arsenal, Fiona could not be sure of saving Kit.

It wasn't a comforting thought.

She dumped her papers on her desk and checked her e-mail. Apart from routine departmental memos, there was only a brief note from Kit, saying. "Ten o'clock and all's well." He'd promised to post Fiona at regular intervals after her insistence that he stay in touch. He claimed it made him feel like a wimp, but both knew it was only a token demurral.

She began to compose a short reply, but she was interrupted by a phone call from Spain. "Hello, Major Berrocal," she said, trying not to sound as distracted as she felt. Part of her registered with weary surprise that it wasn't like her to care so little about a case she'd been involved in.

"I thought I had better let you know what progress we have made," he said, sounding rather dispirited himself.

"That's kind of you."

"There is not very much to report, I'm afraid. Delgado refuses to admit his guilt. He just sits there with a face like stone, saying nothing at all. But the good news is that it seems we are starting to get some forensic evidence to back up the circumstantial evidence. We have found a former neighbour of Delgado's who works at the Alcazar and who thinks Delgado may have been able to access the keys on one of his visits to the house. And best of all, we have finally located two witnesses who saw him with the Englishwoman on the night he killed her. A husband and wife from Bilbao. They saw the story in the newspaper and got in touch with us. It turns out they were staying in the hotel where she worked and that's why they noticed her. She had checked them in, you see, so they remembered her. We have charged him with that murder for now, but I think we will eventually have enough to make him stand trial for all three killings."

"That's good news," she said, not really caring. "You must be glad he's off the streets."

"Very glad. We would never have got so close so quickly without your help. I have made sure my superior officers know this. I think this may persuade them that we need you to come and train us in crime linkage and geographical programming."

Fiona gave a hollow laugh. "I think you're being very optimistic, Major. But good luck with your case against Delgado."

"Thank you. And good luck with your own work, Dr. Cameron. I'm sure we'll be in touch again."

Fiona made her farewells and replaced the phone. She knew she should be feeling triumphant, but instead she felt frustration. Her work had helped stop someone killing strangers in Toledo. But no one would let her do the same for the man she loved. Maybe she should call Sarah Duvall and offer her services.

The woman could only say no.

Kit was in the kitchen making coffee when the doorbell rang. He froze in the middle of what he was doing. He wasn't expecting anyone, and in spite of his bravado in front of Fiona, he was keenly aware that if there was indeed a killer out there with a list, his name would inevitably be near the top. Carefully, he put the spoon back in the bag and leaned it against the coffee maker. He took a deep breath and walked down the hall.

He was inches away from the door when the bell screamed again, making him twitch involuntarily. The Postman Always Rings Twice. James M. Cain, a classic American noir. That didn't have a very happy ending either. He tiptoed the last few feet and put his ear to the door. "Who's there?" he called.

The flap of the letterbox clattered open. A disembodied voice from the region of his groin said, "It's Steve, Kit."

Kit felt a dizzy relief and hastily turned the lock, pulling the door wide open. "I'm not paranoid, honest," he said. Then, seeing Steve's face, he stepped back. Stupid bastard, he cursed himself silently. Steve wouldn't be here in the middle of the day unless the news was the worst kind. "It's not Fiona?" he croaked, his mouth suddenly dry, his eyes wide.

Steve put a hand on his arm and gently manoeuvred him across the threshold. He closed the door firmly behind him. "As far as I know, Fi's fine. Come on, let's go through to the kitchen. I need to talk to you."

Numb with anxiety, Kit led the way, almost stumbling as carpet gave way to tiled floor. "I was making coffee," he said, knowing it was irrelevant but wanting to preserve ignorance for as long as possible.

"Coffee would be good," Steve said. He sat down at the table, patient while Kit completed the ritual, busying himself with frothing milk and forcing water through the packed coffee grounds. Kit carefully placed one cup in front of Steve, then sat down with his own.

"It's Georgia." It was a statement, not a question.

Steve nodded. "One of my colleagues found her remains in the early hours of this morning."

"Was it where Fiona said it would be? In Smithfield?"

"She was right in every particular but one." Steve took out a cigar and fiddled with the cellophane wrapper. "It wasn't pretty, Kit. Whoever butchered her left us her head. So we'd be in no doubt what we'd found."

Kit took a long shuddering breath. "Jesus," he exhaled slowly. He put his hands over his face, his shoulders shaking. Steve felt helpless. He'd known Kit for years, but their relationship had never needed to encompass grief before. He had no sense of what the rules of engagement were. When policemen cried, they usually didn't want their fellow officers to acknowledge it, not even the women. They just wanted to get it over with. Steve got up and went to the cupboard where the drinks were kept. He found the brandy and poured a good two fingers into a glass. He put it in front of Kit, laid a hand on his heaving shoulders and said, "Drink this, it'll help."

