hapter 27

"What did I tell you?" Kit demanded, brandishing the Guardian under Fiona's nose at breakfast two days later. "If it says it in The Loafer, it must be true." He pointed to the item in the literary gossip column and read, '"The word on the mean streets is that crime writer Georgia Lester has gone to ground in fear of her life. Bestseller Lester failed to turn up for a prestigious lecture at the British Film Institute on contemporary noir films-of-books and has not been heard from since.

'"Lester has apparently fallen out with publishers Carnegie House over their failure to provide her with minders on her upcoming book tour to promote her latest psychological thriller, Terminal Identity. Her demand followed hot on the heels of the shocking murder of Edinburgh-based wunderkind Drew Shand last month, which police believe may be stalker-related, and the equally bizarre murder of American recluse Jane Elias near her Irish estate, a supposed gangland killing connected to her lover, an undercover drugs cop.

'"Now open season has apparently been declared on crime writers, a friend claimed that Lester was outraged by what she saw as a lack of concern for her welfare and reportedly said she'd make Carnegie pay for it. Whether in pain or in cash wasn't clear.

' "That Lester, noted for her willingness to accommodate the media, has turned her back on a major platform to express her views will surely have sent a strong message to her publishers that she isn't going to be fobbed off, however paranoid her demands." Well, that's what the world's saying. So maybe I should stop worrying?"

Fiona shook her head. "I don't think so. Not until you hear it from Georgia herself. What's in The Loafer was probably leaked by one of your drinking cronies from the other night." She was more worried than she was willing to acknowledge, however, so she searched for something more reassuring. All she could come up with was the line she'd been using ever since she'd seen Georgia's death threat. "Whatever is going on, I don't think the person who wrote your letter is responsible. Of course, it makes sense to be cautious. But I don't think you should be living in fear."

Kit grumbled indistinctly through a mouthful of Weetabix. The silence that followed was broken only by the sounds of breakfast being consumed and the turning of pages as they both read their sections of the paper.

Suddenly, Fiona rallied. This was far better reassurance than any platitude she could come out with. "Now, that is what I call much more interesting than the spreading of unsubstantiated rumour," Fiona said, folding the news section over and passing it to Kit.

Suspect held in Elias murder

A man has been arrested in connection with the brutal murder of American thriller writer Jane Elias, the Garda Siochana in County Wicklow have confirmed.

The suspect is John Patrick Regan, a 35-year-old house builder from Kildenny, a small town fifteen miles from Ms Elias's estate on the shores of Lough Killargan.

Ms Elias was found dead on a country road ten days ago. She was last seen by security guards at her estate leaving her private dock in a yacht twelve hours earlier.

Regan is believed to be a cousin and business associate of Thomas Donaghy, who is currently awaiting trial on charges of heroin smuggling. He was arrested during a major operation by the Garda last year, which was the result of an undercover sting operation and led to the confiscation of heroin with a street value of 1.2m. Pierce Finnegan, the Garda officer responsible for the operation, is believed to have been Jane Elias's lover and there was speculation last night that her murder was intended to discourage Finnegan from giving evidence when the case against Donaghy and his co-accused comes to court next month. A Garda spokesman said, "We have a suspect in custody who is being questioned about the death of Jane Elias. At this moment, no charges have been laid."

Jane Ellas's death shocked the quiet Irish community where the reclusive writer was highly respected. cont. p3

Kit scanned the newsprint quickly then looked up at Fiona with a half-smile. "I suppose that counts as good news," he said.

"As good as it gets in a murder inquiry, I think."

He shook his head, his mouth pursing in bitterness. "What a stupid bloody reason to die, though. I mean, to be killed not for anything you are or anything you've done. To be murdered because of the person you love."

"It happens all the time when you think about it," Fiona said. "Women murdered by ex-husbands who can't accept they've chosen someone else to be with. People murdered because the person they sleep with is the wrong religion or the wrong colour. Or the wrong gender."

"No, that's different. There, you've got an element of choice. At some level it's a conscious decision, you know what you're getting into. But you can't know when you get involved with someone in law enforcement that it's going to rebound on you like that."

Fiona shook her head. "It is the same thing. It's all very well, you saying there's an element of choice in the examples I cited. But you know it's not entirely true. If we lived in Northern Ireland and I was a Protestant vicar and you were a high-ranking Republican, could you have walked away from loving me because it might cost either of us our lives?"

