hapter 45

DC Joanne Gibb walked down the corridor to Steve Preston's office with a bounce in her stride that seemed to deny the hours she'd spent hunched over her computer running criminal-records checks against everyone on the electoral roll in a clutch of streets on the borders of Kentish Town and Tufnell Park.

She'd been practically cross-eyed with fatigue and on the point of tears of frustration at the fruitlessness of her task when the phone had rung. The previous day, she'd tried to contact the local information collator at the police station serving the area Terry had identified, only to discover the constable who ran their card index was on holiday and not due back until Monday. It had felt like the last straw, but she'd hacked on through her lists, hoping against hope she'd still turn something up.

Then, late morning, the call had come through. The collator, Darren Watson, had dropped by the station to pick something up and he'd seen the message marked 'urgent' from Joanne. At the end of her rope and almost without hope, Joanne had outlined what she was looking for.

"Right," Darren had said. "A couple of likely lads spring to mind. Why don't you come over and we'll have a look?"

"Now?" Joanne could hardly believe her luck. In her experience, police on their day off would do almost anything to avoid being dragged on duty.

"Sure. I've just come back from a week in a cottage in Cornwall with my other half, and frankly, anything that keeps me out of the house for an hour or two would be a bonus. Get yourself over here and we'll see what we can dig out."

Joanne didn't need asking twice. She'd practically run downstairs to her car and invited several outbreaks of road rage on her way to the North London police station where Darren Watson might just have the answer to her prayers. Local Information Officers were responsible for maintaining the informal intelligence of the station. As well as keeping a card index file of every known villain on the patch with details of their convictions, a good collator recorded associates, suspicions and gossip. There were sound reasons why much of what they had tucked away was never entered into a computer. A card could always be conveniently misplaced, whereas even deleted computer records left traces. Omniscience coupled with deniability was the hallmark of a good collator. Joanne hoped that was what she was going to find.

Barren was in a small subterranean office that had the atmosphere of a wartime command bunker. One wall was covered with large-scale maps of the area, with pins in a variety of colours marking specific locations. Another was lined with filing cabinets. Shelving along a third wall sagged under the weight of box files piled along its length. Darren was sitting on the edge of the desk that occupied most of the fourth wall, dressed in his civvies: a navy fleece over a white T-shirt, blue jeans and brilliant-white trainers. Joanne's first thought was that if his appearance was anything to go by, Barren's files would be immaculate. Joanne was acutely aware that the attrition of the day's work on top of too little sleep had left her a long way behind the collator in the grooming stakes.

They introduced themselves and Joanne came straight to the point. "Like I told you, I'm trying to develop a suspect in a series of rapes. We have reason to believe he might be on your patch. I've done a trawl through electoral records, but I've come up with a blank. We think he might have a record for minor sexual of fences maybe even attempted rape. What we're looking for is an offender who works out of doors, who targets white women, usually blonde. He may ride a bike in his getaways and he uses a knife in his attacks. It's possible that some of his attacks may have been witnessed by small children."

Barren pushed off from the desk and headed for his filing cabinets. "I've been giving it some thought and I've come up with two names." He hauled open one of the card index drawers and flicked through. "There we go." He took out a small bundle of cards held together with an elastic band. "Gordon Harold Armstrong." He handed the cards over to Joanne and moved to another drawer.

Gordon Harold Armstrong was twenty-five, unemployed, and had been in and out of prison for burglary and indecent assault. His technique was to grab women on their way home from work, fondle their breasts and expose himself. He had threatened three of his victims with a knife. There was no mention of a bike. But for Joanne, the crucial disqualifying factor was that Gordon Harold Armstrong was black. And based on both Fiona's analysis of Susan Blanchard's murder and the evidence of the rape victims, the man she was looking for was white.

Darren turned to her with a single card. "Any joy, do you think?"

Joanne shook her head. "I think I'm looking for an ICi."

Darren proffered the card. "Try this one."