When Kit raised his head, his eyes were red and swollen, his cheeks wet. He pushed the brandy to one side and reached for the coffee, wrapping his large hands round the cup to suck what heat from it he could. "I kept hoping Fiona was wrong," he said. "I kept telling myself it was the kind of sick thing I'd make up, not the sort of thing that really happens, you know? It was the only way I could get through it. I just couldn't let myself believe there's someone out there killing us."

Steve sighed. "When you've seen as much as I have, Kit, you know that real life can trump fiction every time. I'm truly sorry about Georgia. I know she was a friend."

Kit shook his head wearily. "She was always larger than life. I'd have put Georgia down as indestructible. Underneath all that froth, she was so sharp, so strong. I know people thought we were an odd couple, but she was closer to me than almost anybody in the business. She was brilliant. She could make me laugh. And she was always there. When the writing was going to shit, she'd bring a bottle round and we'd bitch about what a hard life it was, even though we both knew what lucky buggers we were." He drained his cup and rubbed his eyes fiercely with the back of his hands. "Fuck, what a bastard life is."

"They're not announcing it formally till later this afternoon," Steve said, resorting to what he knew. "But I didn't want you to turn on the radio and hear it that way."

"Thanks. How's Anthony, do you know?"

Steve shook his head. "It's not the Met's case. It's City of London, so I've not had any direct dealings with it. But I happen to know he's doing the formal identification round about now."

"Poor bastard." He reached for the brandy then, and swallowed hard. If I write him a note, will you post it for me? It's only that I promised Fiona I wouldn't go out alone. I thought she was being overprotective, but now ..." He got to his feet. "Gimme a minute."

"Take your time," Steve said, unwrapping his cigar and lighting it. While he waited for Kit to return, he couldn't help his mind gliding away from the pain and mess of Georgia's death to thoughts of Terry. Even Sarah's hideous news hadn't managed to take the gloss off the previous night, or the morning after. They were meeting again that evening. Steve's habit of caution seemed to have abandoned him along with the weariness that had infected his interior life for so long. He didn't want to play this cool, to act hard to get. He wanted to be with her, and since Terry assured him the feeling was mutual, it seemed crazy not to snatch every moment that offered itself to him. Part of him was longing to share with Kit what was happening to him. But this wasn't the time.

When Kit came back into the kitchen, he was holding an envelope. "I didn't have a proper sympathy card, just had to make do with a postcard. I don't think Anthony will mind. I just wanted to let him know I was thinking about him. Tell him I'm here if he needs anything. You know?" He handed the card to Steve. "I've stamped it. If you could just stick it in the box at the bottom of the road, he should get it tomorrow morning."

"Are you going to be OK?" Steve asked, getting to his feet.

Kit took a deep breath. "I'll be fine. You need to get off, there'll be work piling up for you."

Impulsively, Steve stepped forward and wrapped his arms round Kit in a hug. Kit hugged him back, his arms tight round Steve's back. There was no awkwardness when they let go and moved apart. "Thanks for telling me, Steve. You're right, it would have done my shed in completely if I'd heard it on the news. Now I know, I can unplug the phone. The last people I feel like talking to right now are journos."

"Will you tell Fi?" Steve asked. "Or do you want me to?"

"I'll e-mail her now. I don't want to phone her when she's working, you know how it is." Kit followed Steve to the front door. Unusually, he didn't wait till Steve was out of sight to close the door. Instead, he shut it immediately, locking both Yale and mortise. Then he walked slowly back to his desk and clicked on to his e-mail program.

From: Kit Martin <KMWriter@trashnet.com>

To: Fiona Cameron <fcameron@ psych.ulon.ac.uk>

Subject: Bad as it gets

You were right. Georgia is dead. Cold hard words for a cold hard fact. Steve just left. He came to tell me himself, didn't want me to have it sprung on me by a phone call from a hack or a news broadcast.

They found her in Smithfield, like you said. I've read And Ever More Shall Be So, I can imagine only too well what it was like. Only thing different, according to Steve, is that the killer left the head with the body.

I wish you were here. Or I was there. I feel very disconnected from my life. Very disorientated.

Please don't worry about me. I have taken to heart all you said. I'm going to stay battened down until you get back, and then reconsider what's the best course of action until somebody puts this mad fucker behind bars.