Kit glared at her across the table. "Don't be bloody silly. Of course I couldn't have."

"Well, then. I don't suppose Jane Elias was blind to the potential risks of loving Pierce Finnegan. She was far too smart for that. And I'd guess that she accepted the risk because taking a chance on being with him was infinitely preferable to playing safe and doing without him. Just as it must have crossed your mind that living with a woman who has helped the police to put away serial offenders has its attendant risks," Fiona added, softening her voice to take the challenge out of her words.

"I won't pretend I haven't had my moments. Thing is, Fiona, I never once thought that your job might put me on the line. It's always been you I've been worried for. I suppose I was projecting what I feel on to Jane. I reckon she must have had her sleepless nights over Pierce, but maybe,

like me, she never thought she'd be the one catching the rebound." He spread his hands wide, smiling at her.

Fiona reached across the table for his hand. He met her halfway. "I love you, you know," she said.

"By heck, that's a bit soft for the breakfast table," he teased.

"Oh please, don't come the hard man of British noir with me," Fiona protested. "You're forgetting, I know the truth."

"You could ruin my reputation with a word," he said ruefully.

"So make a fresh pot of tea and my lips will remain sealed." She retrieved the paper and shook it out. "There is one very good thing about this arrest."

"What's that?"

"It means there's no connection between the murder of Jane Elias and the murder of Drew Shand. So we can all stop worrying about a serial killer stalking the world's best thriller writers," Fiona pointed out.

The water rushed noisily into the kettle, drowning Kit's muttered reply.

"What?" Fiona asked.

Kit turned to face her. "I said, always supposing the Irish cops have got it right."

Fiona shook her head, laughing. "What is it with you? You want to feel like your life's under threat? You getting into method writing?"

This time, there was no deprecating smile. "No. I don't want to live my life looking over my shoulder. But you have to admit, it wouldn't be the first time the cops have arrested the wrong person."

"But there's no reason to suppose they have in this case."

Kit shrugged. "There's no reason to suppose they haven't."

Fiona frowned. "It's not like you to be the pessimist in this kitchen."

T'd call it realism, not pessimism." Kit's tone indicated he wouldn't readily be persuaded otherwise.

Fiona pushed back her chair. "Fine," she said calmly. "Leave it with me."

Jane Elias Arrest Latest Breaking News

You can always rely on the cops for the obvious line of inquiry. And so John Patrick Regan is behind bars tonight, accused of a crime that has shocked the bestseller buyers of Middle America.

Readers of this site will remember we broke exclusively the identity of Elias's long-term lover, Garda Siochana undercover cop Pierce Finnegan. And since law enforcement officers scan this site as avidly as our most devoted fans, they decided they'd better make a trawl through Finnegan's recent cases.

And bingo! They hit on Tommy Donaghy and his team of major-league drug runners. Donaghy and three of his lieutenants are currently awaiting trial on charges of heroin smuggling, thanks in no small part to Finnegan's talents at mounting an undercover sting. Although Donaghy is based north of Dublin, the Garda did a trawl of his known associates and came up with his cousin, John Regan, who lives a mere fifteen miles from Elias's estate in the Wicklow Hills. And, by strange coincidence, Regan's building firm did some of the restoration work on the Georgian mansion where Elias lived.

Regan is a small-time jobbing builder, divorced with two kids, who lives in the sleepy Irish town of Kildenny. He also owns a motor launch and on the afternoon Elias disappeared, he was out fishing. All on his own some So he's a man with means, motive and opportunity and not an alibi in sight. Looks good to the Garda, especially since they have no other leads to speak of.

It's unfortunate for them that Regan has no criminal record. Word is that so far forensics have come up blank, but they're still looking. Expect charges before bedtime. Or sooner, if Regan decides to confess. Which, given the shoot-themselves-in-the-foot tendencies of the Irish, is probably pretty much a given. Let's just hope for John Regan's sake that Pierce Finnegan isn't in charge of the interrogation.

REMEMBER YOU READ IT FIRST ON

MURDER BEHIND THE HEADLINES

Fiona stood up and waited impatiently for the printer to finish. She grabbed the sheet of paper from the tray and ran down the three flights of stairs to Kit's office. She knew he'd abandoned the kitchen for the womb of his desk; Classic FM on the radio had given way to Gomez cheerfully singing that there weren't enough hours in a day. She knew the feeling.

