Killing the Shadows (2000) (42 page)

“I suppose so. I presumed because you never objected to him that you took it at face value,” she admitted.

Kit reached for the bottle and topped up his glass. “Why should I have minded? It’s not as if he’s ever been any kind of threat. I’ve always known you didn’t love him. Well, you do love him, obviously, but like a friend. And he’s never tried to tell me how I should be treating you. So why should there be a problem?”

Fiona laid her head against his thigh. “You never cease to surprise me.”

“Good. I’d hate to think you had me sussed.” He released her hand and stroked her hair. “You’re a very good reason for staying alive, you know. I’m not going to take any chances.”

Fiona grasped the offered opportunity. “So first thing in the morning, we’re going to call a security firm and get you fixed up with a minder.”

“Are you serious?” His tone was a mixture of incredulity and outrage.

“Never more so. You can’t live like a hermit, Kit. You know it’ll drive you stir crazy within a couple of days. You’ll get frustrated and bad-tempered, you won’t be able to work and then you’ll do something that you think is safe, like going for a walk on the Heath. You’ll expose yourself.” As he started to argue with her, Fiona held up her hand in an adamant gesture. “I’m not going to argue, Kit. Your safety’s the most important consideration, but you’ve still got to be able to live.”

“Fair enough. But a minder? I’ll feel like a complete plonker.”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

Before Kit could say more, the final credits of the soap faded and the familiar urgency of the Six o’clock News theme swelled from the TV. Fiona swivelled round to watch the screen. “Let’s see what they’re saying about Georgia,” she said.

The newscaster gave his trademark sombre smile and launched into the news.

Good evening. The remains of missing mystery writer Georgia Lester have been discovered in a freezer in London’s Smithfield Market. And in a dramatic development, a man has confessed to her murder at a police press conference.

The rest of the headlines were lost on Fiona and Kit. “What the fuck?” Kit breathed.

They didn’t have long to wait. Georgia was the first item in the main bulletin.

City of London Police called a press conference this afternoon to announce that a search of Smithneld Market had ended with the discovery of Georgia Lester’s remains. Their grisly find came in the early hours of this morning as police worked through the night following a new line of inquiry. Ms Lester went missing somewhere between her cottage in Dorset and her London home ten days ago. Since then, concern has been voiced for her safety.

But the revelation was overshadowed by the events of the press conference itself. Over now to our reporter Gabrielle Gershon.

A solemn-faced thirty-something with fashionable glasses gazed into the camera.

Police were giving little away at the press conference. They admitted only that Georgia Lester’s dismembered body had been found in a freezer at Smithfield Market, but refused to be drawn into speculation as to whether there was any connection between the best selling crime author’s death and the recent murders of fellow thriller writers Drew Shand and Jane Elias.

But as the press conference drew to a close, a man pushed his way through the crowd of reporters, claiming to be responsible for all three deaths. He then distributed leaflets alleging that all three of the murdered authors had stolen his work and that he had killed them in revenge for their plagiarism.

For legal reasons, we cannot show the footage of this dramatic event. However, the man has been taken into police custody and within the last ten minutes, police have admitted that he has been arrested on suspicion of murder.

The news reader voice interrupted.

Did the police appear to be taken by surprise by this extraordinary intervention, Gabrielle?

—he asked.

Yes, Don, it threw them into complete confusion. Up to that point, they’d given no indication that they had any suspects whatsoever in Georgia Lester’s murder.

It’s a remarkable turn of events. I can’t recall anything quite like it ever happening before.

Don the news reader said as the screen returned to a view of the studio.

Thanks, Gabrielle. We’ll come back to you if there are any further developments.

He looked seriously at the camera.

Later in the programme, we’ll be bringing you an appreciation of Georgia Lester’s life and work. But now, the other main stories tonight.

Fiona reached for the remote control and flicked the mute button. “Unbelievable,” she said wonderingly. “He confessed in front of a room full of journalists?”

“Now there’s a man who doesn’t need a publicist.”

“Pass the phone,” Fiona said.