Somewhere in all of this, there has to be some clue that will open it up. I presume they're going to link the investigations now, even if only unofficially. Do what you can to get included on the team. Not that I want you to be working when you could be with me. But I want this guy caught, not just for Georgia's sake but for my own peace of mind. And if anybody can make a case for linking these crimes, it's you.

I love you. K. Kit sent the message, then exited from the program. He took the magazine out of the CD player and emptied it. He went upstairs to the living room where Fiona's classical CDs were kept and went along the shelf. Clutching the Verdi requiem, he walked back downstairs and loaded it. He pressed play and sat down in his chair. While the music swelled, Kit leaned back, eyes closed, his mind playing movies of the friend he had lost.

Chapter 41

The conference room was packed, bright with TV lights and stuffy with the exhalations of too many excited bodies. Speculation buzzed from journalist to journalist about the nature of the announcement. The more cynical, having seen it all before, attempted to make their guesses sound like convictions. It had to be Georgia Lester, and she had to be dead. That was their flat take on the situation. It had to be Georgia because there was nothing else that important on the stocks right now. If there had been, they would have had a whisper from a contact. And she had to be dead, otherwise it would be her publishers holding the press conference. Obviously.

Besides, they all claimed inside knowledge. One of their sources said there had been a big operation last night around Smithfield Market and it had something to do with the missing writer. The more literate of them had smugly put two and two together and come up with the answer they hoped would be confirmed this afternoon. If they were right, it would be a guaranteed front page. And that was what really mattered.

It was, the more confident among them maintained, just a matter of detail now. Dotting the i's and crossing the t's. And getting one of that lesser breed of reporters, the ones who didn't have a title like Crime Correspondent or Home Affairs Specialist, to go in search of the husband for the heartbreak photo and the tear-jerking quote.

Nevertheless, a hush descended when the police filed in. That it was serious was obvious. The Deputy Commissioner himself was there, flanked by DCI Sarah Duvall and a face none of the reporters recognized. The officers settled behind the bank of microphones, self-conscious and uneasy. The Press Liaison Chief was hovering like an anxious parent before the nativity play. When everyone was satisfied with the sound quality, the Deputy Commissioner cleared his throat. "Thank you for coming this afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I have a short statement to make, and then I will take questions." He introduced his fellow officers. The stranger turned out to be a detective chief superintendent from Dorset. The DC looked down at the paper in his hand.

He cleared his throat again. "As a result of an operation carried out by officers of the City of London Police last night in the vicinity of Smithfield Market, human remains were recovered. These have been identified as the missing crime writer, Ms Georgia Lester. As a result of this, a murder inquiry has been set up. DCI Duvall will be in operational control of the investigation. We will be liaising with our colleagues in Dorset, where Ms Lester apparently went missing last week.

"This is a particularly horrific crime, and we would appeal for anyone who saw Ms Lester after she left her cottage in Dorset last Wednesday. Her car was found abandoned on Sunday, but we have no idea how long it had been there. We would like to narrow that time frame down if possible. We are also appealing for any witnesses who may have seen anything unusual around Smithfield Market during the course of this past week." He looked up and pursed his lips. "I'll take questions now."

A hubbub of voices, hands waving. The Press Liaison Chief pointed to one. "Corinne Thomas, BBC Radio. When you say human remains, what exactly do you mean?"

The Deputy Commissioner indicated to Duvall that she should give the prescribed answer. "Ms Lester had been dismembered. The manner suggests someone with rudimentary anatomical or butchery skills."

Second questioner. "Jack O'Connor, The Times. One of Ms Lester's novels, which was made into a film, features a killer who kidnaps his victims then butchers them. As I recall, the bodies in the book were hidden in a wholesale butcher's. Do you believe her killer copied the book?"

"No comment," the Deputy Commissioner said firmly.

O'Connor wasn't giving up. "Do you believe this crime is connected to the Edinburgh killing of Drew Shand, who was murdered recently in a manner identical to one of the victims in his book?" The background agitation of his colleagues almost swamped O'Connor's voice, but there was no doubt from the grim faces looking down at him that they'd heard him.

"No comment," the Deputy Commissioner said again.

A third questioner jumped to her feet. "Sharon Collier, the Mirror. Are you refusing to deny that there's a serial killer targeting thriller writers?"

'I'm neither denying nor confirming anything of the sort, Ms Collier. At this stage, I have no evidence to allow me to offer any comment on these questions." The DC was starting to look a little edgy. The Press Liaison Chief quickly found one of his tame hacks and prodded him into action.

"Patrick Stacey, the Express. Where exactly was the body found?"

