Killing the Shadows (2000) (48 page)

When she arrived back at her hotel, she was almost reluctant to go in. The brief time out had refreshed her, leaving her ready for something more enjoyable than thoughts of murder. The only tantalizing prospect the evening had to offer now was the chance of a conversation with Kit.

Fiona checked at reception for messages. Nothing. She’d hoped he would have called, in response to one of her earlier e–mail messages. Never mind, she thought. She’d call home in the hope that he was monitoring the answering machine and would pick up when he heard her voice. She went up to her room and called room service. While she waited, she booted up the laptop and checked her e–mail again. Nothing from Kit. Not like him, she thought. They’d had no contact since she’d left that morning, which was a break in their usual pattern of communication.

Glancing at her watch, she saw it was just past nine. He couldn’t still be working. He should answer the phone.

Quickly, she dialled the familiar number, her fingers stumbling so she had to abort the call and start again. The phone rang out. Three, four, five rings. Then the answering machine. His recorded voice for once provided no comfort. She waited for the bleep. “Kit, it’s me. If you’re there, pick up, please…Come on, I need to talk to you…” She waited in vain.

While she ate the pasta she’d ordered and sipped a glass of wine, Fiona flicked through the letters again, checking to see if there was anything she’d missed.

When the phone rang she dropped her fork with a clatter. She grabbed the receiver eagerly and said, “Hello?”

“This is DCI Duvall.”

Fiona felt intense disappointment. “Oh. Hello. I was expecting someone else.”

“I wondered what progress you’d made,” Duvall said abruptly.

Fiona outlined her day’s work in some detail. As she reported her findings, Duvall made no response apart from the occasional noncommittal sound of someone making notes.

When she had finished, Duvall spoke. “So, you’ve found nothing to contradict the theory that Redford is the killer?” she asked.

It was, Fiona thought, an odd way to put it. “Nothing. Why? Has something come up at your end?” A nervous prickle of anxiety crept across her chest.

She felt the hesitation build at the other end of the phone. “A minor discrepancy, that’s all,” Duvall said briskly.

“How minor?” Fiona demanded.

Duvall outlined what the Dorset Police had uncovered, and how it was at odds with the little Redford had said on the subject. “We’ll have more sense of its significance when we get the forensics back from the outhouse.”

“But that could be days,” Fiona protested. “If you have got the wrong man in custody, then other people could be at risk.” One person in particular, she thought, fear beginning to clench her stomach. “The killer’s going to feel very safe. He’ll be confident about striking again.” And I can’t raise Kit.

“I’m aware of that. We’re doing everything we can to corroborate what Redford is saying.”

“I’ve not heard from Kit all day,” Fiona blurted out.

“One of my team was supposed to interview him this afternoon. I’ll check out what he had to say. He may have indicated he had plans for the evening,” Duvall said with a confident authority she didn’t feel. “I’ll get back to you.”

“I’ll be waiting for your call.” Fiona replaced the phone gently, as if somehow so doing would also keep Kit safe. She was, she recognized, terrified. Suddenly, she bolted for the bathroom, making it just in time. Undigested pasta swilled round in a bilious red sea of tomato sauce and wine. Her stomach kept on emptying itself in a reflex long after there was nothing left to bring up. She leaned back on her heels, a sheen of sweat across her forehead, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

The thought of Sarah Duvall’s call forced her to her feet. She flushed the toilet and brushed her teeth. What was taking her so long? She ran her hands through her hair, gazing at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were haunted, her face made gaunt by the inner fears eating her away. “You look like shit,” she told her reflection. “Get a grip, Cameron.”

The phone ringing catapulted her out of the bathroom and across the bedroom. “Yes, Fiona Cameron, hello?”

“We seem to have a slight problem,” Duvall said hesitantly.

Jesus God, no, she screamed silently. “What sort of a problem?” she forced out.

“Apparently, he wasn’t at home when my officer called on him.”

Fiona groaned. “Something’s happened to him.”

