Killing the Shadows (2000) (36 page)

Steve felt a small surge of excitement, though years of practice kept it well hidden. “And how does that translate in terms of the geographical profile?”

“Let’s take it stage by stage,” Terry said, her right hand clicking the mouse over dialog boxes. A map of North London spread out before them in monochrome. She tapped a couple of keys and the screen flooded with colour, iridescent greens, blues, yellows, purples and a patch of burgundy. “This is what we get from the first two. Add in the third and fourth…” More five-finger exercises on the keyboard. Now the patch of red was more clearly defined, the colour clearer. But a second, purplish-red zone had also appeared slightly to the north of the original scarlet. Steve, who had seen Fiona do this enough times to be able to glean some meaning from what was in front of him, noted that the main highlighted area covered a dozen streets in the northern part of Kentish Town. The second patch was up towards Archway.

“Add in the fifth, and that second patch gets less significant,” Terry continued. “But when we introduce the sixth incident, see what happens.” The original red sector changed scarcely at all, but the purple area grew noticeably more reddish in tone.

“And what do you conclude from that?” Steve asked, pretty sure he knew what was coming next.

Terry turned her head and grinned at him. “Same as you, I expect.” She picked up a pencil and pointed to the main red zone. “If we have correctly identified a genuine cluster, then chances are your man lives in this area here. It’s possible that he lives in the other hot spot, but I’d be more inclined to think that’s where he works. When an offender is at the start of his career, he tends to stick closer to home. And if we look at the first two cases, the only hit we get is this section here that simply intensifies in probability the more cases we input.”

She leaned back in her chair and swivelled it around so she was half facing Steve. Without looking at the screen, she hit a couple of keys. “And when we add in the Susan Blanchard murder, let’s see what happens.”

No amount of self-control could prevent Steve from revealing his shock. “What did you just say?”

Terry grinned. “You look like a stunned cod,” she said. “I thought that would shake you.”

“Have you been discussing this with Fiona?” Steve demanded, hiding his feelings behind a sharp tone.

“Nope. I worked it out all by myself. When you said there was another case to add in to the series, I figured it had to be something pretty serious. And the only thing more serious than violent rape is sexual homicide. Also, it had to be an important case for you to be prepared to lash out on crime linkage and geographic profiling. Probably one that had stalled, because this sort of process isn’t your first port of call. Since you were interested in North London cases, chances are you were looking at a rape-murder north of the river, as yet unsolved. Put it all together and it comes up with Susan Blanchard.” She spread her hands in the theatrical manner of a magician revealing the rabbit in the hat.

“I’m impressed,” Steve acknowledged. Fiona had said Terry was impulsive; she hadn’t mentioned she was also intuitive.

Terry shrugged. “It was no big deal. I’m supposed to be trained to make connections.” She smiled. “You really shouldn’t be surprised when I do it.”

Steve laughed. “I’m surrounded by people who are supposed to be trained to make connections, and most of the time you’d never know it. You’re right, of course, it is the Susan Blanchard murder I’m interested in.”

“I thought you guys had closed down the investigation after that complete fuck-up at the Bailey? Wasn’t the official line that you weren’t looking for another suspect?”

“Well, we couldn’t exactly say anything else without making ourselves look even more foolish than we did already,” Steve said, the edge of bitterness in his voice creeping through in spite of his best intentions.

“Yeah, right. But secretly, you’re still ferreting away?”

He nodded. “I have a small team of officers working on it.”

“But not Fiona?”

There was a silence. “I’d rather not get into that, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Maybe you should ask Fiona the history.”

“Cool.” Terry flapped one hand from the wrist in a dismissive gesture. “It’s none of my business. I’m just grateful for the cheque in the post. So, you want to see what happens when we add the Susan Blanchard murder into the mix?”

“Is Sinn Fein IRA?”

“Whoa, there speaks the detective. OK, in spite of the fact that you’re a prejudiced bigot, I’ll share my results with you.” Her grin took most of the sting out of Terry’s words and she hit the enter key. The principal scarlet sector changed not at all, but the more northerly area grew less red. “I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I?”