Duvall took the initiative. "We discovered Ms Lester's remains in a disused freezer in a storage area in Smithfield Market. According to the owner, the freezer had been awaiting transport to another meat depot and had been there for about five weeks. So if anyone saw someone using that freezer during those five weeks, we are keen to hear from them."

The questions were coming faster now. "Do you have any suspects?"

"What leads do you have?"

"Is her husband a suspect?"

Ts there a serial killer on the loose?"

"Is an arrest imminent?"

"Have you called in the services of a profiler?"

Abruptly, the Deputy Commissioner rose to his feet. "That's all for now, ladies and gentlemen. When we have any more to report, we will keep you informed."

"Wait a minute!" A shout rang out across the room. A bearded man in a tweed sports jacket, check shirt and red tie was pushing his way through the ranks of journalists.

The DC looked to the Press Liaison Chief, who made a shooing motion with his hands, indicating they should leave now. The Dorset officer started to move to the side of the room, but Duvall sat still, staring at the man who was making determined progress, apparently unconcerned about the people he was shoving out of his path.

"Why don't you tell them the truth?" he shouted, his face flushed. "Why deny what everybody knows is the truth? There's a serial killer out there and he's killing crime writers who have stolen his stories."

By now, several uniformed officers were attempting to reach the source of the disturbance. But the floor of the press conference was in chaos as journalists tried to see and hear what was going on. There was a hubbub of voices, but still the man in the tweed jacket could be heard. "How do I know?" he yelled at the top of his voice. "I know because it's me. I killed them. Drew Shand. Jane Elias. Georgia Lester. They stole my stories and I made them pay."

Duvall was on her feet now, pushing past her boss and diving down into the melee. Disregarding obstacles, she fought her way through the excited throng, driving a path to her quarry. No pause to apologize to the photographer she elbowed in the ribs, nor the radio reporter who took a crack on the jaw from her outflung arm. By now, the man in the tweed jacket had managed to free himself from the crowd around him sufficiently to start scattering sheets of paper in the air. He threw the leaflets high above his head and they fluttered in the air like albino bats unnerved by sudden light. Journalists were pushing and shoving each other, trying to grab a flyer for themselves, while others were baying questions at the man in the tweed jacket, who was grinning with the fixed rictus of a gargoyle.

Two of the uniforms grabbed him just as Duvall made it through the final rank of the press pack. Panting, her jacket ripped across one shoulder, she faced the stranger. "Get him out of here," she commanded. "Custody suite. Now!"

The journalists howled in protest as the uniformed officers led the man away. Duvall noticed he put up no struggle. She stood, marooned in the middle of the media, watching the man and his escorts leave through the door she'd entered by. She became gradually aware that the Deputy Commissioner was shouting into his microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, this press conference is over. Please leave the building. I repeat, please leave the building." He might as well have been singing "Yellow Submarine', Duvall thought. At least that would have caught their attention.

Ignoring demands for her reaction, Duvall snatched one of the crumpled flyers and pushed her way back through the outraged and frustrated journalists without a word. Approaching the platform, she gestured with a sweeping motion that they should all get out of there. The DCS from Dorset looked eager to be somewhere else, while the Deputy Commissioner looked furious. As they shuffled out, Duvall took the chance for a quick flick through the flyer.

The author, one Charles Redford, claimed to be the murderer of Drew Shand, Jane Elias and Georgia Lester. In a style that was disturbingly reminiscent of the threatening letters Duvall had already examined, Redford announced that they were being punished for stealing his ideas and preventing him being published. He had previously sent them all manuscripts, soliciting their help in finding a publisher. Not only had they failed to give him a leg up, they had rubbed salt in the wound by stealing his ideas and using them in their own books. The conspiracy outlined in the flyer was daft enough to catch the attention of the seriously paranoid, but as a motive for serial murder, it seemed a little thin, Duvall thought. It never ceased to amaze her how little it took to tip some people over the edge from common or garden nutters to homicidal maniacs. No doubt Fiona Cameron would have a technical term for it.

In the anteroom, away from the clamour, the DC shook his head. "What the hell was that all about?" he demanded. "How did that lunatic get in there?"

Duvall shrugged out of her jacket and inspected the damage with pursed lips. Let the DC slug it out with the media creep; she wasn't about to get into that particular war.

"He must have had some sort of press credentials," the Press Liaison Chief stammered defensively. "Otherwise he wouldn't have been allowed in."

The DC waved a hand as if seeing off a troublesome wasp. "Never mind that. Who the hell is he?"

Duvall looked up from her torn jacket and took a deep breath. "According to the leaflet, which the world's press are now in possession of, he's called Charles Redford and he's a wannabe thriller writer who thinks the victims stole his plots."