Gerard Patrick Coyne, twenty-seven years old. New Zealand-born, he had arrived in the UK as an eighteen-year-old student. Which explained his absence from the voters' roll, Joanne realized. Having graduated from Kent University with a social sciences degree, he had worked for various market research companies as a data analyst ever since. His first arrest had come four years previously after a woman had complained he had attacked her in a local park. He had pushed her to the ground and tried to have sex with her. But she'd struggled and got away from him. The charges were later dropped on the grounds of insufficient evidence. He'd been arrested for the second time a few months later. A foot patrol had found him lurking in the bushes of another park, this time carrying a knife. He'd been charged with possession of an offensive weapon and had been given two years' probation. According to the notes on the back of the card, Coyne had been a suspect in two other sexual assaults. In one case, the victim had been too traumatized to take part in an identification parade. In the other, the woman had been unable to pick Coyne out of the line-up.

Coyne, not surprisingly for a sex offender, had no known criminal associates. What he did have was a bike. Darren Watson's scrupulous notes revealed that he was a member of a local cycling club and had won several road races.

Joanne allowed a slow smile to spread across her face. "Darren, you are a star," she said, waving the card like a winning lottery ticket.

"You like our Mr. Coyne, do you?"

"Like him? I love him." As she spoke, Joanne pulled her notebook out of her handbag and began to copy down Coyne's details. Address, date of birth, date of arrests and his conviction for the offensive weapon charge. And the name of his cycling club.

As she knocked on Steve Preston's door half an hour later, Joanne was convinced her boss was also going to love the prospect of Gerard Patrick Coyne. She walked into his office, a grin spread across her face. "Have I got news for you!" she began, sitting down opposite her boss without waiting to be invited. She flicked open her notes and read out Coyne's details. She looked up. "I've run his CRO. Looks like we've got a suspect at last, guy." She sorted through the bundle of computer printouts, collating a set to give to her boss.

"And nothing to tie him in to Susan Blanchard," Steve reminded her. "Nothing except informed speculation and a bit of computer analysis." He took the sheaf of paper and stared at the top sheet, which included Coyne's photos. "Wait a minute," he said, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice.

"What is it, guy?" Joanne leaned forward in her eagerness, as if she would somehow see whatever it was that Steve had latched on to.

"I know that face. I've seen him." He closed his eyes and frowned in concentration. When they opened, his whole face was alight with excitement. "He was at the Bailey the day Blake was set free! I know it was him, I noticed him particularly because he was in cycling clothes. Carrying a helmet. It was him, Joanne, I know it was him."

"Are you sure?" It was as if she dared not hope.

"I'm sure. I was paying attention to the public gallery crowd, because I still had it at the back of my mind that we'd brought the wrong man to court. I was checking out the faces. Just in case I saw anybody that rang a bell." Steve jumped to his feet and started pacing. "What we've got to do ... Joanne, I want you to get me the video footage we shot at Susan Blanchard's funeral. We had full cover, all angles. And see what you can get from the press. Whatever pix and footage they took outside the Bailey. And the magistrates' court, see if you can find anything from there. You'll have to be discreet, you know how they get on their high horse if they think we're trying to come the heavy hand with them. Go and talk to the press office, see what they can do for you."

"What about Coyne? Are we going to pull him in?"

Steve spread his hands in frustration. "I haven't got the bodies for this, Jo. Let me see ..." He was talking half to himself, doodling on his desk pad. "John's relieving Neil at Blake's place at six ... Maybe Neil could go over to the suspect's address then, keep on him till midnight ..." He looked up at Joanne. "Any chance you can come in tomorrow at seven and pick Coyne up for the day?"

Joanne nodded, enthusiasm overcoming weariness. "Of course. This could be the break we've been waiting for. But ... if you don't mind me asking ... Why are we still surveilling Blake when we've got Coyne to go at?"

Steve gave a resigned nod. "Good point, Jo. I suppose I've got a thing about Blake. Oh, I know he's not the killer. But if Fiona Cameron's right, and he did see what happened on the Heath that morning, I'd love to get something on him. For all we know, he's in contact with Coyne. I'd like to stay on him for as long as we can manage it. But Blake's not what you should be concentrating on now. Leave it with me, I'll make the arrangements. Just get yourself to Coyne's place for seven tomorrow and stay on him."

She got to her feet. "If that's all, I'm going to clock off now and catch up on some sleep."

"You deserve it. Great job, Jo. Well done." He smiled. "Our luck's on the turn. I've got a good feeling about this."