Kit was staring gloomily at the screen, reading through the last pages he'd written. Fiona dropped the paper on the keyboard in front of him. He ran a hand over his smooth scalp as he read, massaging the soft skin into ridges and furrows. "Sounds a bit flip to me," he said dubiously.

"That's just the tone they use. Believe me, if there were good reasons for thinking this arrest isn't kosher, they'd be shouting it from the rooftops, not dropping vague hints. I've told you; they pride themselves on getting the stuff that nobody else knows or is willing to publish. And like most of us, they like to cover their backs just in case they've got it wrong. Trust me, I'm a doctor ..." Fiona leaned over and kissed the tender skin where earlobe joined jawline.

Kit swivelled in his chair and pulled her into his arms. Now, there was nothing half-hearted about his smile. "Thank you," he said. "You've put my mind at rest."

"Good. Does that mean we get to go out and play like normal people do on a Saturday?"

"You want to be normal? What's brought that on?"

"I thought we could maybe give it a whirl, see what we've been missing all these years?"

"All right. Just this once. But only if we get to come home and be seriously abnormal later."

"I'll hold you to that."

He grinned. "I can hardly wait."

Extract from Decoding of Exhibit P13/4599

Gznqx uqhmn xq. Ftqkh qmddq efqpe ayqna pkrad vmzqq xumee ygdpd q. Mooad puzsf aitmf udqmp.

Unbelievable. They've arrested somebody for Jane Elias's murder. According to what I read, Ellas was sleeping with an Irish cop who went undercover to put away some serious drug dealers last year. And they reckon this was a revenge killing. Well, they're right about that, at least!

They're mad, those Paddles. Gangland executioners don't go to such elaborate lengths to take somebody out, but I suppose the upside Is that It means my targets won't be on their guard. I was beginning to worry that I might not be able to con Kit Martin If he was on the look-out for somebody after him.

Mind you, I'd expected Georgia Lester to be a bit more cautious. I'd Interfered with her fuel line so her car would break down, and I was right behind, all ready to be the knight of the road. She was standing by the side of her Jag looking helpless when I pulled up behind her. I offered to have a look at It, but she said she was going to call the AA. I whacked her when she bent down to get her mobile. Then I dragged her into the back seat. It took me about five minutes to get her back to her cottage. It's got an outhouse down the bottom of the garden, which I'd settled on. I left her tied up and gagged there while I dumped the Jag. By the time I got back it was well dark. All the better, really.

It's the only one I've done that's given me nightmares. I dream I'm suffocating under a mountain of meat and I can't get free. And then I see her eyes. She'd come round by the time I got back. Her eyes were popping out of her head, like a horse when it gets frightened. I could see the whites all round the irises. It nearly freaked me out. I had to hit her again, which I didn't want to do. But I couldn't face strangling her while she was still conscious.

I really don't like the killing. I like the way I feel afterwards, that sense of power that floods through me when I think how well I'm getting my own back. I wish there was an easier way of doing it. But I've got to stick to the plan.

I wonder how long it will take them to work it out this time?

Chapter 28

Joanne Gibb remembered a doctor friend once talking about the abbreviations the medical profession scribble on notes. Not the ones about blood pressure and pulse rate the ones like FLK for "Funny Looking Kid." What came to mind that Monday morning was NFRH - "Normal For Round Here." Working serious cases in CID produced similar effects in every dedicated officer. Pale skin, hair that was lank within an hour of showering, black smudges under the eyes, frown lines across the forehead and around the mouth, shoulders held unnaturally stiff. Yup, definitely NFRH. She scowled at herself in the mirror of the women's toilet. It was cosmetic surgery she needed, not cosmetics.

Given how she'd aged externally in three years working for Steve Preston, she shuddered to think about the condition of her internal organs. She poked her tongue out at her reflection, noting it already had its coating of yellowish fur only an hour after the alarm clock had ended the four hours' unconsciousness she'd managed the previous night. Too much coffee and too little sleep was giving her ulcers, she was convinced of it. The cigarettes were wrecking what remained of her aerobic fitness and she didn't even want to think about what the drink was doing to her liver. Now her boyfriend was muttering about settling down and starting a family. Judging by the state of the rest of her, all she could expect from her reproductive system was a three-headed monkey.