"Is he for real?" The DC looked bemused.

"That's what I plan to find out right now. I told them to take him straight down to the custody suite. I'm going to arrest him on suspicion of murder and take it from there."

"Do we need to arrest him at this point? He could be nothing more than a time-wasting attention-seeker."

It was, Duvall thought, a long time since the DC had done policing without the politics. "I want this by the book, sir. If he is the killer, I don't want the slightest chance of it falling down in court on some procedural glitch. I want him under arrest, I want him legally represented and I want him on the record all the way."

To her surprise, the DCS from Dorset weighed in on her side. "I think DCI Duvall's quite right," he said, the edge of a country burr in his voice adding unexpected authority to his quiet bass. "I'd want the same thing in her shoes. And I'd very much appreciate being able to sit in on the interview."

"I don't think we can accommodate that," the DC said dubiously. "A matter of jurisdiction, you know?"

"We've got one interview suite with an observation room," Duvall pointed out. "Surely there would be no problem with our colleague using that facility? I think it could be helpful, sir. Another pair of eyes,

2Q6

another pair of ears." She didn't for a moment think the provincial DCS would spot anything that wasn't obvious to her, but she knew she was still going to need cooperation from Dorset in putting her case together. It would cost her nothing to keep their senior officer happy.

"Fine." The DC nodded and drew her to one side. "But that's as far as it goes, Duvall," he added in an undertone. "This one's ours."

Maybe not if he killed her in Dorset, Duvall thought. But if there was a name to be made here, she was determined it was going to be hers. He'd confessed on her patch. He was going to stay hers if it was humanly possible. "I'll get down to the custody suite, then," she said.

The two men watched her swing her ruined jacket over her shoulder and stride off confidently down the corridor.

"God help him if he's wasting her time," the Dorset man said.

"She's going to have her work cut out," the DC said.

"How do you mean?"

"How do we usually weed out false confessions? We catch them out on the details that haven't been made public. Only, this killer has been using previously published material as his blueprint. He's going to know all the answers, whether he killed them or not."

The Dorset DCS drew his breath in sharply. "Oh shit," he said.

"And I'm not sure if DCI Duvall has worked that one out yet," the DC added, pursing his lips in a superior smile.

Fiona closed her eyes, blotting out the e-mail on the screen in front of her. Confirmation of what she had been dreading was the last thing she wanted in her face. Eventually, she forced herself to reread Kit's e-mail. This wasn't the time for self-indulgence. He needed her support, not for her to whimper in the corner like a scared bunny. She composed herself and hit the reply button.

From: Fiona Cameron <fcameron@psych.ulon.ac.uk>

To: Kit Martin <KMWriter@trashnet.com>

Subject: Re: Bad as it gets

My darling Kit,

I'm so, so sorry about Georgia. You must be hurting, my love, and I wish I could do something to take the pain away. I fear I can be of little use on this particular case, even supposing DCi Duvall wanted my help. It's already clear to anyone with half a brain that these cases are connected, and you know I don't get into the touchy-feely wet the bed when he was 9 and tortured the neighbour's cat stuff. So what could

I give them? Not much except common sense.

So, my love, it is important that you take extreme care of yourself. I'll be home at the usual time, or earlier if I can manage it.

I love you.

F.

Chapter 42

Charles Cavendish Redford was adamant that he did not want legal representation. He insisted that he knew more about the criminal law than the average duty solicitor and was perfectly capable of withstanding a police interrogation without someone to hold his hand.

It was a decision that pleased Duvall. She knew that even the most newly qualified duty solicitor would caution Redford to say nothing further. But if he wanted to damn himself from his own mouth, that was fine by her. Lacking a solicitor would simply mean there were fewer interruptions to the flow of what Redford wanted to reveal. And if one thing was clear, it was that Redford was a man who was eager to have his say. She'd had to keep shutting him up when the custody sergeant was processing him; the last thing she wanted was for him to get it all out of his system then clam up once they were in the interview room and on the official record.

As soon as he'd been formally arrested, Duvall sent a team of officers to search his house. Another team were given the task of finding out as much as was humanly possible about the life and times of Charles Redford, self-styled pre-published writer. Then Duvall escaped to her office for ten minutes. She tossed her wrecked coat in the bottom of her locker and replaced it with a lightweight black wool jacket that lived there on permanent stand-by. She shot a mist of her favourite perfume into the air and walked through the miasma, feeling its coolness on her skin. Then she sat down with notepad and pencil, sketching out the main points she needed.

