Killing the Shadows (2000) (23 page)

In spite of her best efforts to concentrate, only part of her mind was focused on her seminar group that morning. Berrocal’s problem niggled in the corner of her brain. Frustrated by her inability to drag to the surface whatever nugget was lurking just out of reach, she spent her lunch break in the nearby swimming baths, ploughing up and down mindlessly, trying to reach the semi-trance state that exercise could produce. But still it eluded her grasp.

Walking back to the department, she summoned up the image of the Alcazar in her mind’s eye. Perhaps that would help her unlock the puzzle. The imposing building stood on the highest point of the old town, the perfect position for a fortress, a situation that had been exploited by every occupying power since the Romans. It dominated the city, bigger than anything else in the line of sight, its four-square geometry a reproach to the higgledy-piggledy appearance of the rest of the buildings that rambled down the slopes towards the Tagus.

But it had never been a lucky building. It had burned down several times and been seriously damaged in the Civil War, when Franco’s men had bombarded it for months. From a distance, it was a forbidding sight, its walls apparently lacking the ornate decoration of its skyline rivals, the cathedral and San Juan de los Reyes. The only breaks in its severity were the four circular turrets that adorned the corners, each with a Disneyland flourish of roof.

Inside the high walls, it was a different matter. Each of the exterior facades was decorated in a different architectural style. Fiona had never toured the Alcazar, but she had seen photographs, and she’d found it almost absurd that so elaborately stylized a building should have ended up as Army offices with a museum tacked on to them.

Even so, it had still managed to acquire a new layer to its bloody history. Now it was a crime scene. The resting place for the latest victim of a ruthless killer she was supposed to help catch. An objective she was apparently some distance from achieving.

In spite of her mental nagging, still her mind refused to release its inspiration, and by mid afternoon Fiona had given up. She decided to work late, dealing with the correspondence that had piled up to dangerous levels in her in-tray. Kit was out for the evening, doing an event at a bookshop then going for a drink with Steve, so there was no urgency about getting home. When she finally left her office, she ran into a couple of part-time lecturers from the anthropology school who persuaded her to come for a drink at the staff club.

She was on her second glass of wine when the conversation veered off at a tangent. Two of her colleagues were pouring scorn on the notions of a third about funerary customs in West Africa. Some electrical current sparked in Fiona’s brain and suddenly she knew what she needed to tell Berrocal. With a mumbled apology, she jumped to her feet and hurried back to her office.

Of course, when she got through to the Spanish police, Berrocal was out of the office. She didn’t want to leave her hunch as a message with a minion, because she was aware how bizarre it would sound. Equally, she didn’t want to wait until morning. She switched on the computer and went straight to her e–mail program.

From:
Fiona Cameron [[email protected]]

To:
Salvador Berrocal [[email protected]]

Subject:
Re: Toledo murders

Dear Major Berrocal,

A thought has occurred to me about where your suspect may be hiding out, although it is probably grasping at straws.

As we know, he is obsessed with the history of Toledo, which is now linked in his mind with the business of death. Where do death and history intersect? In graveyards. I wondered if there was the kind of cemetery in or near Toledo where there are large tombs or funerary vaults. If so, he could be camping out there.

He obviously has some sort of shelter, since he is managing to remain well enough groomed not to attract adverse attention to his appearance. I think he could possibly have broken into a mausoleum or family vault which he is now using as a base of operations.

If you have no other leads, it might be worth examining this possibility.

I will be at home later this evening, where I intend to go through the material you promised me.

Good hunting!

Best wishes,

Fiona Cameron.

K
it closed the last of the books with a flourish and put down his pen. “Thanks, pal,” he said to the bookseller who moved the pile of hardbacks to one side.

“Do you mind doing some of the paperbacks as well?” the woman asked.

“Happy to.” He glanced across to Steve, who was browsing the true crime section. “I’ll not be long,” he called.

“No problem,” Steve said, pulling a book about forensic anthropology from the shelf.

“I thought it went well,” he said absently as he signed.

