This will never be a civilized country until we expend more money for books than we do for chewing gum.

Elbert Hubbard

 
 
 
 
 
Tác giả: Val McDermid
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Chapter 43~44
hapter 43
The air in the room was redolent with the heavy fragrances of ylang-ylang, sandalwood and rose. The flicker of a pair of candles took the chill off the clinical white of the walls and transformed Steve's bedroom from a monastic cell to a place where romance was possible. The massage oil and the candles were Terry's contribution to the atmosphere; after the first night when urgency had been everything, she wanted to give their love-making a more sensual framework.
They lay in a languid tangle of limbs, a pair of champagne flutes within reach but for the moment disregarded as they gave each other the history lessons of their past. As he listened to Terry's tale of her childhood, Steve luxuriated in the sense of having been swept out of the mundanity of his life.
When the shrill note of his mobile phone cut through Terry's gentle ironies, it was a dislocating wrench back into his former life. "Shit," he swore savagely, even as he was disentangling himself from her.
She chuckled. "Ignore it. You're off duty."
"I can't," he said angrily, crossing the room in a handful of long strides and abruptly grabbing the phone from the dressing table. "There's too much on. Bloody thing." He hit a button and barked, "Preston here."
"Steve? This is Sarah Duvall."
Steve stifled his exasperation and backed up to the edge of the bed, where he flopped down. "What can I do for you, Sarah?"
"Have I caught you at a bad moment?"
"No, it's fine."
Duvall registered his clipped tones, knew it wasn't fine, but pressed on regardless. She wasn't about to allow Steve Preston's convenience to come between her and her objective. "I wanted to ask if you thought Dr. Cameron would be open to a formal approach from us to liaise on the Lester murder."
Steve glanced uneasily at Terry. He felt faintly uncomfortable talking about Fiona in front of her. It felt almost incestuous. "I don't see why not. The problem is with the Met, not in general. What was it you were after, specifically?"
"As you know, we've got a confessor in custody. But I'm having peculiar problems with checking out his authenticity because so much of the detail of the crime comes from Lester's book. However, I think he could be tied to the letters. What I want to try for is linking him to the letters, then linking the three murders, especially if we can establish that Shand and Elias also had letters. I thought Dr. Cameron could look specifically at the letters and the flyer he distributed at the press conference, then she could review the evidence in the other two cases to see if there's linkage. With three cases to go at, we've got more chance of turning up some witness evidence, or something else that would either tie in the confessor or eliminate him."
"I'd have thought it was worth trying," Steve said cautiously. "And there's no better person for that kind of job."
"I don't want to wait till morning," Duvall said. "Have you got a home number for her?"
"I think you'd get a better response face to face than over the phone." This wasn't the time to tell Duvall that her phone manner wouldn't ingratiate her with a woman who was already predisposed to dislike her because of Duvall's reluctance to provide protection for Kit and his fellows.
"A home address, then?"
Steve cast a quick glance at Terry, who was curled on one side, watching him with a smile. For a brief moment, he considered going through to the other room to avoid any chance of Terry recognizing her supervisor's details. The instinct to confidentiality was bred in the bone, but he realized that if he was going to stand any chance of making this relationship work, he had to let her into his life. He took a deep breath and recited the familiar address. Terry's eyebrows rose and her expression changed to one of curiosity. Steve ended the call and tossed the phone back on the dressing table.
"I won't pry if you'd rather I didn't, but I couldn't help recognizing Fiona's address," she said.
Steve got back into bed and stretched out his arm to pull her into his embrace. "You heard about the guy who confessed to Georgia Lester's murder at the press conference?"
"I saw it on the news, yes."
"Well, City of London want to consult with Fiona about it. They think he's a strong suspect."
"And they want to establish linkage with the other two crime-writer killings, is that it?" Terry's interest was piqued and she shifted so she could prop herself up on one elbow.
"That's right. She'll jump at the chance. Apart from anything else, it might reassure her that they've got the right person and she can stop worrying that Kit might be next on the hit list."
"Of course. That's why she's been right off the planet the last couple of days."
Tt didn't occur to you that Kit might be a target?"
"What can I say? I'd sort of forgotten about Kit. I've only met him once. Plus, Fiona never talks about her home life. And really, nobody's been talking the serial killer angle up much. The papers all made out that there was no connection between Drew Shand and Jane what's-her-name." She shook her head crossly. "God, how could I be such a dummy? She must have been off her head with worry."
