Killing the Shadows (2000) (45 page)

Then, late morning, the call had come through. The collator, Darren Watson, had dropped by the station to pick something up and he’d seen the message marked ‘urgent’ from Joanne. At the end of her rope and almost without hope, Joanne had outlined what she was looking for.

“Right,” Darren had said. “A couple of likely lads spring to mind. Why don’t you come over and we’ll have a look?”

“Now?” Joanne could hardly believe her luck. In her experience, police on their day off would do almost anything to avoid being dragged on duty.

“Sure. I’ve just come back from a week in a cottage in Cornwall with my other half, and frankly, anything that keeps me out of the house for an hour or two would be a bonus. Get yourself over here and we’ll see what we can dig out.”

Joanne didn’t need asking twice. She’d practically run downstairs to her car and invited several outbreaks of road rage on her way to the North London police station where Darren Watson might just have the answer to her prayers. Local Information Officers were responsible for maintaining the informal intelligence of the station. As well as keeping a card index file of every known villain on the patch with details of their convictions, a good collator recorded associates, suspicions and gossip. There were sound reasons why much of what they had tucked away was never entered into a computer. A card could always be conveniently misplaced, whereas even deleted computer records left traces. Omniscience coupled with deniability was the hallmark of a good collator. Joanne hoped that was what she was going to find.

Barren was in a small subterranean office that had the atmosphere of a wartime command bunker. One wall was covered with large-scale maps of the area, with pins in a variety of colours marking specific locations. Another was lined with filing cabinets. Shelving along a third wall sagged under the weight of box files piled along its length. Darren was sitting on the edge of the desk that occupied most of the fourth wall, dressed in his civvies: a navy fleece over a white T–shirt, blue jeans and brilliant-white trainers. Joanne’s first thought was that if his appearance was anything to go by, Barren’s files would be immaculate. Joanne was acutely aware that the attrition of the day’s work on top of too little sleep had left her a long way behind the collator in the grooming stakes.

They introduced themselves and Joanne came straight to the point. “Like I told you, I’m trying to develop a suspect in a series of rapes. We have reason to believe he might be on your patch. I’ve done a trawl through electoral records, but I’ve come up with a blank. We think he might have a record for minor sexual offences maybe even attempted rape. What we’re looking for is an offender who works out of doors, who targets white women, usually blonde. He may ride a bike in his getaways and he uses a knife in his attacks. It’s possible that some of his attacks may have been witnessed by small children.”

Barren pushed off from the desk and headed for his filing cabinets. “I’ve been giving it some thought and I’ve come up with two names.” He hauled open one of the card index drawers and flicked through. “There we go.” He took out a small bundle of cards held together with an elastic band. “Gordon Harold Armstrong.” He handed the cards over to Joanne and moved to another drawer.

Gordon Harold Armstrong was twenty-five, unemployed, and had been in and out of prison for burglary and indecent assault. His technique was to grab women on their way home from work, fondle their breasts and expose himself. He had threatened three of his victims with a knife. There was no mention of a bike. But for Joanne, the crucial disqualifying factor was that Gordon Harold Armstrong was black. And based on both Fiona’s analysis of Susan Blanchard’s murder and the evidence of the rape victims, the man she was looking for was white.

Darren turned to her with a single card. “Any joy, do you think?”

Joanne shook her head. “I think I’m looking for an ICi.”

Darren proffered the card. “Try this one.”

Gerard Patrick Coyne, twenty-seven years old. New Zealand-born, he had arrived in the UK as an eighteen-year-old student. Which explained his absence from the voters’ roll, Joanne realized. Having graduated from Kent University with a social sciences degree, he had worked for various market research companies as a data analyst ever since. His first arrest had come four years previously after a woman had complained he had attacked her in a local park. He had pushed her to the ground and tried to have sex with her. But she’d struggled and got away from him. The charges were later dropped on the grounds of insufficient evidence. He’d been arrested for the second time a few months later. A foot patrol had found him lurking in the bushes of another park, this time carrying a knife. He’d been charged with possession of an offensive weapon and had been given two years’ probation. According to the notes on the back of the card, Coyne had been a suspect in two other sexual assaults. In one case, the victim had been too traumatized to take part in an identification parade. In the other, the woman had been unable to pick Coyne out of the line-up.