“I don’t think you should jump to conclusions, Dr. Cameron. My officer admitted he was over an hour late in getting to their appointment. Mr. Martin may well have given up on him. I understand from Ms Lester’s husband that a group of her fellow writers were planning to get together today to hold a sort of wake. That’s probably where Mr. Martin is right now. Look, Redford’s confession checks out in every detail but one. He’s been treating his interviews like a game, a battle of wits. It’s entirely possible that he was deliberately misleading us because he’s determined not to give us anything concrete. He wants to get away with this, I’m sure of it.” Duvall’s voice showed not a trace of doubt. “I’m sure Mr. Martin will be in touch. Try not to worry.”

“Easier said than done, DCI Duvall.”

“I still believe we have the right man in custody.”

“You would say that. You’ve got too much invested in this to say otherwise.”

“If Mr. Martin hasn’t been in touch by tomorrow morning, call me.”

“Bet on it.” She slammed the phone down. Her hand shook as she removed it from the receiver. “Oh God,” she breathed. “Please God, let it not be him.”

She began to pace the room. Six strides, turn, six strides, turn, like a cat in a cage. There was no comfort for her in Duvall’s apparent confidence. She knew Kit wouldn’t have left her high and dry without a word. “Think, Fiona, think,” she urged herself.

She grabbed her personal organizer and looked up Jonathan Lewis’s number. She didn’t have many of Kit’s friends’ numbers, but Jonathan and his wife Trish had been regular dinner companions over the past couple of years, so they’d made it to her list. Trish answered on the third ring, sounding pleasantly surprised to hear from Fiona. “Is Jonathan in?” Fiona asked.

“No, he’s gone off on this wake they’re holding for Georgia. Isn’t Kit with them?” Trish answered.

“He must be. I’m up in Edinburgh and I’ve been trying to get hold of him without success.”

“They were supposed to be meeting at six,” Trish said.

“Do you know where?”

“Jonathan said something about some drinking club in Soho where Adam’s a member. But I don’t know what it’s called. I know he was expecting to see Kit there.”

“You’re probably right,” Fiona sighed. “He’s most likely halfway through the second bottle by now. Sorry to bother you, Trish.”

“It’s no bother. If it’s urgent, you could give Jonathan a ring on his mobile.”

Fiona copied down Jonathan’s number and called it as soon as she ended her conversation with Trish. The mobile rang half a dozen times before it was answered. It sounded as if a small riot was going on in the background. “Hello? Jonathan?” she shouted. “It’s Fiona Cameron. Is Kit with you, by any chance?”

“Hello? Fiona? No, where is the bugger? He’s supposed to be here.”

“He’s not there?”

“No, that’s what I’m saying.”

“He’s not been in touch?”

“No, hang on.” Somewhat muffled, she heard him shout, “Anybody heard anything from Kit? Like why he’s not here?” There was a brief pause, then Jonathan came back on to her. “Nobody’s heard from him, Fiona. I don’t know what he’s playing at, but he’s not here.”

Fiona felt her stomach contract again. “If he turns up, tell him to call me. Please, Jonathan.”

“No problem. Take it easy, Fiona, but take it.” The connection terminated and Fiona was left stranded with fear coursing through her again. She wanted to scream. But she forced herself to take a rational approach to the situation.

If Kit was going to be targeted, the obvious book to copy would be The Blood Painter. Because it had been successfully adapted for TV, it fitted the pattern the killer had adopted so far. If the killer was following the pattern of the book, Kit must still be alive. The characteristic of the Blood Painter was that he held his victims prisoner and drained their blood at daily intervals, using it to paint murals in the place where he held them captive. So if Kit was truly the next victim, whoever had him needed to keep him alive for a couple of days at least so he could reproduce the murder in the book as faithfully as possible.

All she had to do was to work out where he was being held.

It had been a while since she’d read the book, but she remembered that the victims of the Blood Painter had all rented remote holiday cottages in the six months before their deaths. When he came to kill them, the Blood Painter rented the same cottage and held them captive there for the week while he slowly bled them to death and created his grotesque paintings.

But she and Kit had never rented a holiday cottage. They’d not had so much as a weekend break in the UK, preferring to take their holidays abroad. Where could he be holding Kit? Where could they be if the killer was truly determined to follow the book?

T
he M6 was practically empty this far north of Manchester. Most of the Friday evening traffic had peeled off on the M$$ to Blackpool or at the first junction leading to the southern end of the Lake District. As the road climbed up Shap, there were only a few cars and a scattering of lorries heading back to Scotland for the weekend.

