teaching and had fallen into the habit of unwinding at the end of the week with the clinical staff from the institute where she was conducting a research study. They’d start in a pub in Bloomsbury, then work their way up towards Euston Station, ending up in a curry house in a side street on the far side of Euston Road. By the time she’d got back to her two-roomed flat in Camden, it had been almost midnight and the rough edges of the week had been blurred into a genial wooziness.
The light on the answering machine had been flashing crazily, indicating half a dozen messages or more. Intrigued, she’d hit the playback button and carried on walking towards the kitchenette. The first words on the tape stopped her in her tracks. ‘Fiona? It’s Dad. Phone me as soon as you get in.’ It wasn’t what was said, it was the manner of its saying. Her father’s voice, normally strong and confident, had been almost a whisper, a pale quivering echo of its normal self.
A bleep, then the next message. ‘Fiona, it’s Dad again. I don’t care how late it is when you get this message, you’ve got to phone.’ This time the voice cracked towards the end of the short message.
Already, she was turning, moving towards the phone. A bleep, then her father’s voice again. ‘Fiona, I need to talk to you. It won’t wait till the morning.’ All her instincts told her it was bad news. The worst kind of news. It must be her mother. A heart attack? A stroke? An accident in the car?
Fiona grabbed the phone and punched in the familiar number. Almost before it could ring, it was answered. A strange voice said, ‘Hello? Who is this?’
‘This is Fiona Cameron. Who are you?’
‘One moment, please. I’ll get your father.’ There was a muffled exchange then a clatter, then her father’s voice, almost as alien as the stranger’s.
‘Fiona,’ he blurted. Then he started sobbing.
‘Dad, what’s wrong? Is it Mum? What’s happened?’ All Fiona’s professionally soothing skills vanished in the face of her father’s tears.
‘No, no. It’s Lesley. She’s…Lesley’s been…’ He forced his ragged breathing into stillness. She heard a deep, wrenching intake of air, then he said, ‘Lesley’s dead.’
Fiona had no idea what he’d said next. She felt an enormous distance build between her and her surroundings, his voice a faraway echo against the ringing in her ears. Her little sister was dead. It wasn’t possible. There had to be a mistake.
There was none. Lesley, a third-year student at St Andrews University, had been raped and strangled on her way back to her shared house. No one had ever been charged with the crime. The police believed the killer had raped two other students in the previous eighteen months, but they had no significant clues. A couple of footprints from a popular brand of trainers. A description so vague it could apply to half the adult males in the town. Even if they’d had DNA analysis back then, it wouldn’t have been much use. He’d used a condom. All the attacks had taken place in winter and the women were wearing gloves, so they hadn’t scratched their attacker.
For six months after Lesley’s death, Fiona had felt as if she was walking around inside a very bad dream. Any minute now, she could force herself to wake up and none of it would have happened. Lesley would be alive. Her mother wouldn’t be suicidally depressed. Her father wouldn’t be drinking too much and writing endless letters to his MP, the press and the police, complaining of the failure to make an arrest. And she wouldn’t be blaming herself for persuading Lesley to spread her wings and go to St Andrews when she could have joined Fiona in London.
Then one day, she’d gone to a lecture given by a visiting fellow from Canada. He’d talked about the infant science of crime analysis and how it could be applied in criminal investigations. It was like a light bulb in her head suddenly turning on. The cocoon fell away and with piercing intensity, Fiona knew what she wanted to do with her life.
An hour in a lecture theatre, and nothing would be the same again. She couldn’t save Lesley. She couldn’t even catch Lesley’s killer. But now Fiona understood that one day she might find her redemption by saving someone else.
That prospect was enough. Most days, anyway, it was enough. But now murder had touched her life again, even if at one remove. All of this swam through her mind as she sat with Kit in her arms, doing what little she could to comfort him.
After a lengthy silence, Kit finally drew away from her. ‘I’m sorry I’m being such a wet nelly,’ he said. ‘It’s not like he was my best mate or anything.’
‘You’re not being a wet nelly. You knew him, you liked him, you respected his work. And it’s a shock to realize he’s just not here any more.’
Kit stood up and turned on a lamp. ‘That’s the curse of an imagination at a time like this. I keep thinking what it must have been like for him, how scared he must have been.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I need to do something to keep my mind occupied.’ He picked up the pile of paper the printer had spewed out. ‘Do you mind if we just get something sent up from room service?’
‘Whatever you need.’ Fiona hung up her coat and picked up her laptop. ‘I’ve got plenty I can be getting on with if you want to work.’
Kit managed a faint smile. ‘Thanks.’ He settled cross-legged on the bed with his pile of manuscript and a pencil. Fiona watched him in the mirror for a few minutes until she was sure he was reading and not brooding. More than anything, she was glad he’d accompanied her to Toledo. The news of Drew’s death wasn’t something he should have had to face on his own.
That was something she knew all about from personal experience. And she wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy.
Extract from Decoding of Exhibit P13/4599
Ufime zftmd pfapa pdqie tmzp. Yqeek ngfza ftmdp. Mrqit agdea regdr uzsft qiqnm zpuwz qiftq pqfmu xeart uepmu xkdag fuzq.
It wasn’t hard to do Drew Shand. Messy, but not hard. They don’t realize how vulnerable they are. A few hours of surfing the web and I knew the details of his daily routine.
I didn’t think it would be too difficult to pick him up. His sort are always suckers for flattery. It was just a matter of finding somewhere to see him off.
Then I found the perfect place: a boarded-up butcher’s shop. The back was tiled from floor to ceiling. There was a butcher’s block in the middle of the room and a couple of big sinks along one wall. Judging by the dust and cobwebs everywhere, nobody had been here for ages, and I didn’t think anybody would be coming through any time soon. So I decided it would be safe just to leave whatever mess I made.
The next day, I parked near his flat, where I could see him come and go. He got back from the gym right on schedule, and an hour later, he was walking back towards Broughton Street. I slipped into his wake and followed him into the Barbary Coast bar. It was already quite busy, and I could see a few blokes giving me the once-over. It made me feel sweaty and uncomfortable. After all, I didn’t want anybody remembering me afterwards.
Drew was at the bar and I moved up beside him. He’d ordered a drink and when it arrived, I held out a tenner and said, ‘This one’s on me.’ He didn’t argue. We moved over to a corner where it was darker, and I acted surprised when he said who he was. I said I thought the torture scenes in his book were brilliant. He went on about how the critics had complained that the violence was over the top, so I told him I thought it was great.