Coyne, not surprisingly for a sex offender, had no known criminal associates. What he did have was a bike. Darren Watson’s scrupulous notes revealed that he was a member of a local cycling club and had won several road races.

Joanne allowed a slow smile to spread across her face. “Darren, you are a star,” she said, waving the card like a winning lottery ticket.

“You like our Mr. Coyne, do you?”

“Like him? I love him.” As she spoke, Joanne pulled her notebook out of her handbag and began to copy down Coyne’s details. Address, date of birth, date of arrests and his conviction for the offensive weapon charge. And the name of his cycling club.

As she knocked on Steve Preston’s door half an hour later, Joanne was convinced her boss was also going to love the prospect of Gerard Patrick Coyne. She walked into his office, a grin spread across her face. “Have I got news for you!” she began, sitting down opposite her boss without waiting to be invited. She flicked open her notes and read out Coyne’s details. She looked up. “I’ve run his CRO. Looks like we’ve got a suspect at last, guy.” She sorted through the bundle of computer printouts, collating a set to give to her boss.

“And nothing to tie him in to Susan Blanchard,” Steve reminded her. “Nothing except informed speculation and a bit of computer analysis.” He took the sheaf of paper and stared at the top sheet, which included Coyne’s photos. “Wait a minute,” he said, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice.

“What is it, guy?” Joanne leaned forward in her eagerness, as if she would somehow see whatever it was that Steve had latched on to.

“I know that face. I’ve seen him.” He closed his eyes and frowned in concentration. When they opened, his whole face was alight with excitement. “He was at the Bailey the day Blake was set free! I know it was him, I noticed him particularly because he was in cycling clothes. Carrying a helmet. It was him, Joanne, I know it was him.”

“Are you sure?” It was as if she dared not hope.

“I’m sure. I was paying attention to the public gallery crowd, because I still had it at the back of my mind that we’d brought the wrong man to court. I was checking out the faces. Just in case I saw anybody that rang a bell.” Steve jumped to his feet and started pacing. “What we’ve got to do…Joanne, I want you to get me the video footage we shot at Susan Blanchard’s funeral. We had full cover, all angles. And see what you can get from the press. Whatever pix and footage they took outside the Bailey. And the magistrates’ court, see if you can find anything from there. You’ll have to be discreet, you know how they get on their high horse if they think we’re trying to come the heavy hand with them. Go and talk to the press office, see what they can do for you.”

“What about Coyne? Are we going to pull him in?”

Steve spread his hands in frustration. “I haven’t got the bodies for this, Jo. Let me see…” He was talking half to himself, doodling on his desk pad. “John’s relieving Neil at Blake’s place at six…Maybe Neil could go over to the suspect’s address then, keep on him till midnight…” He looked up at Joanne. “Any chance you can come in tomorrow at seven and pick Coyne up for the day?”

Joanne nodded, enthusiasm overcoming weariness. “Of course. This could be the break we’ve been waiting for. But…if you don’t mind me asking…Why are we still surveilling Blake when we’ve got Coyne to go at?”

Steve gave a resigned nod. “Good point, Jo. I suppose I’ve got a thing about Blake. Oh, I know he’s not the killer. But if Fiona Cameron’s right, and he did see what happened on the Heath that morning, I’d love to get something on him. For all we know, he’s in contact with Coyne. I’d like to stay on him for as long as we can manage it. But Blake’s not what you should be concentrating on now. Leave it with me, I’ll make the arrangements. Just get yourself to Coyne’s place for seven tomorrow and stay on him.”

She got to her feet. “If that’s all, I’m going to clock off now and catch up on some sleep.”

“You deserve it. Great job, Jo. Well done.” He smiled. “Our luck’s on the turn. I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

Before the door had even closed, Steve was on the phone. Within fifteen minutes, he had everything in place. Neil had agreed to take on the extra surveillance, and another CID officer was lined up to cover Blake the following day while Steve’s core team were elsewhere. It was far from satisfactory, but it was the best he could manage at such short notice. And given the way things had started to run in his favour, he couldn’t help feeling optimistic. Maybe they’d finally get their hands on the real killer of Susan Blanchard. Nothing would make him happier.