Men, she decided, had it easy. They mostly managed somehow to look attractively wrecked or admirably haunted like Steve Preston, making women want to take them home and mother them. Women, on the other hand, ended up labelled dog-rough, deserted by their men for next year's model. Well, it had been her choice, joining the Met. She could have got a job in a bank or in retail management and hung on to what looks she had for a bit longer. And been bored shitless, she reminded herself as she dragged a brush through her jaw-length brown bob. Maybe if she had her hair cut? Something a bit more lively instead of the heavy curtain that hung lifeless round a face she'd once thought of as heart-shaped.

Joanne closed her eyes and sighed. Enough of this self-pitying vanity. She should remember what was important and take her pride in that, not in what she looked like in the mirror. She stuffed her make-up back in its pouch and then into her bag. Picking up the bundle of folders that represented her weekend's work, she managed to find a spare finger to pull the door open and headed down the corridor to brief the boss.

She found Steve Preston behind his desk with his usual mug of Earl Grey tea, the smoke from the first slim cigar of the day pooling under the low ceiling. "Morning, Joanne," he said. He looked to her familiar scrutiny like he'd had about the same amount of sleep as her.

"Boss," she acknowledged, dumping her files on the edge of his desk and subsiding into the chair opposite him.

"You didn't log off till half past two this morning," he observed.

Joanne excavated her cigarettes from her bag and lit up. "I was chasing."

"Catch anything?"

Joanne waved her hand at the files, trailing a thin ribbon of smoke. "I concentrated on the Met, the City boys and the Home Counties. I can do a wider trawl if you think it's worth it. You know, it would make this sort of job so much easier if we had some sort of central reporting system for serious of fences she said with the tired bitterness of those who have to work against inadequate systems.

"It'll come," Steve said. "Too late for our sanity, probably, but it'll come. The Bramshill boys are playing around with the Canadian system, VICLAS. It's supposed to be more sophisticated than anything the FBI have got, but it's anybody's guess when they'll actually start using it to benefit field operations, especially the ones as far down the pecking order as this has become. So till then, we're stuck with phone calls and faxes and calling in favours. How did you do?"

"Depressingly well. I can't say it's been fun to be reminded of just how many rapes and serious sexual assaults get reported in any given year. But I think I've dug up some interesting stuff. I've done a digest for you. That's what I was doing at half past two this morning." Joanne opened the top file and took out two sheets of paper. "There you go."

Steve glanced at the carefully collated information. "Nice job, Joanne. Want to take me through it?"

Joanne grabbed her own copy of the digest and pulled the top file on to her lap. She took a pair of reading glasses out of the breast pocket of her shirt and perched them on her nose. "How I did it, I asked for cases that matched all five criteria that you asked about," she began, relishing as she always did the process of report and discussion that frequently stimulated new ideas. "Then I asked them to include any other cases that matched three or more of the criteria. What I was looking for was cases where the assault took place out of doors, where a knife was involved, where the victim was a young blonde female, where there were child witnesses to some or all of the assault and where the perpetrator may have made his escape by bike.

"To be honest, I didn't expect many hits. But we've got four rapes and two serious sexual assaults that incorporate all five points. All six took place north of the river. The first was reported two and a half years ago, in Stoke Newington. A woman sunbathing in her garden with her baby asleep in its push chair was assaulted by a man wearing cycling gear who climbed over her garden fence. Her screams alerted a neighbour and her assailant got away.

"The second was in Camden about ten weeks later. A woman was walking along the canal towpath with her three-year-old son when a man jumped out from behind a wall and held a knife to her throat. He told her he was going to rape her, but they were disturbed by a group of students who came along the towpath. He jumped back over the wall and pedalled off on a bike before anyone could stop him.

"The third one was on the top floor of a multi storey car park in Brent. Fifteen weeks later. This time, he raped a woman shopper. She had installed her kid in the car seat and he came up from behind, pushing her down on the seat and raping her at knife point According to the investigating officer, she thought he was wearing a cycle helmet.