Finally, about an hour after the commotion in the press conference, Duvall found herself facing her self-confessed serial murderer across a Formica-topped table. The room was claustrophobically small, the large mirror on one wall seeming to shrink the space rather than to increase it. The normal scents of stale sweat, smoke and fear were overlaid with a layer of her Versace Red Jeans. No Hannibal Lecter, Redford didn't so much as twitch his nose.

"At last," he said impatiently. "Well, go on, get the tape running."

Duvall's sergeant reached out and switched on both tape decks. For the record, he dictated date and time and details of those present. The DCS from Dorset, ensconced behind the mirror with his own sound feed, was not on the list.

Duvall sized up Redford. Medium height, medium build. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed, his complexion the pasty-white of someone who spends little time out of doors. His eyes were a dark grey-blue, watchful and deep-set. His tweed jacket looked as if it had been expensive when new, but that had been a long time ago. It fitted him well enough to have been tailored for him, but that meant nothing in these days of charity shops sprouting in every high street like mushrooms. The collar of his tattersall check shirt was a little frayed on the inside edge. His long fingers restlessly intertwined in an endless, meaningless sequence. The impression was one of intensity behind a mask of genteel poverty.

"You'll have sent a team out to search my flat," he stated, a smirk quirking one corner of his mouth. "What a waste of time. You're not going to find anything there except old newspapers. The sort of thing anyone might have who was a bit remiss about going to the recycling bank."

"We'll see," Duvall said.

"You'll see nothing, Detective Chief Inspector Duvall," he said, almost chewing the words of her title. "What's your first name? Something pretty and girly that you hate, I bet. Well, Detective Chief Inspector, I am your worst nightmare."

Duvall allowed herself an indulgent smile. "I don't think so, Mr. Redford."

"Oh, but I am. You see, I committed these murders. I'm freely admitting to that. And I'll tell you how I did them and what I did. But only up to a point. I'm not going to lead you to any physical evidence, I'm not going to tell you places to look for witnesses. Do you have any idea how many tourist beds there are in Edinburgh? That should keep your opposite number in Lothian and Borders amused for a while. No, all you're going to have is what I admit to, Detective Chief Inspector." He grinned, showing small even incisors like a child's milk teeth. "You're going to have so much fun with the Crown Prosecution Service. No evidence except a confession. Oh, dear me."

Duvall looked bored. "Fine. So can we get on with the confession?"

Redford looked momentarily hurt. Then he brightened again. "I see what you're up to," he said triumphantly. "You're trying to wind me up by making me feel dismissed. Well, let me tell you, I've read enough and seen enough to understand all your tricks, DCI Duvall. You're not going to put one over on me. Now, I consider myself to be a storyteller, so let's start at the beginning."

"No," Duvall interrupted incisively. "Let's try a more radical approach to narrative. Let's pretend we're Martin Amis or Margaret Atwood. Let's start at the end, with Georgia Lester."

"My." Redford let out a long drawl of admiration. "A literate cop. I shall have to watch my story structure here. But don't you want to hear why I've taken against thriller writers in such a big way?"

Duvall produced his flyer from her plain black no-nonsense handbag. "I am showing Mr. Redford one of the leaflets he distributed at a police press conference earlier this afternoon," she said for the benefit of the tape. "I presume your reasons are outlined here? You sent them your novels, hoping they'd help you. But not only did they ignore you, you believe that they stole your plots and plagiarized your writing. An accurate summary?" Her tone was brisk. He was so filled with confidence, the best she could hope for was to unsettle him, and she was going flat out for that. She could feel the adrenaline coursing through her, creative tension holding her tight as a bowstring. It was so seldom that an interrogation proved anything approaching a challenge, and Duvall relished the confrontation.

"Well, yes," he said, an edge of dissatisfaction in his voice. "But I thought you'd want to know more about that. It's why I started. You should be interested."

She shrugged. "Motive is much overrated in detective fiction, Mr. Redford. Remember that GP in Manchester? Harold Shipman? Convicted of killing fifteen elderly patients with morphine overdoses. Nobody really knows why he did it, but it didn't stop a jury putting him away. I'll leave the motive to the lawyers. I'm interested in the mechanics of what you did and how you did it. And let's stick to Georgia Lester, eh? You'll have plenty of opportunity to talk about your other alleged crimes with officers from other jurisdictions in due course. If, that is, you can convince me that you had anything to do with Georgia Lester's murder."

Redford sat back and steepled his fingers in the manner of a patronizing academic. "I knew she had a cottage in Dorset," he began expansively.

"How did you know?" Duvall shot back. She was determined not to let him relax into his tale.

