But that was for the morning, and she’d work out how best to handle that later. What she had to focus on now was finding out who might be the future targets of her putative serial killer.
It was a goal that had brought her to Clapham and a quiet row of terraced cottages set a couple of streets back from the Common. According to her detective constable, what Dominic Reid didn’t know about contemporary crime fiction wasn’t worth knowing. As the car pulled up to the kerb a couple of houses away from Reid’s, Duvall switched on the interior light. “Give me a minute,” she said to the DC who was driving her. She used the time to refresh her memory on the brief he’d prepared for her earlier.
Dominic Reid, forty-seven. He’d started off working in BBC Radio, then branched out as an independent producer. His company currently made a couple of Radio Four quiz programmes, and he had a list of credits in radio documentary, mostly concerning one aspect or another of mystery writing. He’d written a guide to crime fiction for a major book selling chain, reviewed the genre for a couple of magazines, and had recently published Paging Death, a critical study of modern British crime fiction. If anyone could tell Duvall who might be in the sights of a serial killer, it was Reid. “Do you read this stuff?” she asked the constable. “Crime novels?”
He shook his head. “I tried to read one once. I counted five mistakes in the first twenty pages, so I binned it. Too much like a busman’s holiday. What about you, ma’am?”
“I never read fiction of any kind.” Duvall sounded like a tee totaller talking about strong drink. She clicked off the light. “Let’s do it,” she said.
Reid opened the door almost before the twin tones of the bell had died away. He was a lean, gangling man with an engaging, bony face under a thatch of untidy greying blond hair. “Detective Chief Inspector Duvall?” he asked, suppressed excitement obvious in his expression.
“Mr. Reid,” Duvall acknowledged with a nod. “Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice.”
He stepped back, gesturing that they should enter. Duvall and the DC filed into the hall. There was barely room for the three of them; stacks of books leaned against one wall, reaching above waist-height. They followed Reid into the front room, where three walls were lined with shelves crammed with more hardbacks. Apart from books, the only furnishings in the room were four battered armchairs and a couple of occasional tables. On one chair, a large black and white cat lay curled, not twitching so much as a whisker at their arrival.
“Please, sit down,” Reid said.
Duvall gave the chairs the once-over for cat hairs, and opted for the one nearest the door as being least likely to do major damage to her suit. She caught the DC’s eye and nodded to the far chair.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Reid said eagerly. “Tea, coffee, soft drinks? Or something stronger?”
“Thanks, Mr. Reid, but I don’t want to eat into your time any more than necessary. Please?” Duvall waved a hand at the remaining empty chair.
Reid folded his long body into the chair. “I’ve never actually met a senior police officer before,” he said. “Seems strange, I know, since I’ve read about so many. But there it is.” He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bounced in the open neck of his shirt.
“I appreciate you making time for us. And I’m sorry my colleague wasn’t able to explain why I needed to see you so urgently.”
“Very mysterious. But of course, you would expect that to appeal to me, wouldn’t you?”
Duvall acknowledged his remark with a thin smile. When necessary, she could be as warm and confiding with a witness as anyone. But anoraks like Reid didn’t need to be cosseted to part with every piece of knowledge they possessed. “It’s a highly confidential matter. Before I can lay it out for you, I have to be certain of your discretion.”
Reid sat up straight, a look of surprise on his face. “That sounds serious.”
“It is very serious. Can I rely on you not to repeat this conversation to any third party?”
His head bobbed up and down several times. “If that’s what you want, yes, of course I’ll keep it to myself. Is this anything to do with Georgia Lester’s disappearance?” he asked.
“What makes you say that?”
He gave an awkward little shrug. “I just assumed…You’re from the City Police, and I know that’s where Georgia lives. And with her disappearance being in the news…”
Duvall crossed her legs and leaned forward from the waist. “It’s true that I am the officer investigating Ms Lester’s disappearance. But I have a further concern. In the light of the recent murders of Drew Shand and Jane Elias, we are considering the possibility — and I put it no stronger than that — that there might be a connection.”
Reid folded his arms across his chest in an automatic gesture of defence. “You wonder if there’s a serial killer targeting crime writers.” It was a statement, not a question. “Yes, I can see why you might be thinking along those lines. I won’t pretend it hadn’t crossed my mind, but he inclined his head towards the bookshelves ‘I put it down to too much reading.” He gave a lopsided half-smile.
“And it may well be that we’re letting our imagination run away with us too,” Duvall acknowledged. “But we have to explore every possible avenue. And that’s why I want to pick your brains. I’m anxious to try to establish who else might be at risk, if our theory proves correct.”
Reid was nodding. “And you think I can help. Well, nobody knows more than me about the genre. Tell me what you want to know.”
Duvall allowed herself to relax slightly. She was going to get what she needed with almost no expenditure of energy. Which was just as well, because she was beginning to feel the day had gone on altogether too long. “If there is a connection, there seem to be certain linking factors. All three have written serial killer novels. All three have won awards for their books. And all three have had their books successfully adapted for TV or film. I imagine there aren’t too many others who fit that category?”
Reid unfolded his arms. “More than you’d think, Chief Inspector. Obviously, you’ll be thinking about thriller writers like Kit Martin, Enya Flannery, Jonathan Lewis.”
Duvall blinked quickly at the mention of Kit Martin’s name, but otherwise showed no sign that his name held any more significance than any other. But if he was the first name out of the expert’s hat, Fiona Cameron might well be justified in her fears, Duvall thought as she listened to what Reid was saying.
“But as well as the pure serial killer novels, some authors of police series have included serial murderers in their books. Ian Rankin and Reginald Hill, for example.” He got to his feet. “I’ve got a database on my computer next door. All the factors you describe are among my criteria, so we can do a multiple search and find out exactly who fits the bill. Why don’t we go and see what that comes up with?”
Duvall uncrossed her legs. “That sounds like a very good idea. Lead on, Mr. Reid.”
Susannah’s teeth were chattering. Uncontrollable castanets rattling through her head. She didn’t remember the cottage being cold when they’d been here. But then, the weather had been mild in September. An hour of the gas fire in the late evenings had been enough to take the nip off the air. That and Thomas’s warm body next to hers. Now, there was no warm body. And only the chill of damp November air to caress her body. Her captor clearly wasn’t about to spend his money on the gas meter just for the sake of her comfort.