There was none. Lesley, a third-year student at St Andrews University, had been raped and strangled on her way back to her shared house. No one had ever been charged with the crime. The police believed the killer had raped two other students in the previous eighteen months, but they had no significant clues. A couple of footprints from a popular brand of trainers. A description so vague it could apply to half the adult males in the town. Even if they’d had DNA analysis back then, it wouldn’t have been much use. He’d used a condom. All the attacks had taken place in winter and the women were wearing gloves, so they hadn’t scratched their attacker.
For six months after Lesley’s death, Fiona had felt as if she was walking around inside a very bad dream. Any minute now, she could force herself to wake up and none of it would have happened. Lesley would be alive. Her mother wouldn’t be suicidally depressed. Her father wouldn’t be drinking too much and writing endless letters to his MP, the press and the police, complaining of the failure to make an arrest. And she wouldn’t be blaming herself for persuading Lesley to spread her wings and go to St Andrews when she could have joined Fiona in London.
Then one day, she’d gone to a lecture given by a visiting fellow from Canada. He’d talked about the infant science of crime analysis and how it could be applied in criminal investigations. It was like a light bulb in her head suddenly turning on. The cocoon fell away and with piercing intensity, Fiona knew what she wanted to do with her life.
An hour in a lecture theatre, and nothing would be the same again. She couldn’t save Lesley. She couldn’t even catch Lesley’s killer. But now Fiona understood that one day she might find her redemption by saving someone else.
That prospect was enough. Most days, anyway, it was enough. But now murder had touched her life again, even if at one remove. All of this swam through her mind as she sat with Kit in her arms, doing what little she could to comfort him.
After a lengthy silence, Kit finally drew away from her. ‘I’m sorry I’m being such a wet nelly,’ he said. ‘It’s not like he was my best mate or anything.’
‘You’re not being a wet nelly. You knew him, you liked him, you respected his work. And it’s a shock to realize he’s just not here any more.’
Kit stood up and turned on a lamp. ‘That’s the curse of an imagination at a time like this. I keep thinking what it must have been like for him, how scared he must have been.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I need to do something to keep my mind occupied.’ He picked up the pile of paper the printer had spewed out. ‘Do you mind if we just get something sent up from room service?’
‘Whatever you need.’ Fiona hung up her coat and picked up her laptop. ‘I’ve got plenty I can be getting on with if you want to work.’
Kit managed a faint smile. ‘Thanks.’ He settled cross-legged on the bed with his pile of manuscript and a pencil. Fiona watched him in the mirror for a few minutes until she was sure he was reading and not brooding. More than anything, she was glad he’d accompanied her to Toledo. The news of Drew’s death wasn’t something he should have had to face on his own.
That was something she knew all about from personal experience. And she wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy.
Extract from Decoding of Exhibit P13/4599
Ufime zftmd pfapa pdqie tmzp. Yqeek ngfza ftmdp. Mrqit agdea regdr uzsft qiqnm zpuwz qiftq pqfmu xeart uepmu xkdag fuzq.
It wasn’t hard to do Drew Shand. Messy, but not hard. They don’t realize how vulnerable they are. A few hours of surfing the web and I knew the details of his daily routine.
I didn’t think it would be too difficult to pick him up. His sort are always suckers for flattery. It was just a matter of finding somewhere to see him off.
Then I found the perfect place: a boarded-up butcher’s shop. The back was tiled from floor to ceiling. There was a butcher’s block in the middle of the room and a couple of big sinks along one wall. Judging by the dust and cobwebs everywhere, nobody had been here for ages, and I didn’t think anybody would be coming through any time soon. So I decided it would be safe just to leave whatever mess I made.
The next day, I parked near his flat, where I could see him come and go. He got back from the gym right on schedule, and an hour later, he was walking back towards Broughton Street. I slipped into his wake and followed him into the Barbary Coast bar. It was already quite busy, and I could see a few blokes giving me the once-over. It made me feel sweaty and uncomfortable. After all, I didn’t want anybody remembering me afterwards.
Drew was at the bar and I moved up beside him. He’d ordered a drink and when it arrived, I held out a tenner and said, ‘This one’s on me.’ He didn’t argue. We moved over to a corner where it was darker, and I acted surprised when he said who he was. I said I thought the torture scenes in his book were brilliant. He went on about how the critics had complained that the violence was over the top, so I told him I thought it was great. Sexy, almost.
He gave me a funny look then. But he didn’t say anything, just went to the bar and got another round in. When he came back, he asked me if that was what I was into, a bit of the rough stuff. It couldn’t have gone better if I’d scripted it. Cutting a long story short, he invited me upstairs to what he called the dark room. Then I told him I had something better than that. I said I worked for a property development company, and I’d managed to get the keys to an old shop that I’d turned into a fantasy dungeon.
I couldn’t believe how easy it had been. I’d thought I might actually have had to have sex with him before I could get him to come with me, and I’d been dreading that even more than what I had planned for him. But he was a pushover. The worst bit was when we pulled up in the back lane and he leaned across and started kissing me. I pushed him away, a bit roughly but that just made him all the more keen. When I was undoing the padlock, he pressed right up against me so I could feel his cock hard against my backside. If I’d been having second thoughts, that would have seen them off sharpish.
I pulled the door open, and as he reached for the switch, I smashed my heavy metal torch down on the side of his head just above his ear. He went down like a tree.
I don’t want to think about the next bit. It wasn’t nice. It’s a lot harder to strangle somebody than it looks. Especially when you’re wearing latex gloves and your hands start sweating and slipping around inside them.
Then I had to do the cutting. That was really disgusting. Horrible. Not just the blood, but the smell. I nearly threw up. I’ve had some shitty nights, but this beat the lot of them hands down.
Once I’d done what I had to do, I zipped his jacket back up to sort of hold things in place. Then I picked him up and carried him out to the 4 × 4. I couldn’t just throw him over my shoulder or his guts would have gone everywhere.
I’d already decided where I was going to dump the body. The actual site described in Shand’s book was out of the question. It was far too exposed. It would have been asking to be caught. But then, what do you expect? One hundred per cent accuracy?
I’d settled on dumping him round the side of the cathedral. When I got there, there was nobody around, so I arranged him on the steps leading up to an office building.
I undid his jacket, and displayed him by the book. God, that nearly had me throwing up all over again. Then I took off as if I had the four horsemen of the apocalypse on my heels. Time to head back to where I was supposed to be.
I expected it to give me nightmares. But it didn’t. It’s not like I enjoyed it or anything. It was a job that had to be done, and I did it well.