Steve sighed. "She's been as near as Fiona ever gets to frantic. We had a row over it yesterday. She was angry because she was the one who actually came up with the idea of searching Smithfield, but neither City nor the Met could commit to protecting Kit."
Terry frowned. "Oh Steve, that's bad. Torn between the personal and the professional. What a shit of a time you and Fiona must have been having. Worried stiff about Kit and ending up going head to head with each other."
"It's not been easy," he acknowledged. "At least it looks as if Kit is safe now, for which I am profoundly grateful. The guy's my best mate, and if anything had happened to him, I don't know how I would have coped. The only thing is, I'm afraid it's really screwed things between me and Fiona. She's not a woman who forgives easily."
"She'll come round in time," Terry said with breezy confidence. "Especially if you do a bit of serious grovelling. She always responds well to a good grovel, in my experience."
Steve shook his head. "It's going to take more than that this time, I think."
Terry cuddled into him. "All my hard work, getting you relaxed, and now you're wound up like a spring again." She reached for the bottle of massage oil. "There's nothing for it. You're just going to have to put Kit and Fiona out of your mind and lie down and take your medicine like a man."
Steve managed a smile as he shuffled on to his stomach, feeling his muscles fluttering as she straddled him. "Whatever you say, Doctor."
"I'm not a doctor yet," she said. "Just think how much better I'll be when I'm qualified ..."
He groaned as her hands, slick with oil, began to massage his shoulders. "I don't know if I'm strong enough for that."
"We'll work up to it gradually, soldier." Her strong fingers kneaded the powerful muscles of his back, erasing all thoughts of Sarah Duvall and even Fiona Cameron from his mind.
Fiona was in the kitchen making coffee when the doorbell rang. Frowning at the unexpected interruption, she walked down the hall to check the spy hole in the door. The chances were it was some hack who had decided that he needed to try Kit for a juicy quote for the morning's paper. If it were, Fiona would take great pleasure in blowing him off. One thing was certain. No friend would have called round this evening without checking ahead by phone first.
To her surprise, Fiona recognized the person on the doorstep, though what Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Duvall was doing there was beyond her. Muttering, "Hell and damnation," under her breath, Fiona opened the door. "DCI Duvall," she said.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your evening," Duvall said stiffly, as if apology were a stranger in her mouth. "But I hoped you could spare me some time."
Fiona stepped back and indicated that Duvall should enter. "Second left, the kitchen. We'll talk in there."
Duvall walked down the hall, taking it all in as she went. Good-quality wooden flooring, expensive oriental rugs, a couple of dramatic landscapes in oils on the walls. At the turn of the stairs, a man she recognized as Kit Martin appeared, looking curiously at her.
"It's work, Kit," Fiona called. "I need to have a word with DCI Duvall."
"Can't wait till morning, eh? No problem," he said, turning and vanishing back upstairs.
"I saw on the news that you've got someone in custody," Fiona said as she followed Duvall into the kitchen. "Please, have a seat."
Duvall pulled out a chair and sat, crossing her legs precisely.
"I was making coffee. Would you like a cup?"
"Thank you."
"Black, wasn't it?" Fiona didn't wait for a response, reaching for a second mug and filling it up from the cafetiere. She put milk in her own mug and brought them both to the table, where she settled down opposite Duvall. Carefully keeping her face blank to match the police officer's, she said, "So, what brings you to my door?"
"As you said, we have someone in custody. We had little choice, given the very public nature of his confession," Duvall said, an ironic note in her voice. "But the position is far from clear-cut. His name is Charles Redford and he's admitting the killings, but he's giving us nothing that isn't already accessible to anyone who has studied newspaper reports and the Georgia Lester novel that the murder appears to be based on. A search of his flat produced nothing conclusive. He had copies of the three crucial books by Shand, Elias and Lester on his desk. There was a stack of newspapers containing stories about the three murders, but so far, nothing for forensics to have a serious go at.
"We have had one break, in that his phone bill shows that he made calls to both Shand and Lester's numbers within the last three months. And an agent has given us a statement saying that Redford threatened her. She had been considering taking him on, but she'd decided against it. When he got her letter of rejection, he turned up at her office and barged past the receptionist. He got into her inner office and shouted abuse at her. He snatched a paper knife that was lying on the desk and waved it in front of her face, telling her she should be careful who she insulted. Then he threw the knife at the wall and stormed out."
