Killing the Shadows Page 3

  According to the crime-scene reports, Martina had been sprawled on her back in the moonlight, arms thrown wide, legs spread. The pathologist revealed that her throat had been cut from left to right, probably from behind, by a long and very sharp blade, possibly a bayonet. It was hard to be precise, however, and since Toledo is famous for its steel, the purchase of razor-edged knives was an everyday occurrence in each of the dozens of tourist shops that lined the main streets. Death had been swift, blood pumping forwards from the severed carotid arteries in a pair of gushing fountains. Her clothing was drenched in blood, indicating that she had been standing rather than lying when the wound had been inflicted.

  Further examination revealed that a broken wine bottle had been thrust repeatedly into her vagina, shredding the tissue. The relative absence of blood at the site indicated that Martina had been mercifully dead by then. The bottle had once contained a cheap Manchegan red wine, available in almost any local shop. The only other item of interest at the scene was a bloodstained guide to Toledo in German. Martina’s name, address and phone number were scribbled on the inside cover in her own handwriting.

  There were no significant forensic traces, nor any indication of how Martina had been brought to La Degollada. It was not a difficult place to access; the panoramic route round the Tagus actually crossed the gorge, and there were plenty of places nearby where a car could be tucked off the road. According to the woman with whom she shared an apartment near the station, Martina had come in from work around seven. They’d eaten a snack of bread, cheese and salad together, then the flat mate had left to meet a group of friends. Martina had had no firm plans, saying only that she might go out for a drink later. Officers had canvassed the cafes and bars she usually visited, but nobody had admitted seeing her that evening. The members of the tour she had led the previous day had been questioned when they’d arrived in Aranjuez the following day, but none of them had been aware of any of their fellow tourists taking any particular notice of their young guide. Besides, they’d all spent the evening together at a flamenco fiesta. Everyone was vouched for by at least three other members of the party.

  In the absence of any firm leads, the investigation had ground to a halt. It was, Fiona thought, the sort of frustrating inquiry typically provoked by the first crime in a series where the offender was intelligent enough to know how to cover his tracks and had no ambivalence about being caught. Without any obvious connection between victim and killer it was always difficult to identify worthwhile avenues of investigation.

  Then, two weeks later, a second body had turned up. A relatively short interval, Fiona noted. This time, the scene of the crime was the vast monastery church of San Juan de los Reyes. She remembered the cloisters, a massive quadrangle festooned with absurd gargoyles. It was there, she reminded herself, that one of their group had spotted the bizarre image of a reverse gargoyle instead of a grotesque face adorning the water spout, this statue consisted of a body from the waist down, as if its owner had been rammed head first into the wall.

  The unique feature of the church itself was the array of manacles and shackles that hung along its facade. They were the very shackles the Moorish conquerors used to chain up the Christian prisoners taken at Granada, and when Fernando and Isabella’s vast army captured Granada from the Moors, the monarchs decreed the chains should be hung on the church as a memorial. Fiona remembered vividly how bizarre they had looked, hanging black in the sunlight against the golden stone of the ornamented facade.

  The second victim was an American graduate student of religious art, James Paul Palango. His body had been discovered at dawn by a street cleaner who had been sweeping alongside the monastery cloisters of San Juan de los Reyes. He’d turned the corner on the paved area in front of the church when his eye had been caught by something above his head. Palango was hanging suspended from two sets of manacles. In the puffy flesh of his neck, something glinted in the early morning light. When the body was lowered to the ground, it became clear that he’d been strangled with a dog’s choke chain then attached to the manacles with two pairs of handcuffs. The pathologist also reported that Palango’s corpse had been repeatedly sodomized with the broken neck of a wine bottle, which remained inside his torn rectum. Again, there appeared to be no significant forensic traces. Interestingly, in Palango’s pocket there was a guide to Toledo.

