While Kit saw Georgia to her car, Fiona reclaimed the sofa and stretched out full length, letting her muscles relax. The letters were disturbing. But now she had recognized what was really eating at her, she was able to put them into perspective. They contained, she believed, no credible threat.
She heard Kit running upstairs, and he collapsed on the sofa beside her, cuddling her close. You are a very wicked woman, he said, laughter in his voice.
She heard Kit running upstairs, and he collapsed on the sofa beside her, cuddling her close. You are a very wicked woman, he said, laughter in his voice.
I dont know what you mean.
Bodyguards would be a good place to start, he mimicked.
Well, she deserves it. Honestly, Kit, I dont know how you can put up with all that archness.
Ive always had a weakness for high camp, he confessed. Shes good fun, Fiona. And generous to a fault.
Only if youre a chap, darling, Fiona said, in a parody of Georgias grand manner.
And they say men are bitches. He slid his arms around her, pressing his body against hers. Have we stopped fighting now?
Fiona sighed. I overreacted. I always have Lesley at the back of my mind. Even when I dont know it myself.
Thank you, Caroline. He buried his face in her hair and kissed her neck. Then he pulled away. Oh, and by the way. I just wanted to say, Ive never heard a bigger load of bullshit in all my time with you. Ill subject the letters to professional psycho linguistic analysis. Honestly, Fiona.
Georgia seemed to think it was a good idea.
Yeah, but Georgias grasp on reality is shot to fuck. Lets not forget she actually believes our policemen are wonderful. And that accusations of racism and corruption against the Metropolitan Police are wicked lies spread by left-wing conspirators.
Theyre not? Fionas eyes widened in mock-horror.
I dont know how to tell you this, Fiona, but theres no Father Christmas either.
She pulled his head down towards her. Ill just have to see what youve got in your sack for me, then.
TWENTY
The following evening, as usual, Fiona picked up a copy of the Evening Standard at the tube station on her way home from work. The lead story on page three so astonished her that she made no attempt to board her train when it pulled into the station. Instead, she carried on reading, transfixed. Queen of Crime Found Murdered Bestselling American thriller writer Jane Elias has been brutally murdered in a horrific crime that mirrors the gruesome violence of her own work, police in County Wicklow revealed today. Her mutilated body was discovered by a local forestry worker in the early hours of yesterday morning on a back road near the country estate that had been her home in the Republic of Ireland for the past four years. She had been so badly mauled by her killer that identification was impossible except by a distinctive scar she sustained after back surgery three years ago. A police spokesman said, Experienced officers were shocked when they saw what had been done to the victim. Miss Elias had lived in this area for four years and was very popular with local residents. We are pursuing various lines of inquiry, but at this stage, its hard to imagine why anyone would want to do this to her. Her British literary agent, Jeremy Devonshire, expressed deep shock at the news. Its appalling, he said. I cant take it in. Jane was the most charming of women. We worked together for the past five years and I can honestly say we never had a cross word. A spokesman for her publishers, Turnhouse Bachelor, said, We are deeply shocked by this news. Jane was not only a shining talent but also a delight to work with. The whole company is grieving today. Psychopaths Jane Elias leapt to the top of the bestseller lists on both sides of the Atlantic seven years ago with her first novel, Death on Arrival, which introduced forensic psychologist Dr. Jay Schumann, an FBI serial killer profiler. There followed an award-winning series of novels, three of which have been filmed by Hollywood, including her debut novel. The adaptation of Death on Arrival, starring Michelle Pfeiffer, won an Oscar. Jane Elias was notable for her reclusive lifestyle. Unlike most top-selling writers, she shunned publicity, only rarely emerging from her seclusion to talk to the press. She explained her move to Ireland as a desire for peace and quiet which she could no longer find in her native New England. Security at her Georgian mansion on the shores of Lough Killargan was notoriously tight, with permanent guards and closed-circuit TV monitoring the five-mile perimeter fence. In spite of that, she played an active role in her local community, most recently writing a play for the local church dramatic group to help raise funds for a childrens play group A keen sailor, Jane Elias maintained several boats at her private marina. This morning, there was speculation that she may have been attacked while she was sailing one of her yachts on the lake.
Shocked, Fiona read the story again, half expecting that this time the words would rearrange themselves in a different order. But the news remained the same. A woman she had sat opposite at dinner less than three months before was now a murder victim. No amount of familiarity with the business of homicide investigation could lessen the immediacy of the cold horror that swept through her.