Fiona sipped her coffee and said nothing, merely raising her eyebrows slightly. Her earlier encounter with Duvall had left her with no desire to make this any easier for her.
Duvall cleared her throat and continued. "She says she decided not to call the police because she was flying out to New York the following morning and she didn't have time for the quote, "hassle"." Her expression was of grim disapproval. "We also took a look at his computer, but so far we haven't found any trace of the threatening letters. I'm hopeful that the computer specialists will be able to find something when they examine the hard disk more closely, but I'm not prepared to pin my hopes to that." She lifted her slim briefcase on to her lap and opened it. "I've brought with me copies of the letters and also a copy of the flyer he distributed at the press conference this afternoon." She extracted a handful of transparent plastic envelopes, each of which contained a photocopied sheet of paper. She closed her briefcase, replaced it at her feet and placed the envelopes on the table. "I believe the language is distinctive enough to demonstrate they were all written by the same person. I intend to place these with a linguistics expert, in the hope we can demonstrate that." Duvall met Fiona's eyes. There was no help there, but she continued regardless. "What I hoped was that you could look at them from the point of view of a psychologist and tell me what you think."
"What I think about what?"
Duvall pursed her lips. She hadn't been expecting an easy ride. Open hostility she would have handled easily. But Fiona's stubborn failure to give anything back was too similar to her own style for her to understand how to get round it. "Whether the same person wrote all these. Whether that person is capable of escalating from letters to action. Whether there are clues in this material to indicate a connection to the crimes. Whatever you find there, I'm interested in."
Fiona held her mug in both hands and looked steadily at Duvall. "Do you think he's the killer?"
Duvall pushed the bridge of her glasses against her nose. "Does that matter?"
"I'm curious. I have something at stake here, if you remember," Fiona said coldly.
Duvall uncrossed her legs. "I'm not someone who operates on instinct. I work on evidence and experience. Based on that, I'd say he's more likely the killer than not. He's arrogant and overconfident. He's vain, very vain. He's convinced that he has been ripped off. I think he's planned this very carefully, so that he'll be charged and tried and found not guilty. Then he'll finally get his chance to show off to his heart's content. I think your partner is safe, Dr. Cameron."
Fiona had heard what she needed to hear. "I'll do it," she said.
Duvall placed a hand on the envelopes. "There's something else," she said.
Fiona didn't like the way Duvall worked. There was a cold calculation to everything the detective did and said that made her feel used. If it hadn't been for her personal connection to this case, she would never have gone as far as she had. But she was irritated by the assumption that having gone this far, she could be pushed further. "It's late, Chief Inspector," she said, her voice cold. "Let's cut to the chase."
Duvall blinked. "I'm not here to waste time, Doctor. Yours, or mine.
I'm well aware of your work on crime linkage. If we are to get this case into court, I believe it's important that we make a convincing case for connecting the three murders. I've already spoken to my colleagues in Edinburgh and Ireland and they're willing to let you review their evidence with a view to formulating a tenable theory that we can take to court that the three murders are the work of the same person."
Fiona shook her head, an expression of disbelief on her face. "You took for granted that I would agree to this?" she said.
Duvall shook her head impatiently. "I hoped you would. If you say no, I'll find someone else. But I'm told you're the best. And, as you pointed out to me, you have had something personal at stake in this case."
Fiona stared at Duvall, a mixture of reactions battling inside her. She was outraged at the woman's presumption, angry that she had been out manoeuvred flattered in spite of herself, and intrigued as she always was by the prospect of a professional challenge. This wasn't one she wanted to hand over to someone else, she admitted to herself. But the knowledge that Duvall would see her agreement as some kind of triumph smarted. "The circumstances of these murders are very different," she said, determined not to give Duvall what she wanted right away. "It's unlikely that I'm going to be able to come up with the sort of concrete connection that juries like."
Duvall gave her small, tight smile. "We both believe that the same person killed Drew Shand, Jane Elias and Georgia Lester. We both know if that is the case, they have to have left their signature on each crime. You know how to read the invisible ink. I know how to translate that into hard evidence. Are you in or out?"
The two women stared at each other across the kitchen table. It was, Fiona knew, time to put up or shut up. And this case was too close to home for her to bear the thought of leaving it up to someone else. She reached out for the envelopes. "I'm in," she said.