Kit stretched and grabbed the cordless handset. “Who’re you going to call?”

“Wood Street. I want to find out if this is the real thing or the local neighbourhood nutter.”

“You think they’ll tell you?”

Fiona gave him her disapproving tutor’s stare. “You think they won’t?”

Ten minutes later, she put the phone down. Sarah Duvall had, inevitably, been unavailable. But once Fiona had explained her connection to the case to a slightly wary sergeant in the incident room, she had been rewarded with the assurance that yes, the murder squad was treating the confessor seriously. And, strictly off the record, he was likely to be charged with something by morning. Maybe not murder, not quite yet. But something serious.

It was, she thought, like the moment when you realize the dental anaesthetic has worn off. She felt tension seep from her shoulders like a liquid flow. Her initial response of scepticism had been dispelled by the CID sergeant’s stolid reassurance that someone as sharp as Sarah Duvall was taking this seriously. And if the confessor had been one of the usual suspects who came out of the woodwork whenever there was a major crime in the headlines, the police would have known. She smiled up into Kit’s anxious eyes. “They seem to think he’s kosher,” she said, letting out a long breath. She hastily moved from the floor to the sofa and wrapped her arms round him. “I hope they’re right,” she said softly. “Oh God, I hope it’s finished.”

T
he air in the room was redolent with the heavy fragrances of ylang-ylang, sandalwood and rose. The flicker of a pair of candles took the chill off the clinical white of the walls and transformed Steve’s bedroom from a monastic cell to a place where romance was possible. The massage oil and the candles were Terry’s contribution to the atmosphere; after the first night when urgency had been everything, she wanted to give their love-making a more sensual framework.

They lay in a languid tangle of limbs, a pair of champagne flutes within reach but for the moment disregarded as they gave each other the history lessons of their past. As he listened to Terry’s tale of her childhood, Steve luxuriated in the sense of having been swept out of the mundanity of his life.

When the shrill note of his mobile phone cut through Terry’s gentle ironies, it was a dislocating wrench back into his former life. “Shit,” he swore savagely, even as he was disentangling himself from her.

She chuckled. “Ignore it. You’re off duty.”

“I can’t,” he said angrily, crossing the room in a handful of long strides and abruptly grabbing the phone from the dressing table. “There’s too much on. Bloody thing.” He hit a button and barked, “Preston here.”

“Steve? This is Sarah Duvall.”

Steve stifled his exasperation and backed up to the edge of the bed, where he flopped down. “What can I do for you, Sarah?”

“Have I caught you at a bad moment?”

“No, it’s fine.”

Duvall registered his clipped tones, knew it wasn’t fine, but pressed on regardless. She wasn’t about to allow Steve Preston’s convenience to come between her and her objective. “I wanted to ask if you thought Dr. Cameron would be open to a formal approach from us to liaise on the Lester murder.”

Steve glanced uneasily at Terry. He felt faintly uncomfortable talking about Fiona in front of her. It felt almost incestuous. “I don’t see why not. The problem is with the Met, not in general. What was it you were after, specifically?”

“As you know, we’ve got a confessor in custody. But I’m having peculiar problems with checking out his authenticity because so much of the detail of the crime comes from Lester’s book. However, I think he could be tied to the letters. What I want to try for is linking him to the letters, then linking the three murders, especially if we can establish that Shand and Elias also had letters. I thought Dr. Cameron could look specifically at the letters and the flyer he distributed at the press conference, then she could review the evidence in the other two cases to see if there’s linkage. With three cases to go at, we’ve got more chance of turning up some witness evidence, or something else that would either tie in the confessor or eliminate him.”

“I’d have thought it was worth trying,” Steve said cautiously. “And there’s no better person for that kind of job.”

“I don’t want to wait till morning,” Duvall said. “Have you got a home number for her?”

“I think you’d get a better response face to face than over the phone.” This wasn’t the time to tell Duvall that her phone manner wouldn’t ingratiate her with a woman who was already predisposed to dislike her because of Duvall’s reluctance to provide protection for Kit and his fellows.

