by Val McDermid
This morning, for example. She could have played the ‘I’m indispensable’ card and headed straight for the police station. But she’d assured him there would be nothing yet for her to get her teeth into and she’d taken time out to share something he’d wanted to do. He tried to do the same thing himself, but he knew he was worse at it than she was. When he was head down, going flat out for the finishing line of a book, he could think of nothing but the next chunk of text he had to get on to the screen. The only way he could show his love for her then was to cook for her and take the time to sit down and eat with her. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
He spent the rest of the day being a tourist, and got back to the hotel just after six, taking a bottle of red wine up from the bar to their room. He had no idea how long Fiona would be, but that wasn’t a problem. He turned the TV on to MTV Europe, poured a glass of wine, booted up his computer and collected his e — mail. The only significant message was from his agent, confirming a deal with the independent film makers who wanted to adapt his first novel for TV. Personally, he thought The Dissection Man was unfilmable, but if they were prepared to pay him large sums of money to find that out for themselves, he wasn’t about to complain.
Not that he cared much about money. Both his parents were teachers and he and his brother had grown up in an environment where money had never really been an issue. There had always been enough and he’d never been conscious of having been deprived of anything because his parents couldn’t afford it. He hadn’t had much of an advance for his first or his second novel, and he reckoned no one had been more surprised than his publishers when The Blood Painter had become an overnight cult sensation then made the crossover to mainstream success. As a result, he guessed he’d earned more money in the previous two years than his parents had in the past ten.
And he didn’t know what to do with it. A large chunk had gone on buying the house, but other than that, he and Fiona had few material desires. He didn’t care about designer clothes, he had no interest in performance cars and he still preferred the kind of holiday where they’d fly somewhere, pick up a hire car and stay in cheap motels or guest houses His biggest expenditure was probably on music, but even there he economized by waiting till he was in the States or Canada on a book tour and indulging himself in a CD-buying spree at their lower prices.
The only real indulgence he’d craved was a retreat where he could escape to write when the book was going through that difficult middle period. Beginnings were always easy, but by the time he’d worked through the first hundred pages, depression would strike as he realized he was already falling far short of what he’d aspired to. At that stage, every interruption was a torment. Fiona was about the only person who didn’t piss him off, but that was because she knew when to leave him alone.
It was Fiona who had suggested he buy a cottage in the wilds where he could go and work undisturbed for however long it took him to get over the hump of dissatisfaction. Usually, the truly terrible phase lasted for about six weeks or a hundred and fifty pages, and Fiona had informed him that she’d rather do without his company if that helped him to return more quickly to his normal cheerful self.
So he’d bought the bothy. It never ceased to amaze him that anywhere on the British mainland could feel so isolated. From the two-roomed cottage, no other human habitation was visible in any direction. To get there, he had to fly to Inverness, pick up the elderly Land Rover he garaged there, stock up with a supply of groceries, then drive for another two hours to the eastern fringe of the vast wilderness of Sutherland. His power came from a diesel generator, his water from a nearby spring, his warmth from a wood-burning stove that also heated enough water to half fill his bath. At Fiona’s insistence, he’d invested in a satellite phone, but he’d only ever used it to link up his computer for e — mail.
The isolation was more than most people could have borne. But for Kit, it was a lifeline. With the only distraction an occasional excursion to shoot rabbits for the pot, he invariably found he ploughed through the hardest sections of his books in far less time than it took in London. And the quality of his work had improved as a result. He knew it, and so did his readers.
And there was no denying that absence enriched his relationship with Fiona. Even though they were in daily e — mail contact often swapping posts that would have qualified as pornography in any other context their reunions had all the ardour of the first days of their affair, when no amount of physical contact was too much and no demand too outrageous. Just thinking about it excited him. Who would imagine that behind Fiona’s cool exterior was a sensualist who had turned the hard man of British crime fiction into a romantic fool?
She was always at her most passionate when she’d been forced to confront violent death. It was as if she needed to reaffirm her connection to life, to reassert her own vitality in defiance of a killer. Kit might deprecate the source, but he had to confess he wasn’t averse to reaping the benefits.
Mentally, he shook himself. Anticipation of Fiona’s return was the surest way to distract him from what he was supposed to be doing. He had decided to do one of the periodic revisions he routinely ran through to check that everything in the book was flowing smoothly. He typed in the commands to print out the last sixty pages and flicked the TV over to BBC World to check out the news headlines.
The early evening news magazine programme was in full flow, the interviewer winding up what sounded like a deeply dull item about the state of the Euro, courtesy of a junior Treasury minister. The studio anchor’s voice suddenly picked up urgency. And news just in. Police in Edinburgh have identified the victim of a brutal murder that took place in the heart of the Scottish capital in the early hours of this morning as the international best selling thriller writer Drew Shand.
Kit’s forehead wrinkled in an incredulous frown. Over to our correspondent James Donnelly in Edinburgh.
— the presenter continued.
