Killing the Shadows (2000) (32 page)

Fiona looked him straight in the eye. “I’m scared shitless that this is what has happened to Georgia. Tell me I’m being paranoid here, Steve.”

“You’re the psychologist, Fi. You know it’s only paranoia when it’s groundless. What you’re telling me might be pretty far-fetched, but it’s not entirely without foundation.” Steve leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped. However sceptical he was trying to sound, part of him was entirely convinced by Fiona’s thesis. “In the book, what does he do with the remains?”

“The killer’s a wholesale butcher in the town where his victims live. He’s got a big freezer that’s supposedly obsolete. He keeps it padlocked shut. That’s where he puts his packages of human flesh. So if I’m right, the logical place to look for Georgia Lester right now would be Smithfield Market. They live in the City, you see, her and Anthony.”

Steve closed his eyes. He wondered just how he was going to convince the detectives searching for Georgia Lester that they were going to need a search warrant for Smithfield Market. “One more question,” he finally said. “Do you think there’s a connection with the death threat letters?”

Fiona shrugged. “I don’t know. My first reaction was that the writer of the letters wasn’t a killer. There’s no boasting about the murders in any of the letters I’ve seen, which I’d expect if the letter-writer was the killer. And generally speaking, people who write anonymous threatening letters have a different mind-set from those who actually kill. But the more this goes on, the less certain I feel about trusting my judgement. If there is someone out there killing writers at the same time as someone else is sending those same people death threats, it’s hard to believe it’s pure coincidence.”

“We don’t know whether Jane Elias or Drew Shand had any letters similar to the ones sent to Kit and the others, though, do we? And the Garda told me they hadn’t found anything like that among her papers.” While he was willing to accept Fiona might have made a case for a serial killer, Steve was reluctant on a personal level to believe the letters held a direct threat. If they did, that meant his closest male friend could be the next target. And that was a prospect that chilled him to the bone.

Fiona stared numbly at him. His words washed over her, making no impression on the worm of anxiety that wriggled inside her. “All I know is that if there is a serial killer out there, Kit is almost certainly on his list, whether or not the letter-writer and the murderer are one and the same. He fits all the criteria, just like Georgia. You’ve got to do something about this, Steve.”

F
iona was uncharacteristically silent as they walked through the busy Holborn streets from her office to the quiet cafe-bar where Steve had arranged the meeting. Her mood seemed matched by grey skies and tall, dark Victorian buildings that hemmed them in as they headed down towards Farringdon Road. In an attempt to distract her, he said, “Does your graduate student make a habit of propositioning strange men?”

“You mean Terry?”

“She asked me out to dinner.”

“I see her impulse control hasn’t improved any.” Fiona sounded amused.

“She makes a habit of this kind of thing?” Steve demanded, unaccountably deflated by the thought.

“Propositioning men? I don’t think so, no. But she is irrepressibly drawn to following her urges, hunches and inspirations without pause for thought.”

“Ah,” he said.

“It’s just what you need, Steve. Someone to jolt you out of your rut,” she said, slipping her arm through his and giving it a squeeze.

“Is that how you see me? A man stuck in a rut?”

“You must admit, you’re a creature of habit and caution. A brief encounter with a charismatic whirlwind like Terry could be just what you need.”

“You think that’s all she’s in the market for, then? A brief encounter?” Steve said, trying to keep his tone light to match Fiona’s.

“I have no idea. Sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest she saw you as nothing more than a plaything. And it’s not as if she has a reputation for playing the field. I’ve been working with Terry for nearly two years now, and all I’ve ever seen her do with blokes is put them in their place. Which is usually very firmly at arm’s-length. Not,” she added hastily, “that there’s anything wrong with that. I’ve seen too many students distracted because they’re the most attractive woman in the seminar group and they can’t resist the lure of other people’s lust.”

“But Terry’s not one of those, that’s what you’re saying?”

They side-stepped to allow a woman with a push chair to pass. “Definitely not. She’s well aware of her charm, but to her credit, she doesn’t trade on it. When she started her PhD, she was living with someone, but they split up…oh, it must be eighteen months ago. Since then, I don’t know of anybody significant. So she must have really taken a liking to you.” She squeezed his arm and smiled up at him.