Before the door had even closed, Steve was on the phone. Within fifteen minutes, he had everything in place. Neil had agreed to take on the extra surveillance, and another CID officer was lined up to cover Blake the following day while Steve's core team were elsewhere. It was far from satisfactory, but it was the best he could manage at such short notice. And given the way things had started to run in his favour, he couldn't help feeling optimistic. Maybe they'd finally get their hands on the real killer of Susan Blanchard. Nothing would make him happier.

Then he remembered Terry Fowler and amended the thought.

Now everything was in place. It didn't matter that the van he'd hired using one of his false driving licences had no logo on the side; courier companies often hired anonymous white vans when their own fleet was overstretched. Anyway, it was only a minor prop. The key vehicle, the four-wheel-drive Toyota, was already parked in the narrow lane that ran behind the row of houses where his target lived.

All it had needed was patience. He'd cruised by the target's house a couple of times earlier in the day. No surprises there. If there had been any kind of protection in place, it had disappeared in the smoke and mirrors of the previous day's confession. He couldn't believe his luck when he'd switched on the TV the night before. Just when he thought things were going to get even harder for him, the police had fallen for a faker. Now nobody would be expecting him, least of all his target.

Everything was in place. Even the weather was working in his favour. A grey drizzly afternoon meant empty streets and poor visibility. He turned the key in the ignition and flicked the indicator down. Ready or not, here I come.

Kit stared at the screen without seeing the words. Time had drifted past without him noticing, engrossed as he was in the process of grieving for his friend. He replayed Georgia in his mind like a series of videotapes, recalling her gestures, her facial expressions, the way she laughed. Whole chunks of conversation dropped out of his memory and reverberated round his head. So many times they'd stayed up late in hotel bars, talking about their work, their colleagues, the publishing business and gradually moving on to more personal issues. She'd talked fondly of Anthony, lasciviously about her lovers. He'd confided the whole process of falling in love with Fiona to Georgia, and right up to the end he'd still shared more of their relationship with Georgia than anybody else.

It wasn't that they lived in each other's pockets. Weeks could go past without them meeting, but theirs was the sort of friendship that always picked up where they'd last left off. He missed her already, a dull pain like the beginnings of hunger. He wished Fiona were with him. She understood the mechanism of loss; she could be his guide through the uncharted terrain of grief.

He shook his head, like a dog worried by a fly, and opened his e-mail program. He downloaded Fiona's message and read it. Words at a distance, but still they soothed.

Kit glanced at the clock and was surprised to see how late it was. The detective from the City of London Police was due to take his statement in half an hour. Not that he had much to say. His vague recollection of being sent a manuscript by Redford wouldn't advance their case much, he suspected. He wondered if Georgia had also been on the receiving end of one of Redford's unsolicited offerings. If so, there would probably be a record somewhere. Unlike Kit, Georgia had employed a part-time secretary to deal with her correspondence. Somewhere, there would doubtless be a copy of any covering letter that had accompanied the manuscript on its return journey.

The creak of the gate interrupted his meandering thoughts and he looked out of the window. A courier was struggling up the path with a large cardboard box, the sort that contained author copies of books. A clipboard was balanced on top of the box.

Kit got to his feet and walked out into the hall. He opened the front door before the courier had even managed to ring the bell.

"Parcel for Martin," the man said, peering over the top of the box.

Kit reached out to take the box. It was as heavy as he'd expected and he stepped back so he could turn round and put it on the floor clear of the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. He half turned as the courier's arm came down in a savage arc. He saw the blow coming, half raised his arm to ward it off. He knew as soon as the impact hit his skull that he was too late. Red and white pain bloomed behind his eyes. Then everything faded to black.

The courier walked back down the path, swinging his clipboard. He climbed into his van and drove off. Two streets away, he found a parking space. He pulled off the tight uniform jacket and replaced it with black leather. He climbed into the back of the van and stripped off the coarse blue trousers, pulling on a pair of black jeans in their stead. Then he locked up the van and walked back to the lane that ran behind Kit Martin's back garden.

He pushed open the garden gate he'd left unbolted a few minutes earlier, then, in the gathering dusk, he made his way past the bare branches of the plum trees and across the patio through the french windows he'd unlocked. Handy of Kit to have left the key in the lock. Across the kitchen and into the hall. Nice place, if you liked that sort of thing. Himself, he preferred the more traditional, farmhouse kitchen to all this stark modernity.

