When Kit raised his head, his eyes were red and swollen, his cheeks wet. He pushed the brandy to one side and reached for the coffee, wrapping his large hands round the cup to suck what heat from it he could. “I kept hoping Fiona was wrong,” he said. “I kept telling myself it was the kind of sick thing I’d make up, not the sort of thing that really happens, you know? It was the only way I could get through it. I just couldn’t let myself believe there’s someone out there killing us.”
Steve sighed. “When you’ve seen as much as I have, Kit, you know that real life can trump fiction every time. I’m truly sorry about Georgia. I know she was a friend.”
Kit shook his head wearily. “She was always larger than life. I’d have put Georgia down as indestructible. Underneath all that froth, she was so sharp, so strong. I know people thought we were an odd couple, but she was closer to me than almost anybody in the business. She was brilliant. She could make me laugh. And she was always there. When the writing was going to shit, she’d bring a bottle round and we’d bitch about what a hard life it was, even though we both knew what lucky buggers we were.” He drained his cup and rubbed his eyes fiercely with the back of his hands. “Fuck, what a bastard life is.”
“They’re not announcing it formally till later this afternoon,” Steve said, resorting to what he knew. “But I didn’t want you to turn on the radio and hear it that way.”
“Thanks. How’s Anthony, do you know?”
Steve shook his head. “It’s not the Met’s case. It’s City of London, so I’ve not had any direct dealings with it. But I happen to know he’s doing the formal identification round about now.”
“Poor bastard.” He reached for the brandy then, and swallowed hard. “If I write him a note, will you post it for me? It’s only that I promised Fiona I wouldn’t go out alone. I thought she was being overprotective, but now…” He got to his feet. “Gimme a minute.”
“Take your time,” Steve said, unwrapping his cigar and lighting it. While he waited for Kit to return, he couldn’t help his mind gliding away from the pain and mess of Georgia’s death to thoughts of Terry. Even Sarah’s hideous news hadn’t managed to take the gloss off the previous night, or the morning after. They were meeting again that evening. Steve’s habit of caution seemed to have abandoned him along with the weariness that had infected his interior life for so long. He didn’t want to play this cool, to act hard to get. He wanted to be with her, and since Terry assured him the feeling was mutual, it seemed crazy not to snatch every moment that offered itself to him. Part of him was longing to share with Kit what was happening to him. But this wasn’t the time.
When Kit came back into the kitchen, he was holding an envelope. “I didn’t have a proper sympathy card, just had to make do with a postcard. I don’t think Anthony will mind. I just wanted to let him know I was thinking about him. Tell him I’m here if he needs anything. You know?” He handed the card to Steve. “I’ve stamped it. If you could just stick it in the box at the bottom of the road, he should get it tomorrow morning.”
“Are you going to be OK?” Steve asked, getting to his feet.
Kit took a deep breath. “I’ll be fine. You need to get off, there’ll be work piling up for you.”
Impulsively, Steve stepped forward and wrapped his arms round Kit in a hug. Kit hugged him back, his arms tight round Steve’s back. There was no awkwardness when they let go and moved apart. “Thanks for telling me, Steve. You’re right, it would have done my shed in completely if I’d heard it on the news. Now I know, I can unplug the phone. The last people I feel like talking to right now are journos.”
“Will you tell Fi?” Steve asked. “Or do you want me to?”
“I’ll e — mail her now. I don’t want to phone her when she’s working, you know how it is.” Kit followed Steve to the front door. Unusually, he didn’t wait till Steve was out of sight to close the door. Instead, he shut it immediately, locking both Yale and mortise. Then he walked slowly back to his desk and clicked on to his e — mail program.
From: Kit Martin [KMWriter@trashnet.com]
To: Fiona Cameron [fcameron@ psych.ulon.ac.uk]
Subject: Bad as it gets
You were right. Georgia is dead. Cold hard words for a cold hard fact. Steve just left. He came to tell me himself, didn’t want me to have it sprung on me by a phone call from a hack or a news broadcast. They found her in Smithfield, like you said. I’ve read And Ever More Shall Be So, I can imagine only too well what it was like. Only thing different, according to Steve, is that the killer left the head with the body. I wish you were here. Or I was there. I feel very disconnected from my life. Very disorientated. Please don’t worry about me. I have taken to heart all you said. I’m going to stay battened down until you get back, and then reconsider what’s the best course of action until somebody puts this mad fucker behind bars. Somewhere in all of this, there has to be some clue that will open it up. I presume they’re going to link the investigations now, even if only unofficially. Do what you can to get included on the team. Not that I want you to be working when you could be with me. But I want this guy caught, not just for Georgia’s sake but for my own peace of mind. And if anybody can make a case for linking these crimes, it’s you.
I love you. K.
Kit sent the message, then exited from the program. He took the magazine out of the CD player and emptied it. He went upstairs to the living room where Fiona’s classical CDs were kept and went along the shelf. Clutching the Verdi requiem, he walked back downstairs and loaded it. He pressed play and sat down in his chair. While the music swelled, Kit leaned back, eyes closed, his mind playing movies of the friend he had lost.
FOURTY-ONE
The conference room was packed, bright with TV lights and stuffy with the exhalations of too many excited bodies. Speculation buzzed from journalist to journalist about the nature of the announcement. The more cynical, having seen it all before, attempted to make their guesses sound like convictions. It had to be Georgia Lester, and she had to be dead. That was their flat take on the situation. It had to be Georgia because there was nothing else that important on the stocks right now. If there had been, they would have had a whisper from a contact. And she had to be dead, otherwise it would be her publishers holding the press conference. Obviously.
Besides, they all claimed inside knowledge. One of their sources said there had been a big operation last night around Smithfield Market and it had something to do with the missing writer. The more literate of them had smugly put two and two together and come up with the answer they hoped would be confirmed this afternoon. If they were right, it would be a guaranteed front page. And that was what really mattered.
It was, the more confident among them maintained, just a matter of detail now. Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. And getting one of that lesser breed of reporters, the ones who didn’t have a title like Crime Correspondent or Home Affairs Specialist, to go in search of the husband for the heartbreak photo and the tear-jerking quote.
Nevertheless, a hush descended when the police filed in. That it was serious was obvious. The Deputy Commissioner himself was there, flanked by DCI Sarah Duvall and a face none of the reporters recognized. The officers settled behind the bank of microphones, selfconscious and uneasy. The Press Liaison Chief was hovering like an anxious parent before the nativity play. When everyone was satisfied with the sound quality, the Deputy Commissioner cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming this afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I have a short statement to make, and then I will take questions.” He introduced his fellow officers. The stranger turned out to be a detective chief superintendent from Dorset. The DC looked down at the paper in his hand.