Killing the Shadows (2000) (4 page)

Fiona leaned back in her seat and rubbed her eyes. No wonder Major Berrocal was so keen to enlist her help. The only significant information the police had gleaned from the second murder was that the killer was physically powerful enough to carry a ten-stone man up a ladder, and that he was bold enough to display his victim in a public place. In a handwritten note, Major Berrocal had pointed out that once the nearby café had closed in the early hours of the morning, the area around the church was quiet and although it was overlooked by several houses, the killer had chosen the farthest point of the facade for his exhibition, where he would be least likely to be spotted.

She leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms above her head while she contemplated the information she’d laboriously worked her way through. It was professionally intriguing, no question of that. What she needed to consider was whether she could offer anything constructive to the investigation. She had worked with European police forces on several occasions, and had sometimes felt handicapped by her lack of visceral understanding of how their societies worked. On the other hand, she already felt the faint stirrings of an idea of how this killer operated and where the police might start their search for him.

One thing was certain. While she dithered, he would be planning his next murder. Fiona refilled her glass and made her decision.

F
iona was halfway downstairs with the Rough Guide to Spain when she heard the front door opening. “Hello,” she called out.

“I brought Steve home with me,” Kit replied, his voice relaxed into broad Mancunian by alcohol.

Fiona was too tired to welcome the prospect of late-night drinking and chat. But at least it was only Steve. He was part of the family, too well-rooted in their company to mind if she took herself off to bed and left them to it. She rounded the final turn in the stairs and looked down at them. The most important men in her life, they were an oddly contrasting pair. Steve, tall, wirily thin and dark; Kit, with his broad, heavily muscled torso making him look shorter than he was, his shaved head gleaming in the light. It was Steve, with his darting eyes and long fingers, who looked like the intellectual, while Kit looked more like a beat bobby who worked as a nightclub bouncer on the side. Now, they looked up at her, identical sheepish small-boy grins on their flushed faces.

“Good dinner, I see,” Fiona said dryly, running down the rest of the stairs. She stood on tiptoe to kiss Steve’s cheek, then allowed Kit to engulf her in a hug.

He gave her a smacking kiss on the lips. “Missed you,” he said, releasing her and crossing to the kitchen.

“No you didn’t,” Fiona contradicted him. “You’ve had a great boys’ night out, eaten lots of unspeakable bits of dead animals, drunk’ she paused and cocked her head, assessing them both ‘three bottles of red wine…”

“She’s never wrong,” Kit interjected.

“…and put the world to rights,” Fiona concluded. “You were much better off without me.”

Steve folded himself into a kitchen chair and accepted the brandy glass Kit proffered. He had the air of a man embattled who warily senses he might finally have arrived in a place of safety. He raised his glass in a sardonic toast. “Confusion to our enemies. You’re right, but for the wrong reasons,” he said.

Fiona sat down opposite him and pulled her wine glass towards her, intrigued. “I find that hard to believe,” she said, a tease in her voice.

“I was only glad you weren’t there because you’re big-headed enough without listening to me ranting on about how I’d never have had to endure today’s humiliations if I’d been working with you instead of that arse hole Horsforth.” Steve held up a hand to indicate to Kit that an inch of brandy was more than enough.

Kit leaned against the kitchen units, cupping his glass in both his broad hands to warm the spirit. “You’re right about the big-headed bit,” he chuckled, his pride in her obvious in his affectionate grin.

“Takes one to know one,” Fiona said. “I’m sorry you had a shit day, Steve.”

Before Steve could reply, Kit cut in. “It was bound to happen. That operation was doomed from day one. Apart from anything else, you were never going to get away with a sting like that in a trial, even if Blake had swallowed the honey-trap and coughed chapter and verse. British juries just can’t get their heads round entrapment. Your average man in the pub thinks it’s cheating to set people up when you haven’t got your evidence the straight way.”

“Don’t mince your words, Kit, tell us what you really think,” Steve said sarcastically.

“I’d hoped you two would already have had the postmortem,” Fiona protested mildly.

“Oh, we have,” Steve said. “I feel like I’ve been wearing a hair shirt all day.”