"Nearly six months go by before the next reported rape. This time, he moved further west, to Kensal Rise. The victim was taking her new baby for a walk in the cemetery." Here, Joanne's professional mask slipped and she glanced up at Steve. "It's not as weird as it sounds," she said defensively. "These old Victorian cemeteries can be quite attractive, you know. Especially where there's not much green space around."

Steve shook his head. "I never said a word, Joanne. My mate Kit reckons Highgate Cemetery is the best source of inspiration he knows. Of course, he's not a copper ..."

"Anyway, she was walking the baby in the cemetery when she was jumped by a bloke in lycra shorts and a top, with a cycle helmet and goggles and what looked to her like one of those expensive kitchen knives that are made from one solid piece of metal. She fought back pretty hard and got seventeen stitches in her arm for her pains. She saw him take off afterwards on a mountain bike. It's the best description we've got."

"ICi male, between five-ten and six feet, slim build, dark hair, pale complexion," Steve read wearily. "Well, that makes half the male members of the Metropolitan Police suspects."

"Not half of them, boss. I reckon there's not more than ten percent could make anything like a decent getaway on a bike."

Steve grimaced at his cigar. "You're probably right. What's interesting is that the description doesn't fit Francis Blake. He's too short, and I don't think anyone would describe him as slim. He's far too broad in the shoulder. OK, let's hear the rest of it."

"Number five was a school cleaner in Crouch End. She was last out of the building one Friday night eighteen months ago. He was waiting for her. As she locked up, he came up behind her and held a knife to her throat. He dragged her into some bushes at the edge of the path and raped her. She had no kids with her, but I've included this one because it took place in a primary school playground and he was definitely on a bike. What do you think?"

"It's worth keeping in the cluster for now. And the last one?"

"Now, this one's really interesting. It was only five weeks before Susan Blanchard's murder. And it was a bit further afield, actually in Hatfield. But it was in a park. A nanny was out with the little boy she looks after, walking in the woodland garden area. She was knocked to the ground, reckons she was actually unconscious for a few minutes. When she came round, she'd been dragged into the bushes and he was raping her. He had a knife at her throat and told her he'd stick her like a pig if she made a sound."

"Fuck," Steve swore softly. "Why didn't we pick up on that when Susan Blanchard was killed?"

Joanne's mouth tightened in a prim line. "Principally because Hertfordshire didn't tell us about it."

"Why the hell not? It's not as if we kept the Blanchard murder a secret! It was all over the media. Didn't it occur to them that it might be the same bloke?"

"Apparently not. The reason being that they reckoned one of their own for it. They had an accused rapist out on bail and they thought this was him taking one last bite of the cherry before he went down. As the investigating officer charmingly put it to me," Joanne added tartly. "By the time Susan was killed, chummy was inside doing a seven stretch for three rapes, so they didn't bother telling us because it couldn't have been him, could it?" Sarcasm saturated her voice.

"Great." Steve crushed out the stub of his cigar and sighed. "Did their rapist admit to the nanny as well, then?"

"Apparently so. But all his other rapes were late-night back street jobs, and none of his other victims were blondes. Hertfordshire believed him, but I don't."

"No, me neither. But I suppose at the time they had no good reason not to, and it cleared the books for them. They're not the only ones who snatch at the easy option."

Joanne glowered. "With respect, sir, Blake wasn't the easy option. He was a plausible suspect."

"That's history, Jo. I'm more interested in the future than the past." Steve got up and paced restlessly behind the desk. "And these six cases are all still unsolved?"

"Apart from the Hertfordshire one, yes. He doesn't leave much in the way of evidence. He used a condom. And cycling gear doesn't leave a lot of fibre evidence. What we do have is a few pubic hairs from the Kensal Rise rape, which has given us a DNA profile. But so far there's no match with any of the DNA samples on record." Joanne closed her file and replaced it with the others. "There are no viable suspects in any of the outstanding cases. I don't know where we start to look, boss."

"Me neither. But I know a woman who might." Steve came to a halt opposite the window and stared unseeingly at the depressing view beyond.

"Dr. Cameron?" Joanne asked.

Steve nodded.

"I thought she'd refused to work with the Met again?"

"She did. And she meant it." He turned back to face her, an ironic smile on his face. "Hand me down my grovelling shoes."

"You'll be wanting a flak jacket as well," Joanne said, remembering Fiona Cameron's icy stare.

"I don't doubt it, Jo. I don't doubt it for one minute."