A young man with a serious expression stood in front of a grey-stone building. The mutilated body of Drew Shand was found by a police officer on a routine patrol of the Royal Mile just after three this morning. Police cordoned off an area behind St. Giles’ Cathedral which remains the scene of police activity. At a press conference earlier this afternoon, Detective Superintendent Sandy Galloway revealed that the victim’s throat had been cut and his face and body mutilated with a knife. He appealed for anyone who was in the area between the hours of midnight and three a.m. to come forward. In the last few minutes, the identity of the victim was revealed as award-winning thriller writer Drew Shand. Thirty-one-year-old Shand was hailed as one of the new stars of British crime fiction when his first novel, Copycat, shot to the top of the bestseller lists on both sides of the Atlantic and won the John Creasey Memorial Dagger and the Mcvitie prize. The television adaptation of Copycat also went on to win several major awards and has been widely screened abroad. A former English teacher, Shand lived alone in the New Town area of the city. His second novel, The Darkest Hour, is due to be published next month. Shand, who was openly homosexual, was known to frequent several Edinburgh gay bars, including at least one believed to cater for those whose tastes run to sadomasochistic practices. At this point, police are refusing to suggest any possible motive for the killing.
“Fucking typical, blame the victim,” Kit snarled, slamming his glass down so hard the stem broke, sending a stream of red wine across the marble floor. Ignoring it, he took a swig straight from the bottle. He scarcely registered its taste. “Drew Shand,” he muttered, tilting the bottle to his mouth again. He shook his head in disbelief. “Poor bugger.” He had a sudden flashback to the panel they’d done together at the last Edinburgh Book Festival, the one and only chance he’d had to appear with the rising star. He remembered Drew leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands spread open, face earnest as he struggled to make the point that the violence in Copycat had always been functional, never gratuitous. The audience had been won over, Kit recalled, although he’d had hi
s doubts. Then afterwards, sitting outside the Spiegeltent, drinking Becks straight from the bottle, the pair of them had carried on the discussion, lacing their seriousness with the gallows humour beloved of police officers and crime writers alike. A vivid image of Drew throwing his handsome head back and laughing imploded behind his eyes like a terrible firework.
Kit suddenly realized how he longed for Fiona’s presence. A reviewer had once remarked that Kit made his readers care so much for his fictional victims that the reader felt the shock of losing a real friend when he killed them off. At the time, he’d been proud of the comment. But back then, he’d never personally known someone who had been murdered. Sitting in a strange hotel room in an unfamiliar city, numbed with the shock of Drew Shand’s death, he finally recognized the critical comment for the absurdity it had been. Now he knew the truth.
ELEVEN
Fiona stretched extravagantly and looked at her watch. To her astonishment, it was ten past seven.
Her movements attracted the attention of Berrocal, who had been absent for most of the day but had returned a short while before. “You are making progress?” he asked.
Fiona outlined the results of her day’s work. “I need a break now,” she concluded. “It’s easy to start making mistakes when you’ve been staring into the screen all day, and if I get the crime-site plotting wrong, the results are worthless.”
Berrocal crossed to her desk, peering over her shoulder at the laptop. “This is remarkable,” he said. “A system like this would make our job so much easier.”
“Quite a few police forces are using it now,” Fiona told him. “The linkage program works best with crimes against property, like burglary and robbery. The version I’m using is experimental. It lets me enter my own set of variables for the checklist, so it needs a certain level of expertise to use it. But the basic version with the fixed parameters reduces burglaries wherever it’s been used. It helps clear outstanding crimes from the books as well as current cases. You should get your bosses to invest in the software.”
Berrocal snorted. “Easier said than done. My bosses don’t like to spend money on anything they can avoid.”
“You did well to get them to pay for me, then,” Fiona said tartly, standing up and switching off the computer.
“When it comes to losing tourist dollars, they panic. Suddenly, we get resources that we’d never get in any other circumstances. So, what are your plans for the evening? Would you like me to take you and Kit for dinner somewhere typically Toledan?” He stepped back to allow her to escape the confines of her desk.
“That’s kind of you, but I don’t think I’d be very good company. I’ve got all this stuff buzzing round my brain, and I’d rather just go back to the hotel and have a bite to eat there with Kit. After that I’ll probably feel like doing more work.”
He shrugged. “Whatever you prefer. But you really don’t have to work every minute you’re here, you know.”
Fiona closed her laptop and started to pack it away. “I think I do, Major,” she said softly. She looked up and met his eye. “He’s out there, planning the next one. He’s already working on a short cycle. I hate to sound melodramatic, but when you’re dealing with a killer as organized and as ruthless as this one, every day counts. I don’t want his next victim’s blood on my hands if I can possibly avoid it.”
Berrocal eased the car into the traffic and gave Fiona a quick glance. “You really think the man behind the vandalism is the same man who did the muggings?”
Fiona shrugged. “There are no certainties in what I do. And ideally, I like to work with at least five locations for each potential series. But on the basis of probability, I’d say so. The vandalism only overlaps the first mugging. After the second mugging, there’s no more paint-throwing or window-breaking. So either the vandal moved away, or he found a more satisfying outlet for his anger. Everything I know about the way violent criminals escalate tells me that it’s likely that, when he wasn’t caught, he became more confident. He moved up a gear and started attacking the direct cause of his rage rather than hitting targets at one remove. If I’m right, it’ll show up when I run the geographic profiling program.”