“Hey, I’ve not been saying it was your fault,” Kit reminded him. “We all know you got stamped on from above. If anyone should be flagellating himself, it’s your commander. But you can bet your pension that Teflon Telford will be washing his hands like Pontius Pilate with a tin of Swarfega tonight. It’ll be:
Well, of course, you have to let your junior officers have their head sometimes, but I thought Steve Preston would have handled matters better than this
.” he said, dropping his voice to the basso prof undo of Steve’s boss.

Steve stared into his brandy. Kit wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know, but hearing it from someone else didn’t make failure taste any less sour. And tomorrow, he’d have to face his colleagues knowing that he was the one appointed to carry the can. Some of them would have sufficient grasp of the politics to understand he was nothing more than the designated scapegoat, but there were plenty of others who would relish the chance to snigger behind their hands at him. That was the price of his past successes. And in the competitive environment of the higher echelons of the Met, you were only ever as good as your last success.

“Are you really not looking for anyone else?” Fiona asked, registering Steve’s depression and trying to move the conversation in a more positive direction.

Steve looked mutinous. “That’s the official line. To say anything else makes us look even bigger dickheads than we do already. But I’m not happy with that. Somebody murdered Susan Blanchard and you know better than I do that this kind of killer probably won’t stop at one.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” Fiona asked.

Kit gave her a speculative look. “I think the question might be what are you going to do about it?”

Fiona shook her head, trying not to show her irritation. “Oh no, you don’t guilt-trip me like that. I said I’d never work for the Met again after this debacle, and I meant it.”

Steve spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. “Hey, even if I had the budget, I wouldn’t insult you like that.”

Kit grabbed one of the chairs and straddled it. “Yeah, but she loves me. I get to insult her. Come on, Fiona, it wouldn’t hurt if you took a look at the entrapment material, would it? Purely as an academic exercise.”

Fiona groaned. “You just want it lying round the house so you can poke your nose in,” she said, trying another diversionary tactic. “It’s all grist to your grisly little mill, isn’t it?”

“That’s not fair! You know I never read confidential case material,” Kit said, his expression outraged.

Fiona grinned. “Gotcha.”

Kit laughed. “It’s a fair cop, guy.”

Steve leaned back in his chair and looked pensive. “On the other hand…”

“Oh, grow up, the pair of you,” Fiona grumbled. “I have better things to do with my life than pawing over Andrew Horsforth’s grubby little operation.”

Steve studied Fiona. He knew her well enough to understand the kind of challenge that might overcome her stubborn resistance, and he was desperate enough to try it.

“The trouble is, the trail’s really cold. It’s over a year since Susan Blanchard was butchered, and it’s getting on for ten months since we were paying attention to anybody other than Francis Blake. I don’t want to leave things unresolved. I don’t want her kids growing up with their lives full of unanswered questions. You know the kind of emotional pain the absence of knowledge brings. Now, I really want the bastard who did this. But we need fresh leads,” he said. “And like Kit says, at the very least it might be a useful resource for you professionally.”

Fiona shut the fridge door with more than necessary force. “You really are a manipulative sod,” she complained. But knowing he was deliberately pushing her buttons didn’t shield her from the stab of recognition. Stung, she tried a final line of defence. “Steve, I’m not a clinician. I don’t spend my days listening to people droning on about their sad little lives. I’m a number-cruncher. I deal in facts, not impressions. Even if I did sit down and stifle my disgust long enough to plough through the entrapment files, I don’t know that I’d have anything useful to say at the end of it.”

“It wouldn’t hurt, though, would it?” Kit chipped in. “It’s not like you’d be going back on your word and working for the Met. You’d just be doing Steve a personal favour. I mean, look at him. He’s gutted. He’s supposed to be your best mate. Don’t you want to help him out?”

Fiona sat down, leaning forward so her shoulder-length chestnut hair curtained her face. Steve opened his mouth to speak but Kit urgently waved him to silence, mouthing, “No!” at him. Steve raised one shoulder in a half-shrug.