“It was great,” the bookseller enthused. “It’s the first time we’ve done a whole week of themed events, and it’s been terrific. We’ve really put on sales, not just at the events but during the day as well.”

“That’s because you’ve promoted it so well in the store,” Kit said. “The windows look the business, and that pulls the punters in. It was a good audience tonight.”

The woman pulled a face. “Apart from the nutter in the front row.”

“You always get one.”

“Oh, I know, but the way he kept going on about poor Drew Shand and Jane Elias…what a sicko. Doesn’t it worry you that weirdos like that are reading your books?”

Kit stood up and shrugged. “Not really. It’s the ones who keep their mouths shut you have to worry about. Isn’t that right, Steve?”

Steve looked up, startled. “Sorry, you speaking to me, Kit?”

“Yeah, I was saying it’s not the nutters who mouth off that want watching. It’s the ones that don’t let on that they’re candidates for the locked ward that really cause the problems.”

Steve snapped the book shut. “That’s right. The perfect murders are committed by people who are smart enough to make them look like accidents and strong enough to keep their mouths shut afterwards.”

Kit snorted. “Unlike that bloke in Sheffield who cut his wife’s head off and brought it round to show the girlfriend how much he loved her.”

The bookseller shuddered. “You’re making that up.”

“I wish he was. Truth is usually much more horrible than even his fiction,” Steve said. “You done, Kit?”

They walked down the hill from the bookshop in companionable silence. By unspoken consent, they turned into the first pub with beer that Kit classified as decent, an establishment where no expense had been spared to make it look like a 19305 public bar, all bare floorboards and wooden chairs. All it lacked was sawdust on the floor. As they elbowed their way to the bar, Kit finally spoke. “You don’t think there’s any connection between Drew Shand and Jane Elias being murdered, do you?” he asked.

“I don’t know enough about either case even to speculate,” Steve responded. He pushed through the drinkers and caught the barmaid’s eye. “Two pints of bitter, love.”

Kit grinned. “Lack of knowledge never stopped Fiona. She reckons it’s about as likely as Man United getting relegated from the Premiership. But she might just be saying that to stop me worrying.”

Steve took a mouthful of his beer then grinned. “And you think I’m going to contradict her? And risk bringing down the wrath of God on my head?”

“You know what your trouble is, Stevie? You let Fiona get away with far too much. You defer to her like you do to nobody else I’ve ever seen you with. But with a woman like Fiona, you can’t afford to roll over. Give her an inch and before you know it, her flag’s flying over the whole world.”

“Old habits die hard,” Steve said, aware that Kit was marking his territory as obviously as an un doctored torn cat. He knew his friend was right. When the shape of his relationship with Fiona had been forged, he hadn’t understood that she needed someone who would stand up to her and challenge her. Now, it was too late to change. Worse still, it had become the established pattern of his personal relationships with women. He could be tough with female colleagues and subordinates, never making any allowance for their gender. But as soon as the possibility of romance entered, Steve reverted to the wimp who had failed to win Fiona. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have sufficient time or motivation to change it. Even supposing he could.

Steve snapped out of his thoughts and tuned back into what Kit was saying.

“I don’t need humouring. I just need to know whether you think I should be watching my back, with these threatening letters going the rounds.”

They made their way to a table in the corner that they knew from experience was in one of the dead spots of the sound system. They could have a conversation there without risking laryngitis or eavesdroppers. Steve took a cigar from his breast pocket and lit up. “Run that past me again, Kit. I couldn’t hear you over the racket at the bar.”

Kit shook his head. “You weren’t listening. You were thinking about women. I was telling you about these death threat letters that seem to be going the rounds among some of us crime writers. I’ve had one, Georgia Lester’s had one. Fiona suggested I ask around to see if anybody else has had one, and I sent out some e–mails today about it. So far, I’ve got three others admitting to it. Jonathan Lewis, Adam Chester and Enya Flannery. And my agent’s had one too. And they all sound like they’ve been written by the same person. Plus, Enya and Jonathan both said they’d had similar messages on their answering machines. Though the voice was too muffled to recognize, even if they’d know the person.”