Steve shook his head, a feeling of deep gratification surging through him. “No. Your program thinks that whoever killed Susan Blanchard is the same man who committed four rapes and two serious sexual assaults in the course of the previous two years. And I have to tell you that from where I’m sitting, that’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time.”

Terry gave him the grin he was beginning to recognize as a marker that he was about to be challenged. “Yeah right. You have a well weird take on the world, Steve. Not a lot of people think a serial rapist turned killer falls into the good-news category. You should get out more.”

“I thought you were already taking steps to rectify that,” he said, returning the smile.

“It’s a dirty job, saving the filth, but somebody’s got to do it,” she said flippantly. “So where are we going?”

“There’s a new brasserie opened in Clerkenwell. The chef trained with Marco Pierre White and he specializes in fish. I managed to get a cancellation for seven-thirty. How does that sound?”

“Sounds cool.”

For a brief moment, Steve thought about offering to pick her up, but he knew he was unlikely to have the time. He didn’t want to start letting her down so soon. If things worked out between them, his job would provide plenty of opportunities for dislocated social engagements in the future. Besides, he didn’t want to appear the pushover he secretly knew himself to be. Instead, he scribbled the name and address of the restaurant on a piece of scrap paper. “I’ll see you there.” He stood up. “I’ve got to get back to the Yard and get my team working on this. Can you give me a printout of the map?”

Terry turned back to her computer. “You want a blow-up of the red areas?” she asked.

“Please.”

“You need a written report?” she asked.

“Might as well get my money’s worth,” Steve said.

“Fax or e–mail?”

“Both, if you don’t mind.”

“Be with you by the end of the morning.” Terry winked. “See you tonight.”

Steve nodded and walked to the door. As he turned to leave, she blew him a kiss. The blush lasted all the way down the stairs. So did the smile. Terry Fowler had done more than waken his dormant case from its slumber. She’d wiped all his fear for Kit from his mind for as long as he’d been with her. And that was worth far, far more than the Metropolitan Police could ever imagine paying her.

Back at the Yard, Steve summoned Joanne into his office. Neil was busy watching Francis Blake, and John was off duty, so his resources were minimal, in spite of the new possibilities that Terry’s study had produced.

Steve tossed the maps across the table to her, unable to keep his exultation off his face. “Looks like we’re on the way to somewhere at last. Geographic profile of your rapes. When the Susan Blanchard murder was factored into the analysis, the central red area didn’t change at all.”

Joanne looked up, the excitement sparkling in her eyes. “That’s brilliant. Wow! So, what do you want me to do?”

“I’m afraid it’s time for drudgery. Identify the streets outlined in red—and one street either side, for the sake of my peace of mind and get the electoral roll.”

Joanne sighed. “And go through the electoral roll checking it against CROs?”

“Unless you can think of a better way of doing it.”

“When I rule the world, they’ll organize the criminal records database so you can search it with any one of a dozen parameters,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’m on it.”

“Thanks, Joanne. Oh, and thanks for the restaurant tip.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I hope you enjoy it.”

Steve grinned. “I fully intend to.”

Joanne turned on her way out of the door. “If you get there, of course. I mean, if I get lucky, we could all be checking out a new number one suspect this evening. Right, sir?”

“Get lucky, Jo. But try not to get lucky before tomorrow morning if you want to remain my favourite DC.”

After she left, Steve stared at the closed door, feeling the buzz in his veins that came from the knowledge that at last they might be only hours from a lucky break. Thinking of lucky breaks reminded him that there had been a message on his desk asking him to ring Sarah Duvall.

Part of him dreaded the call. If Georgia Lester had been found dead, he wanted to put off the knowledge and its implications for as long as possible. On the other hand, it was feasible that she’d turned up alive. Steve reached out and punched in Sarah’s number.

Extract from Decoding of Exhibit P13⁄4599

Azoqf tqkru zpsqa dsumx qefqd edqym uzeyk xurqe sauzs fasqf mxaft mdpqd. Ftqkx xtmhq faefm dfeqq uzsft qbmff qdzft qzuze bufqa rftqp gynet ufbmp pke.

