Killing the Shadows (2000) (39 page)

“How do you mean?”

“Around midnight, the lads found a freezer at the back of a storage area. It was padlocked shut, and nobody would admit to having keys for it. According to the market supervisor’s office, it had been put there a month ago by one of the traders who was supposed to arrange for it to be taken away. But he was adamant that it hadn’t been locked, and two of his staff backed him up on that. So we took the bolt cutters to it. When they opened the door, it was full of packaged meat. Except for one shelf. All that contained was a parcel wrapped in black plastic bin liners.” Duvall paused for effect, her expression a question.

Steve closed his eyes momentarily, his angular face pained. “The head?”

“The head. The butcher who was helping them dropped to the floor like a stunned ox. They had to take him to hospital to have the cut on his head stitched. He hit the corner of a work top on the way down.”

“He’ll be drinking off that for the rest of his life,” said Steve. “I presume it was Georgia Lester’s head?”

“No question. The husband’s got to ID it later today, but there’s no doubt about it.”

“When are you making the announcement?”

Duvall sighed. “My boss wants to hold a press conference this afternoon. We’re waiting for Dorset to confirm they can have someone here for it.”

“Would you have any problem with me breaking the news to Kit Martin ahead of the press conference? He and Georgia were close, and he’ll know that Fiona talked to us. It seems the least I can do.”

Duvall frowned. “I’d rather we kept it in the family for as long as possible. I know he’s your friend, but we can’t afford a perception that one writer is getting preferential treatment from the police.”

Steve shrugged. “It’s your case, Sarah. To be honest, I was thinking about the long-term interests of the Yard as much as being considerate to Kit. Fiona Cameron is a good operator, and we’ve been denied her services for a while now because of our own bloody-minded stupidity. In spite of that, she came to us with her suspicions. I’d have liked the chance to do a bit of bridge-building here, maybe mended the breach. I’m sure it could have benefits for the City force too.”

Duvall’s wry smile concealed the burn of genuine annoyance. First Darren Green and now Steve Preston had out manoeuvred her in a matter of hours. It wasn’t good for the spirit, especially a spirit as normally self-confident as Duvall’s. “That’s a good point, sir.”

Steve recognized the use of his title as the signal to back down. “It’s your decision, Sarah.”

“I suppose it can’t do any harm. Provided you make it clear to him that he mustn’t talk to the media before we do.” A last attempt to appear in control.

“I don’t think it would even occur to him.” Steve stood up and reached for his jacket. “She was his friend, Sarah. He’s not that desperate for personal publicity.”

She accepted the implied rebuke in silence and got to her feet. “I’ll keep you posted,” she said. “How’s the Blanchard case going?”

Steve shrugged into his jacket and spread his hands wide. “Chasing what might be a lead. But it’s an uphill struggle. I haven’t got the resources to run a proper operation.”

Duvall’s smile was tight. “Keep it deniable, huh?” “Something like that. At least until we’ve got a cast-iron case.” Duvall winced. “And I thought I was having a bad day.” Steve opened the door and stood back to let her precede him. “Don’t let it get you down. There’s more to life than the job.”

He walked down the corridor with the loose-limbed stride of a man out for a walk in the park. Duvall stared after him, the usual impassivity of her face defeated by her astonishment. Steve Preston, claiming there was more to life than the job? It was about as likely as Bart Simpson joining the diplomatic service.

Feeling somewhat shaken, Duvall headed for her car to return to her own office in Wood Street. It was clearly a day for surprises. Maybe Dorset would turn out to be the home of a new breed of super cops And maybe, just maybe, between them they would find Georgia Lester’s killer before the media ate them alive. Stranger things could clearly happen.

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

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

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

It wasn’t a comforting thought.

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

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

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

“That’s kind of you.”

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

“That’s good news,” she said, not really caring. “You must be glad he’s off the streets.”

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

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

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

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

The woman could only say no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s Georgia.” It was a statement, not a question.

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

“Was it where Fiona said it would be? In Smithfield?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks. How’s Anthony, do you know?”

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

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

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

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