Eventually, Fiona sighed deeply and pushed her hair back with both hands. “Fuck it, I’ll do it,” she said. Catching Steve’s delighted grin, she added, “No promises, remember. Bike the stuff round to me first thing in the morning and I’ll take a look.”

“Thanks,” Steve said. “Even if it’s a long shot, I need all the help I can get. I appreciate it.”

“Good. So you should,” she said severely. “Now, can we talk about something else?”

It was after midnight by the time Fiona and the Rough Guide finally made it to bed. When Kit came through from the bathroom, he eyed her reading material with a curious frown. “Is that a subtle way of telling me it’s about time we started planning a holiday?” he asked, slipping under the duvet and snuggling up to her.

“I should be so lucky. It’s work, I’m afraid. I got a request today from the Spanish Police for a consultation. Two murders in Toledo that look like the start of a series.”

“I take it you’ve decided to go, then?”

Fiona waggled the book under his nose. “Looks like it. I’ll have to speak to them in the morning about the practicalities, but I should be able to get away at the end of the week for a few days without too much difficulty.”

Kit rolled on to his back and folded his arms above his head. “And there was me thinking you were planning a romantic break to Torremolinos.”

Fiona put her book down and turned to face Kit, her fingers curling the soft dark hairs on his chest. “You could come along for the ride if you like. Toledo’s a beautiful town. It’s not like there would be nothing to occupy you while I’m working. It wouldn’t do you any harm to have a break.”

He dropped one arm to her shoulder, pulling her closer to him. “I’m way behind with the book, and if you’re not around over the weekend, that’ll be a good excuse for me to lock myself away and work straight through.”

“You could work in Toledo.” Her hand strayed down his stomach.

“With you to distract me?”

“I’d be working all day. And probably half the night, if past experience is anything to go by.” She settled herself more comfortably into his side.

“I might as well be at home, by the sound of it.”

“You’d like it,” Fiona yawned. “It’s an interesting city. You never know, it might inspire you.”

“Yeah, right, I can see myself writing the definitive Spanish serial killer thriller.”

“Why not? It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it. I just thought you might like a bit of a break somewhere that does spectacular gourmet food…” Fiona’s voice tailed off sleepily.

“I do think of other things than my stomach,” he protested. “Isn’t it Toledo that has all the El Grecos?”

“That’s right,” Fiona said. “And his house.” Her eyes were closed and her voice was a mumble as she slithered down the dreamy slope towards sleep.

“Now, that does sound worth the trip. Maybe I will come after all,” Kit said. There was no reply. An early rise and ten miles of Derbyshire moorland had finally taken their toll. Kit grinned and reached out with his free arm for the James Sallis paperback on his night table. Unlike Fiona, he could never sleep without supping his fill of horrors. But then, he reasoned, he knew that what he was reading was fiction. It didn’t matter if he hadn’t solved the crime when it was time to turn the light out. The killers he was interested in wouldn’t be killing again until he was ready for them.

T
he flight to Madrid was half-empty. Without having to be asked, Kit left Fiona with a double seat to herself and moved across the aisle, where he flipped up the screen of his laptop and started work as soon as they were in the air, his Walkman rendering him oblivious to any outside distractions. On the way to the airport, he’d nagged her about making a start on the thick bundle Steve had had delivered to the house, which Fiona had been studiously ignoring for the past two days. She’d been hiding behind the necessity of familiarizing herself with the material from Toledo, but if she was honest, she’d been as thorough with that as she could be. Now she had no excuse, and the flight was just long enough to get a flavour of what she had to digest.

The first section began with a page of personal ads from Time Out. During the course of his lengthy police interviews, Blake had admitted that although he had a long-term relationship with an air hostess, he also replied to women who advertised in the lonely hearts column. He’d said that he went for the ones who seemed insecure, because they were always grateful to meet a good-looking bloke like him. He’d admitted he was interested principally in sex, but insisted that he didn’t want to waste his time on brainless bimbos. From what Fiona remembered of the original interview transcripts, Blake had seemed confident, even arrogant about his capacity to attract women; a man who knew what he wanted and didn’t doubt he could get it. He certainly hadn’t come over as weak or inadequate.