And there he was. Victim number four. Trussed up like a chicken, cuffed hand and foot with those convenient plastic restraints. Mouth stopped with a wide strip of elastoplast that would allow him to breathe even if his nose got bunged up. He didn't want him dead yet. Not by a long chalk. Not so powerful now, Mr. Kit Martin, creator of false gods. Destroyer of lives.

Time for him to face his own destruction.

But first, more patience was needed. Darkness was what was required. It wouldn't do for the neighbours to see their friendly neighbourhood celebrity rolled down the garden path like a lumpy carpet and dumped in the back of a four-wheel-drive.

He checked his watch. Half an hour should do it. Then they'd be on the road for the long journey home.

Chapter 46

The video viewing room was as high-tech as anything a broadcasting company could have provided. Steve wasn't quite sure how the techies had managed to swing the budget for such a sophisticated suite, but for once he felt it was worth every penny taken away from more direct forms of policing. He was sitting beside a technician who was taking him through the videos of Susan Blanchard's funeral.

It had been a sparkling, sunny day, which had doubtless felt grotesquely inappropriate for the grieving family and friends, but which had made the police camera operators' job easier. Three video cameras had been set up at a discreet distance from the graveside, taking advantage of the aged yew trees that ringed the churchyard. They had filmed the mourners arriving at the church, then assembling at the graveside for the interment. Then, as the crowd had dispersed, one camera had remained to film the grave itself for the remainder of the afternoon.

Steve's eyes were glued to the screen as the video played out before him in slow motion. Every now and again, he asked for a freeze-frame and zoom so he could take a closer look at individual mourners. The first tape had yielded nothing concrete, although there were a couple of rear views that could have been Coyne.

By the time they were halfway through the second tape, his eyes had begun to feel gritty and tired. "I need a break," he told the technician, pushing back his chair and stretching. "Give me ten minutes."

He left the video suite and climbed the two flights of stairs to his office. On his desk there was a thick brown envelope with, "Urgent. FAO Detective Superintendent Steve Preston," scrawled across it in black felt-tip. He ripped it open and pulled out half a dozen black and white photographs. A compliment slip fluttered to the desktop and he saw it had come from the picture editor of a national daily, a man he'd shared a drink and a few jokes with at one of Teflon's ghastly cocktail parties

33i the previous Christmas. Nothing could beat personal contact for results in that grey area of press and police cooperation.

The photographs had all been taken outside the Old Bailey on the day of Francis Blake's acquittal. Steve rummaged in his top drawer for his magnifying glass and began to study the prints methodically. As he worked his way across the third picture, he let out a sigh of relief. His memory hadn't been playing tricks on him. On the fringe of the crowd surrounding Blake was the unmistakable face of Gerard Coyne. Steve scanned the remaining photos and found Coyne on two others. In one, he was full-face to the camera, in the other two he was in profile. But there was no possibility of error.

The man who had been identified by Terry's geographic profile had been there at the trial of Susan Blanchard's putative killer.

Fired with fresh enthusiasm, Steve ran down the stairs to the video suite. "Let's roll," he said. "He's here somewhere, I know it."

His patience was rewarded a mere ten minutes later. The second tape had picked up Coyne emerging from the trees at the side of the graveyard. He was wearing a dark suit, with collar and tie, appropriate to the occasion. He had hung back from the main body of mourners round the grave, staying on the fringes. A significant number of people had respected the family's grief and stayed well back while Susan's twins had thrown roses on their mother's coffin and watched it lowered into the ground. But they had all dispersed fairly quickly after the ceremony was over. Coyne, conversely, had melted back into the trees then, when the last of the congregation was long gone, he had re-emerged and crossed to the path that led to Susan Blanchard's grave.

Steve felt his pulse quicken as Coyne moved in slow motion down the path. As he drew level with the open grave, he didn't so much as glance sideways. Instead, he continued along the path. Two graves along from Susan Blanchard, he stopped abruptly and turned to face that headstone. "Damn," Steve swore softly. "We can't see his face. I bet he's looking at her grave. I'd put money on it."