Once they find Georgia tester’s remains, my life’s going to get a lot harder. They’ll have to start seeing the pattern then. But it’ll take them a day or two to go official with it. They won’t want to admit what’s going on because that’ll cause a panic.

So I need to hit my next target fast, while he’s unsuspecting. But I’ve got to be careful not to rush things. Patience, that’s the secret. Never snatch at half a chance. Never lose your cool. Just sit it out. Even when the waiting’s hard and bitter.

Take the courier’s uniform. I knew right from the beginning what I needed to get Kit Martin. But I had no idea how I was going to lay my hands on it. Then the gods smiled. I was in the launderette one evening, watching my clothes tumble around in the washer. There was only one other man there, and when he dragged out his damp clothes and stuffed them in the drier, I couldn’t miss the logo of Capital City Couriers blazing across the dark-blue drill jacket. And there were matching trousers. Pure manna from heaven.

After he dropped some tokens in the slot, he looked at his watch and headed across the road to the local boozer. I waited a few minutes, and then loaded the courier’s entire wash into my holdall. Piece of piss.

I sat and waited for my wash to finish, cool as a cucumber. Ten minutes later, I was walking back to my flat with my wet laundry on top of his. The trousers needed taking up, and the jacket’s a bit tight on the shoulders, but that really doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’ll be wearing it for long.

Just long enough to convince Kit Martin to open his front door to Postman Pat.

F
iona looked at the clock on her office wall. Breakfast that morning had been tense, in spite of both their efforts to maintain something like normal life in the face of the fear that flickered below the surface. She had extracted an assurance from Kit that he wouldn’t open the door to strangers, nor would he go out alone, not even for his usual lunchtime walk on the Heath. She could see he was already chafing under these restrictions, but at least he could salvage his pride by telling himself he was doing it to mollify Fiona rather than out of cowardice.

The worst part of it was the not knowing what was going on. She almost wished she had been able to be sanguine about Steve’s refusal to offer Kit any formal protection. At least then they’d be in communication and she would be aware of how the investigation was progressing. But she couldn’t bring herself to forgive his failure to stick his neck out for the sake of friendship. So she would somehow have to deal with her unaccustomed ignorance.

She glanced at the clock again. This was pointless. She was achieving nothing sitting here. The paper she was supposed to be revising before submitting it for publication stared accusingly at her from the computer screen, as neglected as a piece of waste ground In her heart, Fiona knew she couldn’t concentrate in the office. If she took the paper home, she could at least hope to get the work done there. Nothing would happen to Kit while they were in the house together.

The decision made, Fiona was taking her jacket off its peg when her phone rang. She resisted the temptation to ignore it and crossed the office to pick it up on the fourth ring. “Hello, Fiona Cameron,” she said.

“Dr. Cameron? This is Victoria Green from the Mail. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If I could just explain what it’s about?” The journalist’s voice was warm and ingratiating.

“There’s no point, because I’m not interested. If you bother to look at your cuttings library, you’ll see I don’t do interviews.”

“It’s not an interview we want,” Green said quickly. “We’d like you to write an article for us. I know you write articles, I’ve read you in Applied Psychology Journal.”

“You read APJ?” Fiona said, her surprise holding her back from putting the phone down.

“I have a degree in psychology. I’ve read your work on crime linkage. That’s how I knew you were the best person to talk to about writing an article for us.”

“I don’t think so,” Fiona reiterated.

“You see,” Green continued undaunted, “I’ve got a theory that Drew Shand and Jane Elias were murdered by the same person. And I think Georgia Lester might be the next victim. I’d like you to apply your crime linkage work to these cases to see if I’m right.”

Fiona replaced the receiver without responding. The word was out. It wouldn’t be long before others jumped on Victoria Green’s bandwagon. If she’d had any doubts about going home to Kit, they had ended with the phone call.

The man with the face like a chicken shrugged. “Meat’s meat, innit? Once it’s skinned and off the bone, your human flesh isn’t going to look much different from a piece of beef or venison.”