Charles Cavendish Redford leaned against the cold wall of his cell. He knew there was no point in trying to get some sleep. They'd be watching him through the peephole in the door and they'd simply wait till he nodded off, then wake him up to take him back to the interview room, hoping he'd be disorientated enough to let his guard drop and give them something only the killer could know. He wasn't going to fall for that. The beauty of having read so many detective novels and true crime was that he knew all the tricks of the trade. He was going to stay awake and alert, fuelled by adrenaline. There was a strict time limit on how long they could keep him without charge. Whatever they did then would suit him fine. Charged or released, he'd still be within the plans he'd made so carefully.
It was all going beautifully. That policewoman was a godsend. He could wind her up, and the more antagonism that built between them, the more likely she was to charge him with Georgia Lester's murder. He would have his hour in the sun.
He wasn't afraid of being found guilty. He was far too clever for that. One way or another, he would walk out of this a free man. And then publishers would be falling over themselves for his work.
He shifted on the thin mattress, making sure he didn't get too comfortable. He smiled inwardly. For far too long, Charles Cavendish Redford had put up with being slighted, robbed and cheated. Soon, however, that would be history. Soon he would be a household name. Just like Drew Shand, Jane Elias and Georgia Lester.
Chapter 44
Fiona leaned against the doorjamb of the living room. "Duvall wants to send someone round tomorrow to interview you," she said. "To see if you remember a bloke called Charles Redford sending you any manuscripts or letters."
"That's not why she came round though, is it?" Kit said from his prone position on the sofa.
"No. That was incidental." She walked into the room and chose the armchair that gave her a view of Kit's face.
"Charles Redford. He's the man they have in custody?" he asked. He knew she'd tell him the point of the visit when she was ready. Till then, he was happy to let the conversation go where it was comfortable.
"That's right. Do you know him?"
Kit's brow furrowed as he trawled his memory. "I've got a feeling he sent me a manuscript a couple of years ago."
"What did you do with it?"
"What I always do with unsolicited manuscripts. Sent it back with a polite letter saying unfortunately I don't have the time or the expertise to critique other people's work and suggested he get an agent." Kit yawned. "I don't remember hearing any more from him."
"You didn't read it?"
"Life's too short." He reached for his glass and tipped the dregs of his wine into his mouth. He waited for Fiona to get round to the real purpose of DCI Duvall's visit.
"I'm going to Edinburgh in the morning," Fiona said.
"Drew Shand?" Kit asked.
"Duvall seems to think there's some value in trying to establish linkage between the three murders. I'm not sure I see the point. They occurred in three different jurisdictions, and as far as I understand the legal principles, you can only try each case in its own jurisdiction. And I'm not sure to what extent each court would allow evidence of the other crimes. But the other police forces involved have agreed to cooperate with the attempt, so they must think there's some value in it, if only to clear their own books. Duvall appears to reckon she'll have more chance of nailing him for Georgia's murder if she can demonstrate a pattern of behaviour."
Kit elbowed himself upright. "So the info we got earlier was spot on? They've got the right man."
"Duvall thinks he's a strong suspect. And she's the person on the ground. There's certainly little doubt he's the letter-writer. Duvall says the language is practically identical. And, embarrassingly for me, she reminded me of a case I read about in the US where someone who wrote threatening letters went on to kill half a dozen people. I hold my hand up. I was wrong when I said I didn't think this letter-writer would escalate into murder."
Kit grinned. "Can I have that in writing?" Fiona met childish with childish, sticking her tongue out at him. "So when are you leaving?"
"There's a flight just after nine."
"I'm glad you're going. I liked Drew. And Jane. I don't like to think that whoever killed them is going to get away with it. If anyone can build strong enough linkage to convince a jury, it's you."
Fiona sighed. "I wish I shared your confidence. It's going to be a hard one to stand up." She looked away. "I'd like it if you came with me."
"Why? There's no need, not now they've got what's-his-name behind bars."
Fiona, who couldn't quite articulate what was bothering her, shrugged. "I know. I'd just rather you were with me, that's all."
"I've got a book to finish," he protested.
"You can work just as easily in Edinburgh. You can sit in the hotel room and write all day."