Then he remembered Terry Fowler and amended the thought.

Now everything was in place. It didn’t matter that the van he’d hired using one of his false driving licences had no logo on the side; courier companies often hired anonymous white vans when their own fleet was overstretched. Anyway, it was only a minor prop. The key vehicle, the four-wheel-drive Toyota, was already parked in the narrow lane that ran behind the row of houses where his target lived.

All it had needed was patience. He’d cruised by the target’s house a couple of times earlier in the day. No surprises there. If there had been any kind of protection in place, it had disappeared in the smoke and mirrors of the previous day’s confession. He couldn’t believe his luck when he’d switched on the TV the night before. Just when he thought things were going to get even harder for him, the police had fallen for a faker. Now nobody would be expecting him, least of all his target.

Everything was in place. Even the weather was working in his favour. A grey drizzly afternoon meant empty streets and poor visibility. He turned the key in the ignition and flicked the indicator down. Ready or not, here I come.

Kit stared at the screen without seeing the words. Time had drifted past without him noticing, engrossed as he was in the process of grieving for his friend. He replayed Georgia in his mind like a series of videotapes, recalling her gestures, her facial expressions, the way she laughed. Whole chunks of conversation dropped out of his memory and reverberated round his head. So many times they’d stayed up late in hotel bars, talking about their work, their colleagues, the publishing business and gradually moving on to more personal issues. She’d talked fondly of Anthony, lasciviously about her lovers. He’d confided the whole process of falling in love with Fiona to Georgia, and right up to the end he’d still shared more of their relationship with Georgia than anybody else.

It wasn’t that they lived in each other’s pockets. Weeks could go past without them meeting, but theirs was the sort of friendship that always picked up where they’d last left off. He missed her already, a dull pain like the beginnings of hunger. He wished Fiona were with him. She understood the mechanism of loss; she could be his guide through the uncharted terrain of grief.

He shook his head, like a dog worried by a fly, and opened his e–mail program. He downloaded Fiona’s message and read it. Words at a distance, but still they soothed.

Kit glanced at the clock and was surprised to see how late it was. The detective from the City of London Police was due to take his statement in half an hour. Not that he had much to say. His vague recollection of being sent a manuscript by Redford wouldn’t advance their case much, he suspected. He wondered if Georgia had also been on the receiving end of one of Redford’s unsolicited offerings. If so, there would probably be a record somewhere. Unlike Kit, Georgia had employed a part-time secretary to deal with her correspondence. Somewhere, there would doubtless be a copy of any covering letter that had accompanied the manuscript on its return journey.

The creak of the gate interrupted his meandering thoughts and he looked out of the window. A courier was struggling up the path with a large cardboard box, the sort that contained author copies of books. A clipboard was balanced on top of the box.

Kit got to his feet and walked out into the hall. He opened the front door before the courier had even managed to ring the bell.

“Parcel for Martin,” the man said, peering over the top of the box.

Kit reached out to take the box. It was as heavy as he’d expected and he stepped back so he could turn round and put it on the floor clear of the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. He half turned as the courier’s arm came down in a savage arc. He saw the blow coming, half raised his arm to ward it off. He knew as soon as the impact hit his skull that he was too late. Red and white pain bloomed behind his eyes. Then everything faded to black.

The courier walked back down the path, swinging his clipboard. He climbed into his van and drove off. Two streets away, he found a parking space. He pulled off the tight uniform jacket and replaced it with black leather. He climbed into the back of the van and stripped off the coarse blue trousers, pulling on a pair of black jeans in their stead. Then he locked up the van and walked back to the lane that ran behind Kit Martin’s back garden.

He pushed open the garden gate he’d left unbolted a few minutes earlier, then, in the gathering dusk, he made his way past the bare branches of the plum trees and across the patio through the french windows he’d unlocked. Handy of Kit to have left the key in the lock. Across the kitchen and into the hall. Nice place, if you liked that sort of thing. Himself, he preferred the more traditional, farmhouse kitchen to all this stark modernity.