"Hello! magazine did a feature on her last year. There were interior and exterior photographs. The article said the cottage was seven miles from

Lyme Regis. It wasn't that hard to find. So I tracked down the cottage, and then I laid my plans. I made sure I knew what her schedule was'

"How did you find that out?" Duvall demanded.

"It's on her website. All her public engagements. I knew she went down to Dorset most weekends, and it was easy to work out when she'd be due back in London from the events listing on the web page. Must you keep interrupting?" he demanded peevishly.

"I thought you'd welcome my questions," Duvall said smoothly. "You say you want me to believe you. You should be grateful that I'm trying to confirm your story with all these details."

His eyes flashed a momentary anger. "You think you're clever, don't you, Duvall? But you're no match for me. I killed them, and you're going to have to charge me with Georgia Lester's murder."

"Either that or with perverting the course of justice, Mr. Redford. So, you stalked Georgia. What a pathetic little crime that is. How did you capture her?"

An hour later, Duvall left the interview room. She felt drained and frustrated. In spite of her constant hammering of questions, she hadn't been able to extract a single fact from Redford that hadn't either been published in the press or couldn't have been gleaned from a studious reading of Georgia Lester's text. She let herself into the observation room where the DCS from Dorset was sitting with a notepad on his knee. "What do you think?" she asked.

He looked up and pulled a face. "I think you need something concrete from your search, something that isn't already in the public domain. He's given you nothing that a good brief won't demolish for a jury. He wants his day in court, but he doesn't want to be convicted, that's how I see it. And he thinks he's cleverer than you."

Duvall leaned against the wall and folded her arms across her chest. "And that might just be where I can trip him up. Reading that flyer, I was struck by how similar some of the language is to the threatening letters that have been sent to some of the crime writers. With the right expert witness, I think I can tie him to the letters, whether or not we find the originals on his computer. And if we can tie the letters to the murders, then we've got a way in. It's going to be a bastard to make it stick, though."

"Do you think it really is him?"

Duvall pushed herself off from the wall and crossed to the one-way mirror. Redford was gazing up as if he could see her, a confident smirk on his face. "That's what I keep wondering."

The DCS tapped his pen on his pad. "It strikes me, reading that flyer, that he'd do just about anything to get his books published."

Duvall sighed. He had expressed a notion that had already crossed her mind. "You think he'd go as far as murder?"

"I think he'd certainly go as far as confessing to murder." He shook his head. "I tell you something, DCI Duvall. I'm not going to fight you over who gets this collar."

Fiona found Kit upstairs in the living room, stretched out full-length on the sofa. On the floor beside him, a bottle held about two inches of red wine. The glass balanced on his chest contained another inch. There was an Australian soap on the TV. His eyes were looking at the screen, but she knew he wasn't watching it.

"I'll get another bottle," she said.

"That'd be a good idea," he agreed, no trace of the drink in his voice.

When Fiona returned, she sat down cross-legged on the floor beside him and tipped the remains of the bottle into her glass. "I'm more sorry than I can say about Georgia."

"Me too," Kit said, shifting his position so he was half sitting, leaning against the arm of the sofa. "I'm also scared. There's somebody out there killing people like me, and it's hard to escape the idea that I could be next on his list."

"I know." Fiona drained her glass and started on the second bottle. "And there's nothing I can say or do that will change that. God, how I hate that feeling." She reached up and gripped his hand.

The silence between them was filled with the inane chatter of the soap's teenage love interest. More than she had ever wished anything, Fiona wished she could wave a magic wand and remove the sense of threat that clung to them both like a sticky spider's web, blinding them to everything except its presence. "It was kind of Steve to come and tell you himself," she said finally. "Especially given the way we left things."

"He loves you too much to be petty."

Fiona gave him a quick glance of surprise. She had always thought the burden of Steve's love was her private secret. It had never been mentioned between them before, and she had assumed Kit had accepted her version of their relationship; a long-standing defiance of the theory that friendship between heterosexual men and women was inherently impossible.

Kit shook his head, a tired smile creeping over his face. "You think I never noticed?"

"I suppose so. I presumed because you never objected to him that you took it at face value," she admitted.

Kit reached for the bottle and topped up his glass. "Why should I have minded? It's not as if he's ever been any kind of threat. I've always known you didn't love him. Well, you do love him, obviously, but like a friend. And he's never tried to tell me how I should be treating you. So why should there be a problem?"

Fiona laid her head against his thigh. "You never cease to surprise me."

"Good. I'd hate to think you had me sussed." He released her hand and stroked her hair. "You're a very good reason for staying alive, you know. I'm not going to take any chances."