"It's not that simple, Fiona. I'm all over the place. This business with Georgia, it's doing my head in. It's all I can do to get the words on the page right now. And that's sitting in my own office with my own music and my own things around me. There's no way I'm going to be able to concentrate in a strange place, with chambermaids bombing in and out and nothing to filter out the background shit except daytime TV. I'm not coming, and that's that." His jaw jutted defiantly, daring her to disagree.
Fiona ran a hand through her hair in a gesture of frustration. "I don't want to leave you here on your own. Not when you're so upset. I can't give you the support you need if I'm four hundred miles away."
They stared at each other across the room, each uncompromising in their resolution. Eventually, Kit shook his head. "Can't do it. I want to be inside my cocoon. Where I belong. Besides, my friends are down here. We're going to need to get together and raise a glass to Georgia. It's a rite of passage, Fiona. I need to be here to be part of it." He stretched a hand out towards her, appeal in his eyes. "You gotta see my point."
"Point taken," Fiona conceded. "I was thinking of myself as much as you, I suppose. I've been so scared for you, I just want to keep you close, remind myself that everything's OK again." They shared a rueful smile, each conscious of the tendency of their work to interfere with the shape they wanted their lives to have.
"How long are you going to be away for?" Kit eventually asked.
"I'm not sure. I'll probably fly straight on to Dublin and do the Irish end as soon as I'm finished in Edinburgh. Tomorrow's Friday. I should be in Ireland by Sunday, maybe home Monday night? Any more than that and I'm going to have serious problems covering my teaching commitments."
"I'll cook something special for Monday night, then," he said. "We'll have a romantic dinner. Turn off the phones, take the battery out of the doorbell and remind ourselves what's so devilishly attractive about each other."
Fiona grinned. "Do we have to wait till Monday?"
Fiona stepped off the plane into a grey drizzle. Low clouds obscured the Pentlands and the Ochils, while the rain laid an ashen sheen over landscape and buildings alike. The day had started badly, and it didn't seem to be improving. Her mind had been on Georgia as she'd grabbed her laptop to pack it in its case. Preoccupied, she'd let it slip from her grasp and it had crashed to the floor, the case splitting open and dislodging the screen. "Oh, fuck!" she'd exploded. There had been no time to deal with it then. Furious with her carelessness, Fiona had opened the cupboard in her desk and pulled out the folder that contained the CD-ROMs and floppy disks she needed to run her programs. She'd shoved them into her briefcase and ran downstairs.
3i7
Kit looked up from the morning paper. "What's wrong?" he'd said.
"I just smashed my laptop casing," she'd said. "I can't believe I did that. Can I borrow yours to take to Edinburgh?"
He'd been back in moments, zipping up the laptop bag, far calmer than she'd have been in the circumstances. It was a measure of the toll the previous days' anxieties had taken that so small an accident had ruffled her so thoroughly.
But at least she had a laptop to work with. She'd already used it on the flight, to record her comparisons of the death threat letters and the flyer Redford had distributed at the press conference. There was no question in her mind that the same person had composed all the documents. And she could not rule out the possibility that the letter-writer had become sufficiently obsessed with his grievances to turn his words into action. If it came to it, she would so testify in court.
Now she walked briskly from the small plane to the terminal across tarmac greasy with damp. Inside, she shook her head to free the sparkles of raindrops from her hair and followed the exit signs. The walk from the gate to the arrivals hall seemed interminable, endless corridors turning back on themselves in the kind of maze that experimental rats were better at solving than frazzled commuters.
Eventually, she emerged into the bustle of the airport. She looked around and saw a man carrying a piece of white card with CAMERON neatly inscribed on it. He was a wiry, dark-haired whippet of a man whose sharp suit hung from his shoulders as if it was still on the hanger. With his foot tapping impatiently and his restless eyes flicking across the concourse, he looked more like a villain expecting a tug than a police officer. Fiona crossed to him, put down her overnight bag and touched his elbow. "I'm Fiona Cameron," she said. "Are you waiting for me?"
The man ducked his head. "Aye, that's right." He folded the card and stuffed it in his jacket pocket, then extended a hand to her. "I'm Detective Sergeant Murray. Dougie Murray. Pleased to meet you." He pumped her hand vigorously. "I've got the car outside." He released her hand and walked off.