Coyne stood, head slightly bowed, for a couple of minutes, then he turned and went back the way he had come. There was nothing in his behaviour to suggest anything untoward. He could, if pressed, have claimed he'd delayed his planned visit to the grave near Susan's because there was a funeral in progress. But taken in conjunction with his presence at the Old Bailey and the geographic profile, it was another brick in a circumstantial case that might yet prove sufficient to put him behind bars.

"I want you to print me a series of stills from that video," Steve said. "The best views of his face. Blow them up so we get the best possible definition. I don't want there to be any doubts about this."

"No problem," the techie said. "I suppose it's urgent?"

"It's urgent." Steve was already heading for the door. He checked his watch. Teflon had a habit of finding excuses to be out of the office early on Friday afternoons, but he might just catch him.

Commander Telford was actually waiting for the lift that Steve emerged from. "I'm glad I've caught you, sir. "I need to speak with you urgently about the Susan Blanchard case," he said firmly.

"Can't it wait, Superintendent? I've got an appointment."

With a large gin and tonic, Steve thought cynically. "I'm afraid it won't wait, sir. Perhaps you could call ahead and tell them you've been unavoidably delayed?"

Telford pursed his lips and snorted through his nose. "Oh, very well. But keep it as brief as you can." He turned on his heel and marched back to his office.

Steve had barely closed the door behind him when Telford said, "What is it that's so important, then?"

"We have a viable suspect in the Blanchard case, sir. It's my intention to bring him in for questioning and search his premises. I thought you'd want to be kept informed." He crossed to the visitor's chair and sat down, ignoring the fact that Telford was still standing.

"Where has this come from?" Telford said, unable to hide his scepticism.

"If you remember, sir, you authorized a crime linkage and geographic profile based on cases with similar components. Using the results of that, my officers did a trawl of criminal records and we emerged with a likely name."

"That's it?" Telford interrupted. "You think that'll stand up in court as a reasonable excuse for pulling someone in and turning over his home?"

"There is more, sir," Steve said, biting back his frustration. "The suspect is a member of a cycling club and we have two witnesses who put a cyclist at the scene of the crime. Even more significantly, when I saw the suspect's photograph, I recognized him. I had seen him before, sir. He was present at the Old Bailey when Francis Blake was in court. I've verified that from photographs taken there that day. And I've since examined the videos we took at Susan Blanchard's funeral. He was there too. After the funeral, he walked past her grave. In my opinion, sir, we have enough circumstantial evidence to arrest him on suspicion of murder. And to conduct a search under Section Eighteen of PACE." He held Telford's eyes, willing him to agree. He knew his strength should be more than Telford's weakness could withstand, but he'd never tested it in a head-to-head before. Maybe he should have done it months ago, when Telford had pushed through the decision to dump Fiona and use Horsforth. But he had backed down then, and the price had been too high for him to be comfortable with the idea that the same cost might be extracted again.

"It's thin," Telford complained. "And you've already come a cropper with this case. I don't want another disaster on my hands."

"We can keep the lid on it, sir. There's no need to make any kind of announcement until we're ready to charge him. Nobody need know about the arrest and search. I can keep it really tight just me and my immediate team."

Telford shook his head. "You make a convincing case. But I want to run it past the AC Crime before we go any further."

"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.

Chapter 47

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 self-consciousness. "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 grandstanded 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.

With appalling clarity that momentarily banished pain, Kit recognized the scenario. He was trapped in a nightmare of his own invention. He was living the story of Susannah Tremayne, the second victim of the serial killer he'd dubbed the Blood Painter. The killer had captured her by pretending to be a courier delivering a package. Then he'd loaded her into his van and driven her to the holiday cottage.

Twenty-four hours earlier, it would have been at the front of his mind. He would never have opened the door to a courier, not even one of the ones he was familiar with. But that had been before Charles Redford had been arrested, before Sarah Duvall had told Fiona the killer was in custody and life could return to normal, without the bite of fear cutting into every moment.

They'd been catastrophically wrong. Terror clutched at his heart. He knew exactly what lay in store for him. After all, he'd written the script.