“You know a lot about her,” Steve observed.

“You’re fishing. Which I assume means you said yes?”

“I did.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows. “Good for you. Time to live a little, Steve. Let yourself go. And I think Terry’s the perfect woman to do it with. She’s bright and she’s talented. And she’s good fun.”

Steve smiled. “I’d worked that much out for myself. I suspect I’m going to have to keep my wits about me with Ms Fowler.”

“Which is no bad thing in a relationship,” Fiona commented with a wicked grin.

“Hey, steady on. We’re only having dinner, not moving in together.”

Fiona said nothing, merely pinning him with an inquisitive look as she let go of his arm to turn into the cafe-bar. It had opened on the crest of the city’s coffee craze, the decor Home Front nineties, with every wall a different off-primary colour, tall aluminium vases crammed with exotic foliage scattered strategically around. The chairs were low wraparound armchairs that gripped the hips, the tables knee-high and stained the colour of herbal teas. The background music was generic Britpop played just loud enough to cover the hissing and spluttering of the coffee machines. It was marginally too far from the university for it to attract the student population. Mid-morning, only half a dozen tables were occupied. Steve led the way to a corner table at the rear, where they were unlikely to be overheard. From the elaborate menu of hot and cold beverages, Fiona ordered a cappuccino, Steve an Americano. He produced his cigars and lit up, blowing a perfect smoke ring towards the ceiling.

Fiona smiled. “You only do that when you’re nervous,” she said.

“I do?”

“I’ve noticed it before. When you’re feeling twitchy, you blow smoke rings.”

“So that’s all I am to you, a walking laboratory rat,” he said affectionately.

Before she could reply, a tall black woman in a caramel-coloured business suit toting a briefcase walked into the café and looked around her. Seeing Steve, the woman headed purposefully towards them. As she approached, Fiona took in the details. Low-heeled court shoes, powerful calves. Hair cut close to her head, high cheekbones, a parakeet nose and dark eyes behind fashionable oval-framed glasses. It was hard to gauge her age, but given that Fiona knew she was a Detective Chief Inspector, she had to be in her mid thirties at least. When she reached their table, the woman nodded to Steve and reached a hand out to Fiona. “Dr. Cameron? It’s an honour to meet you. I’m Sarah Duvall. City of London Police.”

They shook hands and Duvall sat down opposite Fiona. “Good to see you again, Steve,” she added with a curt nod.

“Thanks for coming, Sarah. I know you’re up to your eyes at the moment,” he said.

“Aren’t we all?” Duvall replied. The waiter arrived with the coffees and Duvall asked for a large espresso. Fiona wasn’t in the least surprised. Something had to have fuelled this brisk no-nonsense woman through the ranks of the City police and it wouldn’t have been supportive praise. “So, Steve tells me you wanted to talk to me about the Georgia Lester inquiry,” Duvall said, giving Fiona a sharp look of appraisal.

“To be honest, the more I think about it, the more I think I’m probably wasting everybody’s time,” Fiona hedged, aware she was not operating in her usual assertive mode and wondering whether she was actually feeling slightly intimidated by the other woman.

“I’m willing to be the judge of that,” Duvall said. “So, if you’d care to lay it out for me?”

Fiona began at the beginning, with Drew Shand’s murder, and outlined the hypothesis she’d already explained to Steve. Duvall listened in silence throughout, her features immobile, her body still as standing water. When Fiona came to the end of her theory, Duvall simply nodded. “I see,” she said. She picked up her cup and sipped her coffee.

“I don’t think you’re wasting my time at all,” she finally said. She glanced at Steve. “I can speak frankly here?”

“Fiona understands issues of confidentiality,” he confirmed.

Duvall picked up her teaspoon and stirred her espresso thoughtfully. “The main investigation into Georgia Lester’s disappearance is being handled by Dorset Constabulary, since that is where she was last known to be and where her car was subsequently found. My involvement has come about because her London residence is on our patch. Certain inquiries needed to be made in London, and it was decided that these should be handled at a level rather more senior than would deal with most missing persons. For reasons I’m sure you’ll appreciate.” Fiona nodded, impressed with Duvall’s incisive and logical manner.