Fiona had no recollection of the journey home, her mind entirely occupied with memories of Jane Elias in life and the images her informed mind conjured up of the writers body in death. They had met on Janes last trip to London, on the publication of her seventh Jay Schumann novel, Double Take. Jane and Kit shared a publisher, and because of Janes reluctance to make public appearances, Turnhouse Bachelor had arranged a series of private dinners for senior buyers in the book trade and key reviewers. To maximize their benefit, they had also invited a couple of their other crime authors to each of the dinners, which was how Kit and Fiona had come to meet the American. Of course, as soon as Jane had discovered Fionas professional interest in crime, she had been far more interested in talking to her than any of the other guests, and the two women had spent a large part of the evening deep in gruesome discussion of murder and its motivations.
Fiona had been drawn to Jane, first because of her intellectual incisiveness but also because of her acerbic wit. She could see why Jane had prevailed against the understandable demands of her publishers for her to take a more active role in promoting her work. Anyone who had once been on the receiving end of that caustic tongue wouldnt want to repeat the experience in a hurry.
But now that voice was stilled forever. It was, Fiona thought as she plodded up Dartmouth Park Hill, a loss she felt more keenly than she would have expected. And now she would probably have to break the news to Kit.
She walked through the front door to the clear voice of Tracey Thorn revealing that she was out among the walking wounded. Fiona knew just how she felt. She walked into Kits study, finding him hunched over the keyboard, fingers flying. She put a hand on his shoulder and kissed the top of his gleaming head.
Gimme five minutes, he said abstractedly.
Fiona left him to it. Bad news always came too soon. Better that he finished what he was focused on than she interrupted his flow with something so momentous that he would always connect it to that chapter, that paragraph. In the kitchen, she poured them both a glass of cold white wine and sat down at the table to wait. The five minutes turned into twelve, but Fiona felt no impatience. There was nothing either of them could do for Jane now.
At last, Kit appeared, grinning a greeting that faded to uncertainty when he saw her sombre face. Whats the matter? he asked, concern furrowing his forehead.
At last, Kit appeared, grinning a greeting that faded to uncertainty when he saw her sombre face. Whats the matter? he asked, concern furrowing his forehead.
Fiona pushed a glass towards him. Bad news. There was no way to sugar-coat it, so she didnt even try. Jane Elias has been murdered.
Kits hand froze halfway to his drink. Jane? he said, incredulous. Murdered? Where? When? What happened?
Fiona pushed the paper across the table. Thats as much as I know.
Kit dropped heavily into a chair, reaching for his wine and scanning the paper. This is terrible, he said, shaking his head. Poor Jane. Shit, I cant believe it.
I couldnt take it in either. She was such a strong personality. Its hard to imagine her as a victim.
Its a fucking nightmare. Kit ran his hand over his head in a gesture of consternation. And its only two or three weeks since Drew was killed. He stopped dead in mid-gesture. You dont suppose theyre connected? Somebody going after thriller writers?
No, I dont, Fiona said firmly, reaching across the table and putting a hand on his arm. Theres no reason to think that, Kit. Different countries, different gender, different body dumps. The fact that they both wrote psychological thrillers is just a horrible coincidence.
You always say theres no such thing as coincidence.
OK, maybe not quite coincidence. Its possible that somebody who was as obsessed with Jane as Drews killer was with him saw the stories about his murder and decided that was the best way to deal with the object of his desire. But to decide on the basis of these two cases that theres a killer out there targeting people who write crime fiction is a nonsense.
Kit shook his head and sighed. Yeah, I know. Its just that I live in a world where conspiracy theory always seems more attractive than cock-up. Its like, it would be easier to believe that theres a serial killer on a spree than that there are two seriously fucked-up individuals out there who get their rocks off murdering writers. And when you factor in the letterswell, it just seems like theres a fuck of a lot of crazies out there with an interest in people like me.
I can see why it feels like that. But I dont think its anything more than bad timing, I really dont. Fiona felt the hollowness of her words even as she spoke them. There was nothing she could say to help, and she hated that feeling.
Kit pulled away and slammed his hands palm-down on the table. I mean, how could this have happened to Jane? Of all people? She guarded her privacy so closely. Everybody knew that place of hers was like a fortress.