“Easier said than done, DCI Duvall.”
“I still believe we have the right man in custody.”
“You would say that. You’ve got too much invested in this to say otherwise.”
“If Mr. Martin hasn’t been in touch by tomorrow morning, call me.”
“Bet on it.” She slammed the phone down. Her hand shook as she removed it from the receiver. “Oh God,” she breathed. “Please God, let it not be him.”
She began to pace the room. Six strides, turn, six strides, turn, like a cat in a cage. There was no comfort for her in Duvall’s apparent confidence. She knew Kit wouldn’t have left her high and dry without a word. “Think, Fiona, think,” she urged herself.
She grabbed her personal organizer and looked up Jonathan Lewis’s number. She didn’t have many of Kit’s friends’ numbers, but Jonathan and his wife Trish had been regular dinner companions over the past couple of years, so they’d made it to her list. Trish answered on the third ring, sounding pleasantly surprised to hear from Fiona. “Is Jonathan in?” Fiona asked.
“No, he’s gone off on this wake they’re holding for Georgia. Isn’t Kit with them?” Trish answered.
“He must be. I’m up in Edinburgh and I’ve been trying to get hold of him without success.”
“They were supposed to be meeting at six,” Trish said.
“Do you know where?”
“Jonathan said something about some drinking club in Soho where Adam’s a member. But I don’t know what it’s called. I know he was expecting to see Kit there.”
“You’re probably right,” Fiona sighed. “He’s most likely halfway through the second bottle by now. Sorry to bother you, Trish.”
“It’s no bother. If it’s urgent, you could give Jonathan a ring on his mobile.”
Fiona copied down Jonathan’s number and called it as soon as she ended her conversation with Trish. The mobile rang half a dozen times before it was answered. It sounded as if a small riot was going on in the background. “Hello? Jonathan?” she shouted. “It’s Fiona Cameron. Is Kit with you, by any chance?”
“Hello? Fiona? No, where is the bugger? He’s supposed to be here.”
“He’s not there?”
“No, that’s what I’m saying.”
“He’s not been in touch?”
“No, hang on.” Somewhat muffled, she heard him shout, “Anybody heard anything from Kit? Like why he’s not here?” There was a brief pause, then Jonathan came back on to her. “Nobody’s heard from him, Fiona. I don’t know what he’s playing at, but he’s not here.”
Fiona felt her stomach contract again. “If he turns up, tell him to call me. Please, Jonathan.”
“No problem. Take it easy, Fiona, but take it.” The connection terminated and Fiona was left stranded with fear coursing through her again. She wanted to scream. But she forced herself to take a rational approach to the situation.
If Kit was going to be targeted, the obvious book to copy would be The Blood Painter. Because it had been successfully adapted for TV, it fitted the pattern the killer had adopted so far. If the killer was following the pattern of the book, Kit must still be alive. The characteristic of the Blood Painter was that he held his victims prisoner and drained their blood at daily intervals, using it to paint murals in the place where he held them captive. So if Kit was truly the next victim, whoever had him needed to keep him alive for a couple of days at least so he could reproduce the murder in the book as faithfully as possible.
All she had to do was to work out where he was being held.
It had been a while since she’d read the book, but she remembered that the victims of the Blood Painter had all rented remote holiday cottages in the six months before their deaths. When he came to kill them, the Blood Painter rented the same cottage and held them captive there for the week while he slowly bled them to death and created his grotesque paintings.
But she and Kit had never rented a holiday cottage. They’d not had so much as a weekend break in the UK, preferring to take their holidays abroad. Where could he be holding Kit? Where could they be if the killer was truly determined to follow the book?
FOURTY-EIGHT
The M6 was practically empty this far north of Manchester. Most of the Friday evening traffic had peeled off on the M$$ to Blackpool or at the first junction leading to the southern end of the Lake District. As the road climbed up Shap, there were only a few cars and a scattering of lorries heading back to Scotland for the weekend.
In the fast lane, a dark-grey metallic Toyota 4x4 cruised at a comfortable eighty-five. Not so fast it would attract the attention of the traffic police, but a good enough speed to eat up the miles between driver and destination. He’d given up on the radio, replacing the civilized voices of the BBC with a talking book. The Blood Painter, by Kit Martin. Read by the author. Apart from anything else, it would keep him firmly on track in case he’d slipped up on any details.
He couldn’t think of anything that would make the miles pass more quickly.
Detective Superintendent Sandy Galloway was halfway down his postprandial glass of Gaol Ila. His teenage twins were upstairs competing to lay waste some distant planet courtesy of their Sony Play Stations and his wife was loading the dishwasher. He’d have to go in to work tomorrow morning, in the light of this London business. But sufficient unto the day, that was his motto. And so he settled down with his whisky to watch a cop drama on TV and savour all the things they got wrong.
When the phone rang, he ignored it. But he couldn’t ignore the teenage bellow from upstairs. “Hey, Dad, it’s some Englishwoman for you.”
“Aw, shite,” he muttered, hauling himself out of his chair and through to the hall. He picked up the phone and waited for the click that indicated the upstairs extension had been put down. “Hello, Sandy Galloway speaking.”
“It’s Fiona Cameron. I’m sorry to bother you at home. I got your number from the incident room sergeant. He didn’t want to tell me, but I’m afraid I gave him a rather hard time, so don’t be angry with him.” It poured out in a breathless rush.
“No bother, Doctor. How can I help you? Or is it you can help us? Have you found some more letters at Drew Shand’s?”
There was a pause. He could hear her draw breath. “This is going to sound like paranoia. You know my partner is Kit Martin, the crime writer?”
“Aye, I knew that.”
“I’ve been aware since I first formed the theory that there might be a serial killer at work that Kit fitted the victim profile perfectly. I’ve been worried that he might be a target. When the City Police arrested Redford, we all relaxed. But I’ve just spoken to DCI Duvall and she says there’s a chink in the case against Redford. And I can’t get hold of Kit. He’s not answering the phone, he’s not been in touch via e — mail.”
“Could it not just be that he’s working?” Galloway tried to sound calm and unconcerned. If there was a serious crack in the case, Duvall would have let him know.
“He wasn’t there when the police were round earlier to take a statement. And I’ve never known him not respond to e — mail. The thing is, if Kit’s a target, the book the killer will be following is The Blood Painter. He’ll be holding him somewhere till he’s ready to kill him.”
He could hear from her voice that she was frantic with worry. “I understand your concern, Fiona.” He slipped into her first name, hoping it would soothe. “The trouble is, there’s no evidence to suggest that anything’s happened to him. He could be spending the evening with friends. Raising a glass to Georgia Lester somewhere.”