“And you’re wondering if there’s a connection to these two murders? If there’s somebody out there with a grudge against crime writers?” Steve tried not to look as incredulous as he felt. He knew Kit had a healthy ego about his own work, but he hadn’t realized that he and his fellow writers actually thought they were important enough to provoke someone to serial murder.

“Well, it had crossed my mind,” Kit said. “I don’t think that’s unreasonable in the circumstances. One crank letter is easy to dismiss, but six makes me a bit uneasy. And I wondered if you could maybe put a call in to your oppos on the other side of the Irish Sea and maybe check out if Jane Elias got one of these death threat letters.”

“Kit, the papers are full of Jane Elias’s affair with this Garda Siochana officer. Frankly, I’d have thought that had a lot more to do with her murder than anything else. From what I hear, Pierce Finnegan made plenty of enemies over the years, inside the tent as well as outside. There’s no better way of getting to someone in law enforcement than going for the people they love. So no, I don’t think you should be losing sleep over the idea that somebody might be coming after you.”

“But you’ll make the call? To put my mind and Fiona’s at rest?” Kit eyed Steve over the rim of his glass. If he wouldn’t do it for friendship, he’d do it for his quaint notion of courtly love. Kit would have put money on it.

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Steve said. He knew he was being manipulated, but it was more effort to fight it than he could be bothered expending.

Kit nodded, satisfied. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Fiona’s saying she doesn’t think there’s likely to be a connection, but I’m not sure if she really thinks that or if she’s only saying it to keep me happy. I sometimes feel like Fiona thinks I’m some fragile little flower that needs protecting from the wind and rain.”

Steve spluttered a mouthful of beer over the table. “Fuck’s sake, Kit,” he got out. “You’re about as fragile as the Forth Bridge.”

Before Kit could respond, their peace was shattered by an announcement that a live Irish band was about to start playing. Kit drained his pint and stood up. “Let’s get out of here. Come back to ours, it’s only ten minutes’ walk.”

Neither of them noticed the bearded man who had sat at the back of the bookshop event abandoning his half-drunk pint of Guinness and following them out of the pub at a cautious distance. He’d left the shop before the signing and waited patiently in a nearby doorway until Kit and Steve had left. He’d walked down the hill in their wake and when they entered the bar, he’d loitered outside for long enough to allow them to buy their drinks and settle down. Then he’d attached himself to three other men heading for the bar, bought himself a drink and found a seat where he could see the back of Kit’s head and Steve’s profile.

Now, he pursued them through the night streets, careful to keep well back. He smiled to himself. His caution was a waste of time, really. The stupid fools didn’t have a clue. When they turned into a gateway, he stopped in his tracks, pretending to tie his shoelace. Then he continued down the street, glancing to one side as he passed the house they’d gone into. He couldn’t help a spasm of jealous anger as he took in its elegant proportions. If he had his way, Kit Martin wouldn’t be enjoying his smug and cosy life for much longer. He had plans to make things much less comfortable for Mr. bloody Martin.

They arrived to find Fiona in the kitchen finishing the pen he puttanesca that Kit had left for her. “You’re back early,” she said.

“We thought we’d try and catch you with your secret lover,” Steve teased.

Fiona poked her tongue out at him. “Too late. She’s just left.”

“The Paddies invaded the pub,” Kit said. “You know how I hate that bloody bogus bogtrotter music.” He snagged two bottles of Sam Smith’s Organic Bitter from the drinks cupboard. “So we thought we’d come back and spoil your evening.”

“You’re too late for that as well. Salvador Berrocal called earlier to tell me there’s been another body in Toledo, so I’ve been ploughing through Spanish scene-of-crime reports and entering data on the computer instead of indulging myself with a long hot bath.”

Kit pulled a face. “Bummer,” he said.

“How was the gig?” Fiona asked.

“Not a bad turnout, considering I didn’t have a new book to promote. Sold a fair few books and signed every bit of stock I could lay hands on.”

“He’s being modest again, He had them in the palm of his hand. They loved him. All the women wanted to take him home and all the blokes wanted to take him for a pint,” Steve said as he sat down opposite her.