Before she let herself out of Drew Shand's flat, Fiona took a look at the Edinburgh street map on his reference shelf and decided to walk back to her hotel. A brisk couple of miles on the city streets might clear her head. She set off through the Georgian streets of the New Town, heading for Queensferry Road, the damp air clinging to her skin and hair. She was almost the only person on the streets. She turned on to the Dean Bridge, enjoying the spectacle of walking above tree-top level, with random blocks of light from the backs of the New Town tenements glowing pale-yellow through the insubstantial mist. It could have felt spooky, she thought, and if someone with the gifts of Kit or Drew had been describing it, it would have crept off the page and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. As it was, after a day of airports and the enclosed office at St. Leonard's, it felt curiously liberating, a brief escape from the concerns of work and love.

When she arrived back at her hotel, she was almost reluctant to go in. The brief time out had refreshed her, leaving her ready for something more enjoyable than thoughts of murder. The only tantalizing prospect the evening had to offer now was the chance of a conversation with Kit.

Fiona checked at reception for messages. Nothing. She'd hoped he would have called, in response to one of her earlier e-mail messages. Never mind, she thought. She'd call home in the hope that he was monitoring the answering machine and would pick up when he heard her voice. She went up to her room and called room service. While she waited, she booted up the laptop and checked her e-mail again. Nothing from Kit. Not like him, she thought. They'd had no contact since she'd left that morning, which was a break in their usual pattern of communication.

Glancing at her watch, she saw it was just past nine. He couldn't still be working. He should answer the phone.

Quickly, she dialled the familiar number, her fingers stumbling so she had to abort the call and start again. The phone rang out. Three, four, five rings. Then the answering machine. His recorded voice for once provided no comfort. She waited for the bleep. "Kit, it's me. If you're there, pick up, please ... Come on, I need to talk to you ..." She waited in vain.

While she ate the pasta she'd ordered and sipped a glass of wine, Fiona flicked through the letters again, checking to see if there was anything she'd missed.

When the phone rang she dropped her fork with a clatter. She grabbed the receiver eagerly and said, "Hello?"

"This is DCI Duvall."

Fiona felt intense disappointment. "Oh. Hello. I was expecting someone else."

"I wondered what progress you'd made," Duvall said abruptly.

Fiona outlined her day's work in some detail. As she reported her findings, Duvall made no response apart from the occasional noncommittal sound of someone making notes.

When she had finished, Duvall spoke. "So, you've found nothing to contradict the theory that Redford is the killer?" she asked.

It was, Fiona thought, an odd way to put it. "Nothing. Why? Has something come up at your end?" A nervous prickle of anxiety crept across her chest.

She felt the hesitation build at the other end of the phone. "A minor discrepancy, that's all," Duvall said briskly.

"How minor?" Fiona demanded.

Duvall outlined what the Dorset Police had uncovered, and how it was at odds with the little Redford had said on the subject. "We'll have more sense of its significance when we get the forensics back from the outhouse."

"But that could be days," Fiona protested. "If you have got the wrong man in custody, then other people could be at risk." One person in particular, she thought, fear beginning to clench her stomach. "The killer's going to feel very safe. He'll be confident about striking again." And I can't raise Kit.

"I'm aware of that. We're doing everything we can to corroborate what Redford is saying."

"I've not heard from Kit all day," Fiona blurted out.

"One of my team was supposed to interview him this afternoon. I'll check out what he had to say. He may have indicated he had plans for the evening," Duvall said with a confident authority she didn't feel. "I'll get back to you."

"I'll be waiting for your call." Fiona replaced the phone gently, as if somehow so doing would also keep Kit safe. She was, she recognized, terrified. Suddenly, she bolted for the bathroom, making it just in time. Undigested pasta swilled round in a bilious red sea of tomato sauce and wine. Her stomach kept on emptying itself in a reflex long after there was nothing left to bring up. She leaned back on her heels, a sheen of sweat across her forehead, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

The thought of Sarah Duvall's call forced her to her feet. She flushed the toilet and brushed her teeth. What was taking her so long? She ran her hands through her hair, gazing at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were haunted, her face made gaunt by the inner fears eating her away. "You look like shit," she told her reflection. "Get a grip, Cameron."

The phone ringing catapulted her out of the bathroom and across the bedroom. "Yes, Fiona Cameron, hello?"

"We seem to have a slight problem," Duvall said hesitantly.

Jesus God, no, she screamed silently. "What sort of a problem?" she forced out.

