“Me too,” Kit said, shifting his position so he was half sitting, leaning against the arm of the sofa. “I’m also scared. There’s somebody out there killing people like me, and it’s hard to escape the idea that I could be next on his list.”
“I know.” Fiona drained her glass and started on the second bottle. “And there’s nothing I can say or do that will change that. God, how I hate that feeling.” She reached up and gripped his hand.
The silence between them was filled with the inane chatter of the soap’s teenage love interest. More than she had ever wished anything, Fiona wished she could wave a magic wand and remove the sense of threat that clung to them both like a sticky spider’s web, blinding them to everything except its presence. “It was kind of Steve to come and tell you himself,” she said finally. “Especially given the way we left things.”
“He loves you too much to be petty.”
Fiona gave him a quick glance of surprise. She had always thought the burden of Steve’s love was her private secret. It had never been mentioned between them before, and she had assumed Kit had accepted her version of their relationship; a long-standing defiance of the theory that friendship between heterosexual men and women was inherently impossible.
Kit shook his head, a tired smile creeping over his face. “You think I never noticed?”
“I suppose so. I presumed because you never objected to him that you took it at face value,” she admitted.
Kit reached for the bottle and topped up his glass. “Why should I have minded? It’s not as if he’s ever been any kind of threat. I’ve always known you didn’t love him. Well, you do love him, obviously, but like a friend. And he’s never tried to tell me how I should be treating you. So why should there be a problem?”
Fiona laid her head against his thigh. “You never cease to surprise me.”
“Good. I’d hate to think you had me sussed.” He released her hand and stroked her hair. “You’re a very good reason for staying alive, you know. I’m not going to take any chances.”
Fiona grasped the offered opportunity. “So first thing in the morning, we’re going to call a security firm and get you fixed up with a minder.”
“Are you serious?” His tone was a mixture of incredulity and outrage.
“Never more so. You can’t live like a hermit, Kit. You know it’ll drive you stir crazy within a couple of days. You’ll get frustrated and bad-tempered, you won’t be able to work and then you’ll do something that you think is safe, like going for a walk on the Heath. You’ll expose yourself.” As he started to argue with her, Fiona held up her hand in an adamant gesture. “I’m not going to argue, Kit. Your safety’s the most important consideration, but you’ve still got to be able to live.”
“Fair enough. But a minder? I’ll feel like a complete plonker.”
“It’s better than the alternative.”
Before Kit could say more, the final credits of the soap faded and the familiar urgency of the Six o’clock News theme swelled from the TV. Fiona swivelled round to watch the screen. “Let’s see what they’re saying about Georgia,” she said.
The newscaster gave his trademark sombre smile and launched into the news. Good evening. The remains of missing mystery writer Georgia Lester have been discovered in a freezer in London’s Smithfield Market. And in a dramatic development, a man has confessed to her murder at a police press conference.
The rest of the headlines were lost on Fiona and Kit. “What the fuck?” Kit breathed.
They didn’t have long to wait. Georgia was the first item in the main bulletin. City of London Police called a press conference this afternoon to announce that a search of Smithneld Market had ended with the discovery of Georgia Lester’s remains. Their grisly find came in the early hours of this morning as police worked through the night following a new line of inquiry. Ms Lester went missing somewhere between her cottage in Dorset and her London home ten days ago. Since then, concern has been voiced for her safety. But the revelation was overshadowed by the events of the press conference itself. Over now to our reporter Gabrielle Gershon.
A solemn-faced thirty-something with fashionable glasses gazed into the camera. Police were giving little away at the press conference. They admitted only that Georgia Lester’s dismembered body had been found in a freezer at Smithfield Market, but refused to be drawn into speculation as to whether there was any connection between the best selling crime author’s death and the recent murders of fellow thriller writers Drew Shand and Jane Elias. But as the press conference drew to a close, a man pushed his way through the crowd of reporters, claiming to be responsible for all three deaths. He then distributed leaflets alleging that all three of the murdered authors had stolen his work and that he had killed them in revenge for their plagiarism. For legal reasons, we cannot show the footage of this dramatic event. However, the man has been taken into police custody and within the last ten minutes, police have admitted that he has been arrested on suspicion of murder.
The news reader voice interrupted. Did the police appear to be taken by surprise by this extraordinary intervention, Gabrielle?
— he asked. Yes, Don, it threw them into complete confusion. Up to that point, they’d given no indication that they had any suspects whatsoever in Georgia Lester’s murder. It’s a remarkable turn of events. I can’t recall anything quite like it ever happening before.
Don the news reader said as the screen returned to a view of the studio. Thanks, Gabrielle. We’ll come back to you if there are any further developments.
He looked seriously at the camera. Later in the programme, we’ll be bringing you an appreciation of Georgia Lester’s life and work. But now, the other main stories tonight.
Fiona reached for the remote control and flicked the mute button. “Unbelievable,” she said wonderingly. “He confessed in front of a room full of journalists?”
“Now there’s a man who doesn’t need a publicist.”
“Pass the phone,” Fiona said.
Kit stretched and grabbed the cordless handset. “Who’re you going to call?”
“Wood Street. I want to find out if this is the real thing or the local neighbourhood nutter.”
“You think they’ll tell you?”
Fiona gave him her disapproving tutor’s stare. “You think they won’t?”
Ten minutes later, she put the phone down. Sarah Duvall had, inevitably, been unavailable. But once Fiona had explained her connection to the case to a slightly wary sergeant in the incident room, she had been rewarded with the assurance that yes, the murder squad was treating the confessor seriously. And, strictly off the record, he was likely to be charged with something by morning. Maybe not murder, not quite yet. But something serious.
It was, she thought, like the moment when you realize the dental anaesthetic has worn off. She felt tension seep from her shoulders like a liquid flow. Her initial response of scepticism had been dispelled by the CID sergeant’s stolid reassurance that someone as sharp as Sarah Duvall was taking this seriously. And if the confessor had been one of the usual suspects who came out of the woodwork whenever there was a major crime in the headlines, the police would have known. She smiled up into Kit’s anxious eyes. “They seem to think he’s kosher,” she said, letting out a long breath. She hastily moved from the floor to the sofa and wrapped her arms round him. “I hope they’re right,” she said softly. “Oh God, I hope it’s finished.”
FOURTY-THREE
The air in the room was redolent with the heavy fragrances of ylang-ylang, sandalwood and rose. The flicker of a pair of candles took the chill off the clinical white of the walls and transformed Steve’s bedroom from a monastic cell to a place where romance was possible. The massage oil and the candles were Terry’s contribution to the atmosphere; after the first night when urgency had been everything, she wanted to give their love-making a more sensual framework.