Fiona adjusted the strap of the laptop on her shoulder, picked up her bag and followed. Outside the door was an unmarked saloon car. Murray gave a wave to the traffic warden patrolling the kerb and made for the driver's door. Fiona opened the back door of the car and deposited her bags, then got in beside him in the front. He was already gunning the engine. "The Super sends his apologies. Meeting came up that he couldnae give the body-swerve. I'm to take you to St. Leonard's. That's the Divisional HQ where the investigation's based. The Super'll meet you there. Is that OK?"
"I'd like to go to my hotel on the way," Fiona said firmly. "Only to check in and drop my bags off. I don't want to be lugging my overnight bag around all day," she added pointedly.
"No, right, 'course you don't. We've put you in Channings, so we'll have to make a wee detour." He spoke in a tone of satisfaction, as if it had made his day to have to plan something more creative than a straight run back into town.
They swung off the ring road at the Art-Deco Stakis casino, cutting through a chunk of green belt to join Queensferry Road. Fiona stared at the traffic without registering anything, her thoughts occupied with Kit. He'd be sitting at his desk working, the CD player loaded with whatever was the flavour of the moment. REM and Radiohead would certainly be in the stack somewhere. Maybe The Fall, maybe the Manics. He'd be alternating between bashing the keyboard and staring out of the window, choosing work to keep his personal demons at bay. But now she had to put him out of her mind and concentrate on what she'd come here to do.
The bungalows suddenly gave way to tall sandstone terraces set back from the main road, elegant Victorian family homes now mostly divided into flats with huge windows and high ceilings to swallow heat. They made an abrupt left turn on to granite setts, the car wheels rumbling as Murray swung it round the next corner. "Here we go," he announced, double-parking outside a blond sandstone building with a canopy and a pair of ornamental lampposts. "I'll wait in the car," he said. Fiona wasn't surprised.
The elegance inside matched the sandblasted facade. She checked in and followed a youth up an elegant staircase. Her room was on the first floor, looking out over the wide gardens that divided the street. Through the smirr of rain, she could see the steely ribbon of the Firth of Forth. Over on her left, a vast looming gothic pile with twin towers dominated the streets spread below her. "What's that building?" she asked the porter just as he was leaving.
"That's Fettes College," he said. "You know? Where Tony Blair went."
It explained a lot, she thought.
Fiona unpacked her case and made her way downstairs. Ten minutes later they'd cleared the Georgian New Town, dipped down to cross the Cowgate and zipped up The Pleasance to a modern building that housed A Division of Lothian and Borders Police. She followed Murray indoors and along a corridor. He opened a door with a flourish and said, "I'll tell the Super you've arrived. You'll be working in here, so you might as well get yourself settled in."
As he turned away, Fiona decided it was time to start asserting herself. "A cup of coffee would be nice," she said without a smile.
"Aye, right. Milk? Sugar?"
"Milk, no sugar, please."
He turned on his heel and marched off, jacket flapping with the speed of his stride. Fiona turned into the room. It was surprisingly pleasant, if small. There was a pale wooden table with a desk chair in front of it. Two standard armless upholstered chairs sat against one wall. There was a small side table with a phone, a jug of water and two clean glasses. Best of all, there was a window. She could see across the car park and, beyond the wall and the rooftops, a slice of Salisbury Crag just about hanging on to its green tones through the rain.
Fiona dumped the laptop on the desk and got down on her knees to find the phone point. She was just plugging in the adapter for her modem cable when the door opened. A pair of stocky legs in trousers that strained over the thighs came towards her. Fiona leaned back so she could see the man over the desk. The sight jolted her memory. A picture formed in her mind like an image on photographic paper swimming into definition in the developer bath. A stocky man with startling red hair and a freckled face ruddy with the East Coast winds. Pale-blue eyes fringed with unusually dark lashes. A button nose and a pinched cherub's mouth. Detective Sergeant Alexander Galloway of life Police. Instantly she was transported back a dozen years to a dark and dreary pub in St. Andrews where he'd agreed to meet for a drink so she could pick his brains about Lesley's murder. He hadn't been involved with the case initially, but when it had come up for review six months after the event, he'd been one of the officers assigned to it. He'd been able to tell her nothing new.
Now she gaped in shock. She hadn't made the connection when Duvall had explained that Detective Superintendent Sandy Galloway was the officer in charge of the inquiry into Drew Shand's murder. But there could be no doubt. The red hair had faded to a dull gingerish grey, and his flushed face had developed a purplish tinge that would worry his GP,
had he ever found time to visit the surgery. But the eyes were the same pale blue, outlined with those remarkable dark lashes. The snub nose was a Jackson Pollock of red veins, and the mouth looked more crimped with disapproval than she remembered. But then, that's what a dozen years at the sharp end of policing would do to a man, she thought. He looked down at her and gave a little smile. "No, no, Doctor, you've got it all wrong. It's us that are on our knees to you this time," he said genially.