"Apparently, he wasn't at home when my officer called on him."

Fiona groaned. "Something's happened to him."

"I don't think you should jump to conclusions, Dr. Cameron. My officer admitted he was over an hour late in getting to their appointment. Mr. Martin may well have given up on him. I understand from Ms Lester's husband that a group of her fellow writers were planning to get together today to hold a sort of wake. That's probably where Mr. Martin is right now. Look, Redford's confession checks out in every detail but one. He's been treating his interviews like a game, a battle of wits. It's entirely possible that he was deliberately misleading us because he's determined not to give us anything concrete. He wants to get away with this, I'm sure of it." Duvall's voice showed not a trace of doubt. "I'm sure Mr. Martin will be in touch. Try not to worry."

"Easier said than done, DCI Duvall."

"I still believe we have the right man in custody."

"You would say that. You've got too much invested in this to say otherwise."

"If Mr. Martin hasn't been in touch by tomorrow morning, call me."

"Bet on it." She slammed the phone down. Her hand shook as she removed it from the receiver. "Oh God," she breathed. "Please God, let it not be him."

She began to pace the room. Six strides, turn, six strides, turn, like a cat in a cage. There was no comfort for her in Duvall's apparent confidence. She knew Kit wouldn't have left her high and dry without a word. "Think, Fiona, think," she urged herself.

She grabbed her personal organizer and looked up Jonathan Lewis's number. She didn't have many of Kit's friends' numbers, but Jonathan and his wife Trish had been regular dinner companions over the past couple of years, so they'd made it to her list. Trish answered on the third ring, sounding pleasantly surprised to hear from Fiona. "Is Jonathan in?" Fiona asked.

"No, he's gone off on this wake they're holding for Georgia. Isn't Kit with them?" Trish answered.

"He must be. I'm up in Edinburgh and I've been trying to get hold of him without success."

"They were supposed to be meeting at six," Trish said.

"Do you know where?"

"Jonathan said something about some drinking club in Soho where Adam's a member. But I don't know what it's called. I know he was expecting to see Kit there."

"You're probably right," Fiona sighed. "He's most likely halfway through the second bottle by now. Sorry to bother you, Trish."

"It's no bother. If it's urgent, you could give Jonathan a ring on his mobile."

Fiona copied down Jonathan's number and called it as soon as she ended her conversation with Trish. The mobile rang half a dozen times before it was answered. It sounded as if a small riot was going on in the background. "Hello? Jonathan?" she shouted. "It's Fiona Cameron. Is Kit with you, by any chance?"

"Hello? Fiona? No, where is the bugger? He's supposed to be here."

"He's not there?"

"No, that's what I'm saying."

"He's not been in touch?"

"No, hang on." Somewhat muffled, she heard him shout, "Anybody heard anything from Kit? Like why he's not here?" There was a brief pause, then Jonathan came back on to her. "Nobody's heard from him, Fiona. I don't know what he's playing at, but he's not here."

Fiona felt her stomach contract again. "If he turns up, tell him to call me. Please, Jonathan."

"No problem. Take it easy, Fiona, but take it." The connection terminated and Fiona was left stranded with fear coursing through her again. She wanted to scream. But she forced herself to take a rational approach to the situation.

If Kit was going to be targeted, the obvious book to copy would be The Blood Painter. Because it had been successfully adapted for TV, it fitted the pattern the killer had adopted so far. If the killer was following the pattern of the book, Kit must still be alive. The characteristic of the Blood Painter was that he held his victims prisoner and drained their blood at daily intervals, using it to paint murals in the place where he held them captive. So if Kit was truly the next victim, whoever had him needed to keep him alive for a couple of days at least so he could reproduce the murder in the book as faithfully as possible.

All she had to do was to work out where he was being held.

It had been a while since she'd read the book, but she remembered that the victims of the Blood Painter had all rented remote holiday cottages in the six months before their deaths. When he came to kill them, the Blood Painter rented the same cottage and held them captive there for the week while he slowly bled them to death and created his grotesque paintings.

But she and Kit had never rented a holiday cottage. They'd not had so much as a weekend break in the UK, preferring to take their holidays abroad. Where could he be holding Kit? Where could they be if the killer was truly determined to follow the book?