“A home address, then?”

Steve cast a quick glance at Terry, who was curled on one side, watching him with a smile. For a brief moment, he considered going through to the other room to avoid any chance of Terry recognizing her supervisor’s details. The instinct to confidentiality was bred in the bone, but he realized that if he was going to stand any chance of making this relationship work, he had to let her into his life. He took a deep breath and recited the familiar address. Terry’s eyebrows rose and her expression changed to one of curiosity. Steve ended the call and tossed the phone back on the dressing table.

“I won’t pry if you’d rather I didn’t, but I couldn’t help recognizing Fiona’s address,” she said.

Steve got back into bed and stretched out his arm to pull her into his embrace. “You heard about the guy who confessed to Georgia Lester’s murder at the press conference?”

“I saw it on the news, yes.”

“Well, City of London want to consult with Fiona about it. They think he’s a strong suspect.”

“And they want to establish linkage with the other two crime-writer killings, is that it?” Terry’s interest was piqued and she shifted so she could prop herself up on one elbow.

“That’s right. She’ll jump at the chance. Apart from anything else, it might reassure her that they’ve got the right person and she can stop worrying that Kit might be next on the hit list.”

“Of course. That’s why she’s been right off the planet the last couple of days.”

“It didn’t occur to you that Kit might be a target?”

“What can I say? I’d sort of forgotten about Kit. I’ve only met him once. Plus, Fiona never talks about her home life. And really, nobody’s been talking the serial killer angle up much. The papers all made out that there was no connection between Drew Shand and Jane what’s-her-name.” She shook her head crossly. “God, how could I be such a dummy? She must have been off her head with worry.”

Steve sighed. “She’s been as near as Fiona ever gets to frantic. We had a row over it yesterday. She was angry because she was the one who actually came up with the idea of searching Smithfield, but neither City nor the Met could commit to protecting Kit.”

Terry frowned. “Oh Steve, that’s bad. Torn between the personal and the professional. What a shit of a time you and Fiona must have been having. Worried stiff about Kit and ending up going head to head with each other.”

“It’s not been easy,” he acknowledged. “At least it looks as if Kit is safe now, for which I am profoundly grateful. The guy’s my best mate, and if anything had happened to him, I don’t know how I would have coped. The only thing is, I’m afraid it’s really screwed things between me and Fiona. She’s not a woman who forgives easily.”

“She’ll come round in time,” Terry said with breezy confidence. “Especially if you do a bit of serious grovelling. She always responds well to a good grovel, in my experience.”

Steve shook his head. “It’s going to take more than that this time, I think.”

Terry cuddled into him. “All my hard work, getting you relaxed, and now you’re wound up like a spring again.” She reached for the bottle of massage oil. “There’s nothing for it. You’re just going to have to put Kit and Fiona out of your mind and lie down and take your medicine like a man.”

Steve managed a smile as he shuffled on to his stomach, feeling his muscles fluttering as she straddled him. “Whatever you say, Doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor yet,” she said. “Just think how much better I’ll be when I’m qualified…”

He groaned as her hands, slick with oil, began to massage his shoulders. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that.”

“We’ll work up to it gradually, soldier.” Her strong fingers kneaded the powerful muscles of his back, erasing all thoughts of Sarah Duvall and even Fiona Cameron from his mind.

Fiona was in the kitchen making coffee when the doorbell rang. Frowning at the unexpected interruption, she walked down the hall to check the spy hole in the door. The chances were it was some hack who had decided that he needed to try Kit for a juicy quote for the morning’s paper. If it were, Fiona would take great pleasure in blowing him off. One thing was certain. No friend would have called round this evening without checking ahead by phone first.

To her surprise, Fiona recognized the person on the doorstep, though what Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Duvall was doing there was beyond her. Muttering, “Hell and damnation,” under her breath, Fiona opened the door. “DCI Duvall,” she said.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your evening,” Duvall said stiffly, as if apology were a stranger in her mouth. “But I hoped you could spare me some time.”