“You’ll have proof it’s the same offender?” Berrocal couldn’t help sounding a little sceptical.
“Not absolute proof, no. Not even the kind of proof that will stand up in court. But if the program gives me the same likely residential locations for both series of crimes, then we’re looking at a strong probability, wouldn’t you say? And then your colleagues in Toledo will have an idea where to start looking for proof.” Fiona shifted in her seat, trying to unlock the tightness in her shoulders. They had turned on to the road that skirted the river opposite the bluff where Toledo glowed in the twilight. “Amazing view,” she added.
“It’s a beautiful city,” Berrocal acknowledged. “That’s why crimes like these seem so much more shocking than a routine act of violence in the back streets of Madrid. And of course, it’s also why there is so much attention on this investigation. It’s not just my bosses who are leaning on us for a quick solution. The newspapers and the TV stations are all over us. Luckily I’ve managed to keep your name out of the stories so far. I don’t think it would go down well that we have had to bring in an expert from England to solve crimes so very Spanish.”
“I won’t be solving your crimes, Major. I’m a consultant psychologist, not a consulting detective. All I can do is make suggestions. It’s up to you to decide whether they’re worth pursuing, and it’s up to you to find the evidence to nail your killer.”
Berrocal grinned. “Doctor, you know and I know that the media are not interested in the truth of the situation. If they find out about you, they will portray you as some sort of miraculous detective, a modern Sherlock Holmes who is called in because the police are too stupid to do their job.”
“Which is why we don’t tell them I’m here,” she said. For a minute or so there was silence, until Berrocal turned off the main road and headed up the steep hill towards the parador, leaving the dramatic vista behind them.
“Will your geographic program tell us if the murderer lives in the same place as the mugger?” he asked.
“I don’t know if there’s enough data,” she answered frankly. “On their own, the two murders won’t give us anything approaching pinpoint accuracy. Not enough locations, you see. But I’ll play around with various combinations and see what I come up with. I should be able to answer your question tomorrow morning.”
“Are you positive you don’t want to go out to dinner?” Berrocal asked as he pulled into the car park.
“It’s very kind of you. But I’d rather get through the work. The sooner I get finished, the sooner I can go home. Besides, I’m sure your family would like to see something of you.”
He gave a soft snort of laughter. “I’m sure they would. But like you, I’ll be working this evening, I’m afraid.”
“At least I’ll have Kit’s company for dinner. He has the knack of making me laugh, even in the middle of something as grim as this. And let’s face it, Major, there aren’t too many laughs in this line of work.”
He nodded gravely. “I know what you mean. Sometimes I feel I’m dragging the sewer in behind me when I walk in from work. I almost don’t want to pick up my children and hug them in case I infect them with what I’ve seen, what I know.” He leaned across to open the door for Fiona. “Good hunting, Doctor.” She nodded. “You too, Major.”
Fiona’s first reaction when she opened the door was bewilderment. The only light in the room came from the distant vista of Toledo, dramatically up lit by dozens of spotlights. Silhouetted against the light, Kit was sitting on the end of the bed, elbows on knees, head hanging. “Kit?” she said softly, closing the door behind her. She didn’t know what could be wrong, only that something clearly was.
She crossed to him with swift strides, shedding briefcase, laptop and coat on the way. Kit raised his head and turned to face her as she sat down beside him. �
��What’s the matter, love?” she asked, concern and anxiety in her voice. She put an arm round his shoulders and he leaned into her.
“Drew Shand’s been murdered,” he said unsteadily.
“The guy who wrote Copycat?”
“According to BBC World, they found his body early this morning just off the Royal Mile.” Kit sounded dazed.
“That’s how you found out? From the telly?” she said, dismayed at the thought.
“Yeah. I thought I’d catch the news headlines.” He gave a bleak bark of laughter. “You don’t expect to hear one of your mates has been murdered and mutilated.”
“That’s terrible,” Fiona said, conscious of the inadequacy of her words. She understood only too well the shock and pain of such a discovery. Though in her case, it had been the telephone that had been the unwelcome messenger.
“Yeah, and I’ll tell you what’s worse. Because he was out and proud and hung in the kind of bars where the patrons indulge in the sort of sexual practices that your average Edinburger finds repulsive, he’s already being trailed as the engineer of his own destruction. It’s blame-the-victim time. Nothing like that approach to make the respectable citizens sleep easy in their beds, knowing it couldn’t happen to them.” He sounded angry, but Fiona recognized that as a defence against the hurt.
“I’m so sorry, Kit,” she said, holding him close and letting him nestle against her.
“I’ve never known anybody who was murdered before. I know we’ve talked about Lesley, and I thought I understood how you felt about what happened to her, but now I realize I didn’t really have a clue. And it’s not even as if I knew Drew particularly well. But I just can’t get my head around the idea that anybody would kill him. I just can’t imagine why.”
