His stomach grumbled. The waves of pain from his head seemed to be directly connected to his gut, producing an uncomfortable queasiness. Slowly, he realized that wherever he was, he was in motion. Now he could hear the low grumble of an engine and the hiss of road noise. Muffled voices separated out and he understood that a radio was playing. It dawned on him that he was inside a moving vehicle and the driver was listening to the radio.
Comprehension brought memory back with bewildering swiftness. The courier at the door with the box of books. The movement out of the corner of his eye. Then nothing, till now.
With appalling clarity that momentarily banished pain, Kit recognized the scenario. He was trapped in a nightmare of his own invention. He was living the story of Susannah Tremayne, the second victim of the serial killer he’d dubbed the Blood Painter. The killer had captured her by pretending to be a courier delivering a package. Then he’d loaded her into his van and driven her to the holiday cottage.
Twenty-four hours earlier, it would have been at the front of his mind. He would never have opened the door to a courier, not even one of the ones he was familiar with. But that had been before Charles Redford had been arrested, before Sarah Duvall had told Fiona the killer was in custody and life could return to normal, without the bite of fear cutting into every moment.
They’d been catastrophically wrong. Terror clutched at his heart. He knew exactly what lay in store for him. After all, he’d written the script.
Before she let herself out of Drew Shand’s flat, Fiona took a look at the Edinburgh street map on his reference shelf and decided to walk back to her hotel. A brisk couple of miles on the city streets might clear her head. She set off through the Georgian streets of the New Town, heading for Queensferry Road, the damp air clinging to her skin and hair. She was almost the only person on the streets. She turned on to the Dean Bridge, enjoying the spectacle of walking above tree-top level, with random blocks of light from the backs of the New Town tenements glowing pale-yellow through the insubstantial mist. It could have felt spooky, she thought, and if someone with the gifts of Kit or Drew had been describing it, it would have crept off the page and made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. As it was, after a day of airports and the enclosed office at St. Leonard’s, it felt curiously liberating, a brief escape from the concerns of work and love.
When she arrived back at her hotel, she was almost reluctant to go in. The brief time out had refreshed her, leaving her ready for something more enjoyable than thoughts of murder. The only tantalizing prospect the evening had to offer now was the chance of a conversation with Kit.
Fiona checked at reception for messages. Nothing. She’d hoped he would have called, in response to one of her earlier e — mail messages. Never mind, she thought. She’d call home in the hope that he was monitoring the answering machine and would pick up when he heard her voice. She went up to her room and called room service. While she waited, she booted up the laptop and checked her e — mail again. Nothing from Kit. Not like him, she thought. They’d had no contact since she’d left that morning, which was a break in their usual pattern of communication.
Glancing at her watch, she saw it was just past nine. He couldn’t still be working. He should answer the phone.
Quickly, she dialled the familiar number, her fingers stumbling so she had to abort the call and start again. The phone rang out. Three, four, five rings. Then the answering machine. His recorded voice for once provided no comfort. She waited for the bleep. “Kit, it’s me. If you’re there, pick up, please…Come on, I need to talk to you…” She waited in vain.
While she ate the pasta she’d ordered and sipped a glass of wine, Fiona flicked through the letters again, checking to see if there was anything she’d missed.
When the phone rang she dropped her fork with a clatter. She grabbed the receiver eagerly and said, “Hello?”
“This is DCI Duvall.”
Fiona felt intense disappointment. “Oh. Hello. I was expecting someone else.”
“I wondered what progress you’d made,” Duvall said abruptly.
Fiona outlined her day’s work in some detail. As she reported her findings, Duvall made no response apart from the occasional noncommittal sound of someone making notes.
When she had finished, Duvall spoke. “So, you’ve found nothing to contradict the theory that Redford is the killer?” she asked.
It was, Fiona thought, an odd way to put it. “Nothing. Why? Has something come up at your end?” A nervous prickle of anxiety crept across her chest.
She felt the hesitation build at the other end of the phone. “A minor discrepancy, that’s all,” Duvall said briskly.
“How minor?” Fiona demanded.
Duvall outlined what the Dorset Police had uncovered, and how it was at odds with the little Redford had said on the subject. “We’ll have more sense of its significance when we get the forensics back from the outhouse.”
“But that could be days,” Fiona protested. “If you have got the wrong man in custody, then other people could be at risk.” One person in particular, she thought, fear beginning to clench her stomach. “The killer’s going to feel very safe. He’ll be confident about striking again.” And I can’t raise Kit.
“I’m aware of that. We’re doing everything we can to corroborate what Redford is saying.”
“I’ve not heard from Kit all day,” Fiona blurted out.
“One of my team was supposed to interview him this afternoon. I’ll check out what he had to say. He may have indicated he had plans for the evening,” Duvall said with a confident authority she didn’t feel. “I’ll get back to you.”
“I’ll be waiting for your call.” Fiona replaced the phone gently, as if somehow so doing would also keep Kit safe. She was, she recognized, terrified. Suddenly, she bolted for the bathroom, making it just in time. Undigested pasta swilled round in a bilious red sea of tomato sauce and wine. Her stomach kept on emptying itself in a reflex long after there was nothing left to bring up. She leaned back on her heels, a sheen of sweat across her forehead, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
The thought of Sarah Duvall’s call forced her to her feet. She flushed the toilet and brushed her teeth. What was taking her so long? She ran her hands through her hair, gazing at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were haunted, her face made gaunt by the inner fears eating her away. “You look like shit,” she told her reflection. “Get a grip, Cameron.”
The phone ringing catapulted her out of the bathroom and across the bedroom. “Yes, Fiona Cameron, hello?”
“We seem to have a slight problem,” Duvall said hesitantly.
Jesus God, no, she screamed silently. “What sort of a problem?” she forced out.
“Apparently, he wasn’t at home when my officer called on him.”
Fiona groaned. “Something’s happened to him.”
“I don’t think you should jump to conclusions, Dr. Cameron. My officer admitted he was over an hour late in getting to their appointment. Mr. Martin may well have given up on him. I understand from Ms Lester’s husband that a group of her fellow writers were planning to get together today to hold a sort of wake. That’s probably where Mr. Martin is right now. Look, Redford’s confession checks out in every detail but one. He’s been treating his interviews like a game, a battle of wits. It’s entirely possible that he was deliberately misleading us because he’s determined not to give us anything concrete. He wants to get away with this, I’m sure of it.” Duvall’s voice showed not a trace of doubt. “I’m sure Mr. Martin will be in touch. Try not to worry.”