I know its hard to credit, but it really hadnt crossed my mind that Drews killer might come after me, he said, leaning his head against the back of the seat and sighing. Dumbshit or what?
Thats the healthy response, Fiona said. Why should you imagine youre going to be the next victim of a murderer who struck four hundred miles away? If-and its still a big if-Drew Shands death is the first in a series, we dont know what it was about him that made him an attractive target. Was it that he was gay? Was it his work? Was it something in his past that we dont know anything about? Was it his attraction to the dark side of his sexuality? All of those are imponderables and only one of them could apply to you. Statistically, your risk of becoming the victim of a serial killer is somewhere around vanishing point.
Even so, youd think it would have occurred to me in passing that I might just be on some nutters hit list, Kit said sharply. After all, Im supposed to be the one with the imagination. You thought of it, after all.
Fiona squeezed his arm. Yeah, but my way of looking at the world is even more fucked up than yours. Besides, Im your lover. Im legally entitled to worry unreasonably about you.
Kit grunted, putting an arm round her and pulling her close. Doesnt it ever piss you off, being right all the time?
She grinned. Find out what youre good at and stick to it, thats what I say. And since youve just admitted I have a right to worry, you have to promise me you wont talk to strangers.
Kit snorted. Thats an easy promise to keep. At least until the new book comes out.
The cab juddered to a halt outside the four-storey Islington town house where Steve occupied the garden flat. He could have afforded somewhere bigger, but he spent so little time at home that he couldnt see the point of moving from somewhere that met his needs perfectly. Two bedrooms one of which doubled as a study a dining-kitchen whose french windows opened out on to the garden and a living room big enough to accommodate two sofas and an armchair was all he needed. He kept the decor simple. Fiona loved the economy of style, but Kit hated its clinical purity. Both suspected Steve barely noticed his surroundings. As long as they were functional, he was content.
Fionas low heels clattered on the stone stairs down to the basement entry. Kit, following her, marvelled at her hair as the streetlights caught it, burnishing it to a rich chestnut-brown. She was, he thought, more beautiful than he could ever deserve. Catching up with her as she rang the bell, he put his arms round her and kissed her neck. I love you, Fiona, he said gruffly.
Fiona gave a low chuckle. Dont I know it.
Steve opened the door and grinned down from his superior height. Keep it decent, he advised. Some of us have to live here.
They followed him down the narrow hall into the dining room, where the table was laid with an assortment of breads, cheeses, pates and salads. The air was thick with the aroma of leek and potatoes. Steve lived on soup. There was always a pan of some concoction on the stove, next to the stockpot containing the makings of the next brew. Soup was the only thing he ever cooked. Kit enjoyed mocking Steves culinary limitations, but when cornered, he was forced to admit that Steve made the best soup hed ever tasted and, far from having a restricted repertoire, Steve probably experimented more with combinations of flavours than Kit himself.
Its just that it always comes with a bowl and spoon, he had once complained. Its so predictable.
At least my guests dont need a degree in civil engineering to eat their dinner, Steve had growled. I remember my first globe artichoke round your house. Besides, given the life I lead, I need something instant when I come in the door, and my soups a damn sight healthier than a bacon butty.
But tonight, no one was interested in arguments about the menu. In the two weeks since shed returned from Toledo, Fiona had finally found the time to give proper attention to the case file on the sting the Met had mounted against Francis Blake. Since she insisted her input was to remain informal, she had suggested outlining her conclusions round the dinner table. So for once there was an air of tense anticipation among them as they sat down and Steve poured a robust red into their glasses.
Soup first, then well cut to the chase, Fiona decreed.
Steve gave a wry smile. Whatever you say, Doctor. He filled their bowls with steaming, creamy vichyssoise. So what small talk shall we indulge in?
How about your love life? Kit suggested.
That should occupy all of ten seconds, Steve said. He picked up his spoon and examined it critically. My love life is like the Loch Ness Monster rumours of its existence are greatly exaggerated.
What happened to that CPS lawyer you took to dinner the other week? Fiona asked.
She was more interested in the rules on disclosure of evidence than she was in me, Steve said. Id have had a more interesting night out with the Commander and his wife.
Kit whistled. That good, eh?