“There have been suggestions, as you rightly point out, that Ms Lester has engineered her own disappearance as a publicity stunt. And to some degree, we have been allowing that assumption to run. However, I do not believe that to be the case. Apart from anything else, she had already engaged a bodyguard to accompany her on her book tour, which I don’t think she’d have done if she was planning to disappear as a publicity stunt. Also, her husband’s distress is clearly genuine, and I have been assured by everyone I’ve interviewed that she would not deliberately cause him such anxiety. We have been monitoring Mr. Fitzgerald’s telephone and his mail, with his full consent, and there have been no communications seeking a ransom. And there would have been by now if she had been abducted. I think we can be fairly sure of that.

“As you suggest, this leaves the unpalatable option that Ms Lester is dead, and not by her own hand. There is nothing to suggest she has met with a fatal accident. And so, I have been proceeding as if I were dealing with the early stages of a murder inquiry. I find what you have to say both disturbing and also curiously satisfying, because it chimes entirely with my own instincts about this case. I do wish someone had told me about these death threat letters before now, however.”

Fiona looked penitent. “That’s partly my fault, I’m afraid. Georgia wanted to take them to the police, but my partner, Kit, was opposed to the idea. He thought they were crank letters and he didn’t want to be seen to be publicity-seeking after Drew Shand’s murder. I should have been more insistent. I’m sorry.”

Duvall nodded. There was no concession in her face, no attempt to reassure Fiona. Her expression said that Fiona really should have known better, and Fiona smarted under it. “I’ll want to see them as soon as possible,” was all Duvall said, however.

“I’ll get them to you later today,” Fiona promised. “They’re back in my office. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking straight. I should have brought them with me.”

Duvall’s lips tightened in silent agreement.

“So how do we proceed from here?” Steve asked, anxious to move away from the edginess between the women to more productive territory. “I can’t see you getting a warrant to search Smithfield Market on the basis of what Fiona’s given you.”

Duvall took another sip of her coffee. A technique designed to give room for thought, Fiona decided. “I can try,” she said eventually. More coffee. “We have one or two very understanding magistrates in the City. And we do have a very good relationship with the market authorities. We actually have a squad of officers based in Smithfield itself. What might help me, Doctor, is if you could tell me a little about what sort of person you believe is committing these crimes and whether they are likely to strike again.” She gave a tiny, tight smile. “Prevention is always a good note to strike with magistrates.”

“I’m not a behavioural psychologist,” Fiona said. “I’m an academic. I don’t do profiling based on stuff about whether your killer wet the bed or was abused by a drunken father. I leave that to the clinicians who have a range of experience to draw on.”

Duvall nodded. “I know. Personally, I prefer a little intellectual rigour in criminal investigation,” she said wryly. “But based on what you know of this sort of killer, is there anything you can tell me?”

“These killings are fuelled by rage. Most serial homicides are sexual in their nature, but occasionally there are other motives. For example, the missionary type, who sees his goal as ridding the world of a particular group of people who don’t deserve to live. I’ve recently been working on such a case with the Spanish police. In that instance, I’d characterize the motivation as loss.”

“Loss?” Duvall interrupted.

“Most adults develop their sense of self as a complex matrix of interlocking factors,” Fiona explained. “So if we lose a parent, if our lover leaves us, if the career we had worked so hard for is shattered, we feel bereft and upset but we don’t lose our sense of who we are. But there are some people who never achieve that sort of integration. Their sense of self becomes entirely bound up with one aspect of their lives. If they lose that element, they are entirely cast adrift from the normal checks and balances. Some commit suicide. A smaller group turn the rage and pain outwards and seek their revenge on those they perceive to be somehow responsible.”

“I see,” Duvall said. “And you think that’s what may have come into play here?”

Fiona shrugged. “That’s what my experience would lead me to think.”

Steve leaned forward. “So what sort of person would see serial killer thriller writers as his nemesis?”

“Or her nemesis,” Duvall interjected. “We’re equal opportunity coppers in the City, Steve. Unlike the Met.” Again that thin, tight smile behind the barb.