Fiona grasped the offered opportunity. "So first thing in the morning, we're going to call a security firm and get you fixed up with a minder."

"Are you serious?" His tone was a mixture of incredulity and outrage.

"Never more so. You can't live like a hermit, Kit. You know it'll drive you stir crazy within a couple of days. You'll get frustrated and bad-tempered, you won't be able to work and then you'll do something that you think is safe, like going for a walk on the Heath. You'll expose yourself." As he started to argue with her, Fiona held up her hand in an adamant gesture. "I'm not going to argue, Kit. Your safety's the most important consideration, but you've still got to be able to live."

"Fair enough. But a minder? I'll feel like a complete plonker."

"It's better than the alternative."

Before Kit could say more, the final credits of the soap faded and the familiar urgency of the Six o'clock News theme swelled from the TV. Fiona swivelled round to watch the screen. "Let's see what they're saying about Georgia," she said.

The newscaster gave his trademark sombre smile and launched into the news. "Good evening. The remains of missing mystery writer Georgia Lester have been discovered in a freezer in London's Smithfield Market. And in a dramatic development, a man has confessed to her murder at a police press conference."

The rest of the headlines were lost on Fiona and Kit. "What the fuck?" Kit breathed.

They didn't have long to wait. Georgia was the first item in the main bulletin. "City of London Police called a press conference this afternoon to announce that a search of Smithneld Market had ended with the discovery of Georgia Lester's remains. Their grisly find came in the early hours of this morning as police worked through the night following a new line of inquiry. Ms Lester went missing somewhere between her cottage in Dorset and her London home ten days ago. Since then, concern has been voiced for her safety.

"But the revelation was overshadowed by the events of the press conference itself. Over now to our reporter Gabrielle Gershon."

A solemn-faced thirty-something with fashionable glasses gazed into the camera. "Police were giving little away at the press conference. They admitted only that Georgia Lester's dismembered body had been found in a freezer at Smithfield Market, but refused to be drawn into speculation as to whether there was any connection between the best selling crime author's death and the recent murders of fellow thriller writers Drew Shand and Jane Elias.

"But as the press conference drew to a close, a man pushed his way through the crowd of reporters, claiming to be responsible for all three deaths. He then distributed leaflets alleging that all three of the murdered authors had stolen his work and that he had killed them in revenge for their plagiarism.

"For legal reasons, we cannot show the footage of this dramatic event. However, the man has been taken into police custody and within the last ten minutes, police have admitted that he has been arrested on suspicion of murder."

The news reader voice interrupted. "Did the police appear to be taken by surprise by this extraordinary intervention, Gabrielle?" he asked.

"Yes, Don, it threw them into complete confusion. Up to that point, they'd given no indication that they had any suspects whatsoever in Georgia Lester's murder."

"It's a remarkable turn of events. I can't recall anything quite like it ever happening before," Don the news reader said as the screen returned to a view of the studio. "Thanks, Gabrielle. We'll come back to you if there are any further developments." He looked seriously at the camera. "Later in the programme, we'll be bringing you an appreciation of Georgia Lester's life and work. But now, the other main stories tonight."

Fiona reached for the remote control and flicked the mute button. "Unbelievable," she said wonderingly. "He confessed in front of a room full of journalists?"

"Now there's a man who doesn't need a publicist."

"Pass the phone," Fiona said.

Kit stretched and grabbed the cordless handset. "Who're you going to call?"

"Wood Street. I want to find out if this is the real thing or the local neighbourhood nutter."

"You think they'll tell you?"

Fiona gave him her disapproving tutor's stare. "You think they won't?"

Ten minutes later, she put the phone down. Sarah Duvall had, inevitably, been unavailable. But once Fiona had explained her connection to the case to a slightly wary sergeant in the incident room, she had been rewarded with the assurance that yes, the murder squad was treating the confessor seriously. And, strictly off the record, he was likely to be charged with something by morning. Maybe not murder, not quite yet. But something serious.

It was, she thought, like the moment when you realize the dental anaesthetic has worn off. She felt tension seep from her shoulders like a liquid flow. Her initial response of scepticism had been dispelled by the CID sergeant's stolid reassurance that someone as sharp as Sarah Duvall was taking this seriously. And if the confessor had been one of the usual suspects who came out of the woodwork whenever there was a major crime in the headlines, the police would have known. She smiled up into Kit's anxious eyes. "They seem to think he's kosher," she said, letting out a long breath. She hastily moved from the floor to the sofa and wrapped her arms round him. "I hope they're right," she said softly. "Oh God, I hope it's finished."