Hell, I dont suppose I was much more interesting to her, Steve said, lifting a spoonful of soup to his lips.
The trouble with the three of us is that in our own ways we all have a morbid fascination with violent death, Fiona said. Maybe Kit should fix you up with a sexy crime writer.
Kit spluttered. Easier said than done. When you cross off the ones who are already attached, the ones who have a serious interest in recreational drugs and the dykes, theres not a lot left over.
Besides, you couldnt stand the competition, Steve added.
The first course over, Steve cleared the bowls away and Fiona took a couple of pages of notes from her briefcase. I must say, the material you gave me made for very interesting reading, she said. Not least the interpretations that Andrew Horsforth placed on the interaction. It was an object lesson in what happens when you push the theory ahead of the facts. In one sense, the conclusions he drew were valid. If, that is, you concentrate on the margins and ignore the central core of the material. If you look at a series of conclusions as a continuum from most likely to least likely, hes opted more often than not for the least likely, because thats what backed up the view he started with, namely that Francis Blake was the killer.
But, cleverly, you started from the opposite premise, Kit said with affectionate sarcasm. Nobody loves a smart arse you know.
Fiona stuck her tongue out at him. Wrong. I started from the neutral position. I tried to ignore my own half-formed opinion that Francis Blake wasnt the killer. I was concerned with achieving as much objectivity as I could.
Not something anyone could ever accuse Horsforth of, Steve said. Youll be pleased to hear that hes been dropped from the list of Home Office-approved consultants after our debacle at the Bailey.
Thats a bit decisive for the Home Office, isnt it? Kit asked through a mouthful of salad.
Horsforths an easier scapegoat than senior police officers, Steve said. Were as much to blame as him for what happened, but heaven forbid that any more mud should be slung at the Met right now.
Deputy heads will roll, Fiona observed cynically. Before I tell you what I think, Steve, I need you to answer one question for me. Although obviously I know more or less where the murder took place, I didnt actually visit the scene of crime, so I wasnt sure about this. Is there anywhere on the Heath where someone could have watched the murder without being seen by Susan Blanchards killer?
Steve frowned, his eyes focusing on the corner of the ceiling as he recalled the setting for the murder. When he spoke, his voice was slow, considering. We found the body in a sort of hollow. There was a line of rhododendrons between Susan and the path. Then the clearing where she was found. Beyond that, the ground rose slightly to another line of shrubs. I suppose someone hidden in those bushes could have escaped observation by a killer who was intent on what he was doing. SOCO will have done a fingertip search of the whole area, though, and I dont recall anything in the forensics to indicate the presence of a third person.
You think Blake saw it? Kit broke in, unable to keep quiet.
Youre doing a Horsforth, Steve said. Theorizing without the data. It could just as easily have been someone else altogether who told Blake about it. Lets hear what Fionas got to say.
Kit cast his eyes upwards. I forgot. We have to have the whole lecture. No skipping to the back page to see whodunnit. He shook his head in tolerant amusement.
Why change the habit of a lifetime? Fiona said sweetly. OK, heres what I think. Right from the start, we know were looking for a confident criminal. We know this because Hampstead Heath is a public place, and the risk of alerting passers-by to such a violent crime in broad daylight is high. Also, the way the body is displayed indicates a man who is, at least in criminal terms, a mature offender. Blakes record, on the other hand, is trivial and shows little sign of escalation towards this sort of crime. That was the first thing that made me a little uneasy about him as prime suspect.
Hang on a minute, though, Kit objected. You cant say that just because he doesnt have a criminal record hed not done the sort of crimes that lead to sexual murder. It might be that hes either been clever enough or lucky enough to get away with it.
Thats true, Fiona acknowledged. And so I wouldnt write Blake off on those grounds alone. Nor would I dismiss him on the basis that the pornography the police found in his flat, although sadomasochistic in content, contained no photographs or descriptions that fit the way the body was displayed. But again, that detail gives me pause for thought, because the killer had to form that image somehow. If it didnt come from his pornography, it came from some incident in his past, around the time he was forming his sexual identity. And none of Steves researches came up with anything comparable in Blakes history. So as far as Im concerned, thats another question mark over Blake.