In the fast lane, a dark-grey metallic Toyota 4x4 cruised at a comfortable eighty-five. Not so fast it would attract the attention of the traffic police, but a good enough speed to eat up the miles between driver and destination. He’d given up on the radio, replacing the civilized voices of the BBC with a talking book. The Blood Painter, by Kit Martin. Read by the author. Apart from anything else, it would keep him firmly on track in case he’d slipped up on any details.

He couldn’t think of anything that would make the miles pass more quickly.

Detective Superintendent Sandy Galloway was halfway down his postprandial glass of Gaol Ila. His teenage twins were upstairs competing to lay waste some distant planet courtesy of their Sony Play Stations and his wife was loading the dishwasher. He’d have to go in to work tomorrow morning, in the light of this London business. But sufficient unto the day, that was his motto. And so he settled down with his whisky to watch a cop drama on TV and savour all the things they got wrong.

When the phone rang, he ignored it. But he couldn’t ignore the teenage bellow from upstairs. “Hey, Dad, it’s some Englishwoman for you.”

“Aw, shite,” he muttered, hauling himself out of his chair and through to the hall. He picked up the phone and waited for the click that indicated the upstairs extension had been put down. “Hello, Sandy Galloway speaking.”

“It’s Fiona Cameron. I’m sorry to bother you at home. I got your number from the incident room sergeant. He didn’t want to tell me, but I’m afraid I gave him a rather hard time, so don’t be angry with him.” It poured out in a breathless rush.

“No bother, Doctor. How can I help you? Or is it you can help us? Have you found some more letters at Drew Shand’s?”

There was a pause. He could hear her draw breath. “This is going to sound like paranoia. You know my partner is Kit Martin, the crime writer?”

“Aye, I knew that.”

“I’ve been aware since I first formed the theory that there might be a serial killer at work that Kit fitted the victim profile perfectly. I’ve been worried that he might be a target. When the City Police arrested Redford, we all relaxed. But I’ve just spoken to DCI Duvall and she says there’s a chink in the case against Redford. And I can’t get hold of Kit. He’s not answering the phone, he’s not been in touch via e–mail.”

“Could it not just be that he’s working?” Galloway tried to sound calm and unconcerned. If there was a serious crack in the case, Duvall would have let him know.

“He wasn’t there when the police were round earlier to take a statement. And I’ve never known him not respond to e–mail. The thing is, if Kit’s a target, the book the killer will be following is The Blood Painter. He’ll be holding him somewhere till he’s ready to kill him.”

He could hear from her voice that she was frantic with worry. “I understand your concern, Fiona.” He slipped into her first name, hoping it would soothe. “The trouble is, there’s no evidence to suggest that anything’s happened to him. He could be spending the evening with friends. Raising a glass to Georgia Lester somewhere.”

“That’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. But I spoke to one of his friends, and he’s not turned up. And anyway, if that’s what he had planned, he would have let me know,” Fiona insisted.

“Anything could have happened. He could have bumped into somebody on the way there and gone for a drink with them first. He could have been held up by transport problems. Fiona, if there was any serious problem with the case against Redford, City of London would have been on to us. You can be sure of that.” Galloway genuinely believed she had no grounds for her fears. The police officer in him knew that without any evidence of a crime, there was no way to justify any sort of formal inquiry. And the man in him knew that people didn’t always know their partners as well as they thought they did. Not even if they were psychologists. “Sometimes e–mail doesn’t get through,” he pointed out. “Servers go down. Maybe he thinks he has let you know.”

He heard her exasperated sigh. “And maybe he’s in the hands of a killer. The police should be checking out that possibility.”

Galloway took a deep breath and inched out on a limb. “If and it’s a very big if he is, then where should the police be looking?”

“According to The Blood Painter, the killer should take him to a holiday home. Only, we’ve never rented a holiday home in the UK. But Kit’s got a bothy up in Sutherland where he goes to write. I think that’s where they’ll have gone.”

“Whereabouts in Sutherland?”

He felt her hesitation. “That’s the problem. I don’t know, exactly. I’ve never been there, you see. All I know is that it’s near Loch Shin.”