  Police inquiries revealed that Palango was an evangelical Christian from a wealthy Georgia family. He had been staying at the parador which perched on a high bluff looking across the river to the city. According to the hotel, Palango had eaten an early dinner then gone out in his hired car sometime around nine o’clock. The car was later discovered in a parking garage opposite the Alcazar. Extensive questioning in the neighbourhood revealed that the American had taken coffee in the Plaza de Zocodover at the heart of the old town, but in the general melee of the evening paseo no one had noticed when he had left the café or whether he’d been alone. No one had come forward to say they’d seen him since.

  Fiona leaned back in her seat and rubbed her eyes. No wonder Major Berrocal was so keen to enlist her help. The only significant information the police had gleaned from the second murder was that the killer was physically powerful enough to carry a ten-stone man up a ladder, and that he was bold enough to display his victim in a public place. In a handwritten note, Major Berrocal had pointed out that once the nearby café had closed in the early hours of the morning, the area around the church was quiet and although it was overlooked by several houses, the killer had chosen the farthest point of the facade for his exhibition, where he would be least likely to be spotted.

  She leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms above her head while she contemplated the information she’d laboriously worked her way through. It was professionally intriguing, no question of that. What she needed to consider was whether she could offer anything constructive to the investigation. She had worked with European police forces on several occasions, and had sometimes felt handicapped by her lack of visceral understanding of how their societies worked. On the other hand, she already felt the faint stirrings of an idea of how this killer operated and where the police might start their search for him.

  One thing was certain. While she dithered, he would be planning his next murder. Fiona refilled her glass and made her decision.

  FOUR

  Fiona was halfway downstairs with the Rough Guide to Spain when she heard the front door opening. “Hello,” she called out.

  “I brought Steve home with me,” Kit replied, his voice relaxed into broad Mancunian by alcohol.

  Fiona was too tired to welcome the prospect of late-night drinking and chat. But at least it was only Steve. He was part of the family, too well-rooted in their company to mind if she took herself off to bed and left them to it. She rounded the final turn in the stairs and looked down at them. The most important men in her life, they were an oddly contrasting pair. Steve, tall, wirily thin and dark; Kit, with his broad, heavily muscled torso making him look shorter than he was, his shaved head gleaming in the light. It was Steve, with his darting eyes and long fingers, who looked like the intellectual, while Kit looked more like a beat bobby who worked as a nightclub bouncer on the side. Now, they looked up at her, identical sheepish small-boy grins on their flushed faces.

  “Good dinner, I see,” Fiona said dryly, running down the rest of the stairs. She stood on tiptoe to kiss Steve’s cheek, then allowed Kit to engulf her in a hug.

  He gave her a smacking kiss on the lips. “Missed you,” he said, releasing her and crossing to the kitchen.

  “No you didn’t,” Fiona contradicted him. “You’ve had a great boys’ night out, eaten lots of unspeakable bits of dead animals, drunk’ she paused and cocked her head, assessing them both ‘three bottles of red wine…”

  “She’s never wrong,” Kit interjected.

  “…and put the world to rights,” Fiona concluded. “You were much better off without me.”

  Steve folded himself int
o a kitchen chair and accepted the brandy glass Kit proffered. He had the air of a man embattled who warily senses he might finally have arrived in a place of safety. He raised his glass in a sardonic toast. “Confusion to our enemies. You’re right, but for the wrong reasons,” he said.

  Fiona sat down opposite him and pulled her wine glass towards her, intrigued. “I find that hard to believe,” she said, a tease in her voice.

  “I was only glad you weren’t there because you’re big-headed enough without listening to me ranting on about how I’d never have had to endure today’s humiliations if I’d been working with you instead of that arse hole Horsforth.” Steve held up a hand to indicate to Kit that an inch of brandy was more than enough.

  Kit leaned against the kitchen units, cupping his glass in both his broad hands to warm the spirit. “You’re right about the big-headed bit,” he chuckled, his pride in her obvious in his affectionate grin.

  “Takes one to know one,” Fiona said. “I’m sorry you had a shit day, Steve.”

  Before Steve could reply, Kit cut in. “It was bound to happen. That operation was doomed from day one. Apart from anything else, you were never going to get away with a sting like that in a trial, even if Blake had swallowed the honey-trap and coughed chapter and verse. British juries just can’t get their heads round entrapment. Your average man in the pub thinks it’s cheating to set people up when you haven’t got your evidence the straight way.”