Fiona scrambled to her feet. "I had no idea ... I was just looking for the phone point."
Galloway tutted. "Murray should have sorted you out."
"I don't think Murray does sorting out," Fiona said wryly. "At least, not for older women. I'm still waiting for my coffee."
Galloway threw his head back in a soundless laugh. "By, you've got sharper over the years."
"Professional observation, that's all. I'm taken aback to see you again, though." Fiona extended a hand. Galloway's grip was dry and firm.
"I mentioned to DCI Duvall that we'd met before. I thought she would have told you."
"I think DCI Duvall likes to keep us all on our toes," Fiona said, her voice as neutral as she could manage.
"Aye, well. I was sorry, you know? That we never got anybody for your sister's murder."
Fiona looked away. "I won't pretend I wasn't angry at the time. But these days, I understand better how hard it is to find a serial offender." She met his eyes again. "I don't harbour any grudges. You did your best."
Galloway rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger. "Aye, well. I learned a valuable lesson from you, you know."
"You did?"
"Aye. Never forget that murdered folk have families that need to know what happened. It doesnae hurt to keep that at the front of your mind." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, it's good of you to come at such short notice. What I've done is I've got one of my officers bringing down the murder file. Is there anything else you want to see?"
Fiona unzipped the laptop case. "I want to spend some time in Drew Shand's flat."
"It's been searched thoroughly, you know." He leaned forward, fists on the desk, frowning. It should have been an aggressive pose, but somehow Galloway made it merely eager.
She looked him straight in the eye. "I'd just like to get a feel for it. And
I want to double-check that there's nothing there to connect Drew Shand with Charles Redford."
Right on cue, there was a knock on the door and a uniformed PC wheeled in a trolley stacked with files. He brought them over to the desk. "Will that be everything, sir?" he asked.
Galloway looked a question at Fiona. "Coffee," she said. "Either point me in the direction of the best coffee in the building, or have somebody bring me a cup every hour."
"You heard her, Constable," Galloway said. "Away up to my office and bring down the tray with my filter machine and the coffee." He smiled at Fiona. "I can always come down here for a cup if I get desperate. Now, I'm just going to leave you to it. If you need anything, or you want to discuss anything with me, just pick up the phone and ask the switchboard to find me. And when you're ready to go over to the flat, just let me know and I'll organize a car for you."
"Thanks. Looking at this lot, I'm going to be pretty busy for the rest of the day," Fiona said. "I'll probably be ready to go over there late afternoon, but I'll call you when I can see light at the end of the tunnel."
Left to her own devices, she loaded her software on to Kit's computer. Before she began the work, she sent him a quick e-mail to say she'd arrived safely. Then, making sure her mobile was switched on, she set about the task. She was familiar with police files by now, and although she skipped nothing, she had learned how to skim for material of interest.
What she was looking for were factors common to all three murders that, taken individually, were insignificant but which, taken together, built to form a conclusion that was inescapable. Fiona suspected that in this case, there was little she could achieve that any intelligent police officer couldn't do equally well. But the advantage for the police in having her do the work was that she could testify as an independent expert witness who was an acknowledged authority in the field of crime linkage.
For once, she had something firm to hang her analysis on. It was clear that each of the three murders had been modelled on an episode from a book written by the victim. The Irish Police's arrest of a suspect had diverted attention away from that, but Duvall had made it clear to her that the Garda would be reviewing their position in the light of Redford's confession. She had no doubt that their suspect would be freed shortly.
What was clear was that each of the victims must have been stalked. One of the things she'd have to check out over the next few days was how much information about each of them was readily available in the public domain. With luck, some of that material would be in the murder files already. And of course, the police forces involved would be trawling for fresh witnesses now they had a suspect whose photograph they could release.
For Fiona, the task was more subtle. And for once, she could work at her own pace. The chances were, as Kit pointed out, that Duvall was right. This time there was no ticking time bomb of a killer preparing to strike again.
Killing The Shadows Killing The Shadows - Val McDermid Killing The Shadows