  “Don’t mince your words, Kit, tell us what you really think,” Steve said sarcastically.

  “I’d hoped you two would already have had the postmortem,” Fiona protested mildly.

  “Oh, we have,” Steve said. “I feel like I’ve been wearing a hair shirt all day.”

  “Hey, I’ve not been saying it was your fault,” Kit reminded him. “We all know you got stamped on from above. If anyone should be flagellating himself, it’s your commander. But you can bet your pension that Teflon Telford will be washing his hands like Pontius Pilate with a tin of Swarfega tonight. It’ll be: Well, of course, you have to let your junior officers have their head sometimes, but I thought Steve Preston would have handled matters better than this.” he said, dropping his voice to the basso prof undo of Steve’s boss.

  Steve stared into his brandy. Kit wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know, but hearing it from someone else didn’t make failure taste any less sour. And tomorrow, he’d have to face his colleagues knowing that he was the one appointed to carry the can. Some of them would have sufficient grasp of the politics to understand he was nothing more than the designated scapegoat, but there were plenty of others who would relish the chance to snigger behind their hands at him. That was the price of his past successes. And in the competitive environment of the higher echelons of the Met, you were only ever as good as your last success.

  “Are you really not looking for anyone else?” Fiona asked, registering Steve’s depression and trying to move the conversation in a more positive direction.

  Steve looked mutinous. “That’s the official line. To say anything else makes us look even bigger dickheads than we do already. But I’m not happy with that. Somebody murdered Susan Blanchard and you know better than I do that this kind of killer probably won’t stop at one.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?” Fiona asked.

  Kit gave her a speculative look. “I think the question might be what are you going to do about it?”

  Fiona shook her head, trying not to show her irritation. “Oh no, you don’t guilt-trip me like that. I said I’d never work for the Met again after this debacle, and I meant it.”

  Steve spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. “Hey, even if I had the budget, I wouldn’t insult you like that.”

  Kit grabbed one of the chairs and straddled it. “Yeah, but she loves me. I get to insult her. Come on, Fiona, it wouldn’t hurt if you took a look at the entrapment material, would it? Purely as an academic exercise.”

  Fiona groaned. “You just want it lying round the house so you can poke your nose in,” she said, trying another diversionary tactic. “It’s all grist to your grisly little mill, isn’t it?”

  “That’s not fair! You know I never read confidential case material,” Kit said, his expression outraged.

  Fiona grinned. “Gotcha.”

  Kit laughed. “It’s a fair cop, guy.”

  Steve leaned back in his chair and looked pensive. “On the other hand…”

  “Oh, grow up, the pair of you,” Fiona grumbled. “I have better things to do with my life than pawing over Andrew Horsforth’s grubby little operation.”

  Steve studied Fiona. He knew her well enough to understand the kind of challenge that might overcome her stubborn resistance, and he was desperate enough to try it.

  “The trouble is, the trail’s really cold. It’s over a year since Susan Blanchard was butchered, and it’s getting on for ten months since we were paying attention to anybody other than Francis Blake. I don’t want to leave things unresolved. I don’t want her kids growing up with their lives full of unanswered questions. You know the kind of emotional pain the absence of knowledge brings. Now, I really want the bastard who did this. But we need fresh leads,” he said. “And like Kit says, at the very least it might be a useful resource for you professionally.”

  Fiona shut the fridge door with more than necessary force. “You really are a manipulative sod,” she complained. But knowing he was deliberately pushing her buttons didn’t shield her from the stab of recognition. Stung, she tried a final line of defence. “Steve, I’m not a clinician. I don’t spend my days listening to people droning on about their sad little lives. I’m a number-cruncher. I deal in facts, not impressions. Even if I did sit down and stifle my disgust long enough to plough through the entrapment files, I don’t know that I’d have anything useful to say at the end of it.”

  “It wouldn’t hurt, though, would it?” Kit chipped in. “It’s not like you’d be going back on your word and working for the Met. You’d just be doing Steve a personal favour. I mean, look at him. He’s gutted. He’s supposed to be your best mate. Don’t you want to help him out?”

  Fiona sat down, leaning forward so her shoulder-length chestnut hair curtained her face. Steve opened his mouth to speak but Kit urgently waved him to silence, mouthing, “No!” at him. Steve raised one shoulder in a half-shrug.

  Eventually, Fiona sighed deeply and pushed her hair back with both hands. “Fuck it, I’ll do it,” she said. Catching Steve’s delighted grin, she added, “No promises, remember. Bike the stuff round to me first thing in the morning and I’ll take a look.”

  “Thanks,” Steve said. “Even if it’s a long shot, I need all the help I can get. I appreciate it.”

  “Good. So you should,” she said severely. “Now, can we talk about something else?”

  It was after midnight by the time Fiona and the Rough Guide finally made it to bed. When Kit came through from the bathroom, he eyed her reading material with a curious frown. “Is that a subtle way of telling me it’s about time we started planning a holiday?” he asked, slipping under the duvet and snuggling up to her.

  “I should be so lucky. It’s work, I’m afraid. I got a request today from the Spanish Police for a consultation. Two murders in Toledo that look like the start of a series.”

  “I take it you’ve decided to go, then?”

  Fiona waggled the book under his nose. “Looks like it. I’ll have to speak to them in the morning about the practicalities, but I should be able to get away at the end of the week for a few days without too much difficulty.”

  Kit rolled on to his back and folded his arms above his head. “And there was me thinking you were planning a romantic break to Torremolinos.”

  Fiona put her book down and turned to face Kit, her fingers curling the soft dark hairs on his chest. “You could come along for the ride if you like. Toledo’s a beautiful town. It’s not like there would be nothing to occupy you while I’m working. It wouldn
’t do you any harm to have a break.”

  He dropped one arm to her shoulder, pulling her closer to him. “I’m way behind with the book, and if you’re not around over the weekend, that’ll be a good excuse for me to lock myself away and work straight through.”

  “You could work in Toledo.” Her hand strayed down his stomach.

  “With you to distract me?”

  “I’d be working all day. And probably half the night, if past experience is anything to go by.” She settled herself more comfortably into his side.

  “I might as well be at home, by the sound of it.”

  “You’d like it,” Fiona yawned. “It’s an interesting city. You never know, it might inspire you.”

  “Yeah, right, I can see myself writing the definitive Spanish serial killer thriller.”

  “Why not? It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it. I just thought you might like a bit of a break somewhere that does spectacular gourmet food…” Fiona’s voice tailed off sleepily.

  “I do think of other things than my stomach,” he protested. “Isn’t it Toledo that has all the El Grecos?”

  “That’s right,” Fiona said. “And his house.” Her eyes were closed and her voice was a mumble as she slithered down the dreamy slope towards sleep.

  “Now, that does sound worth the trip. Maybe I will come after all,” Kit said. There was no reply. An early rise and ten miles of Derbyshire moorland had finally taken their toll. Kit grinned and reached out with his free arm for the James Sallis paperback on his night table. Unlike Fiona, he could never sleep without supping his fill of horrors. But then, he reasoned, he knew that what he was reading was fiction. It didn’t matter if he hadn’t solved the crime when it was time to turn the light out. The killers he was interested in wouldn’t be killing again until he was ready for them.

  FIVE

  The flight to Madrid was half-empty. Without having to be asked, Kit left Fiona with a double seat to herself and moved across the aisle, where he flipped up the screen of his laptop and started work as soon as they were in the air, his Walkman rendering him oblivious to any outside distractions. On the way to the airport, he’d nagged her about making a start on the thick bundle Steve had had delivered to the house, which Fiona had been studiously ignoring for the past two days. She’d been hiding behind the necessity of familiarizing herself with the material from Toledo, but if she was honest, she’d been as thorough with that as she could be. Now she had no excuse, and the flight was just long enough to get a flavour of what she had to digest.