strong probability, wouldn’t you say? And then your colleagues in Toledo will have an idea where to start looking for proof.’ Fiona shifted in her seat, trying to unlock the tightness in her shoulders. They had turned on to the road that skirted the river opposite the bluff where Toledo glowed in the twilight. ‘Amazing view,’ she added.
‘It’s a beautiful city,’ Berrocal acknowledged. ‘That’s why crimes like these seem so much more shocking than a routine act of violence in the back streets of Madrid. And of course, it’s also why there is so much attention on this investigation. It’s not just my bosses who are leaning on us for a quick solution. The newspapers and the TV stations are all over us. Luckily I’ve managed to keep your name out of the stories so far. I don’t think it would go down well that we have had to bring in an expert from England to solve crimes so very Spanish.’
‘I won’t be solving your crimes, Major. I’m a consultant psychologist, not a consulting detective. All I can do is make suggestions. It’s up to you to decide whether they’re worth pursuing, and it’s up to you to find the evidence to nail your killer.’
Berrocal grinned. ‘Doctor, you know and I know that the media are not interested in the truth of the situation. If they find out about you, they will portray you as some sort of miraculous detective, a modern Sherlock Holmes who is called in because the police are too stupid to do their job.’
‘Which is why we don’t tell them I’m here,’ she said. For a minute or so there was silence, until Berrocal turned off the main road and headed up the steep hill towards the parador, leaving the dramatic vista behind them.
‘Will your geographic program tell us if the murderer lives in the same place as the mugger?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know if there’s enough data,’ she answered frankly. ‘On their own, the two murders won’t give us anything approaching pinpoint accuracy. Not enough locations, you see. But I’ll play around with various combinations and see what I come up with. I should be able to answer your question tomorrow morning.’
‘Are you positive you don’t want to go out to dinner?’ Berrocal asked as he pulled into the car park.
‘It’s very kind of you. But I’d rather get through the work. The sooner I get finished, the sooner I can go home. Besides, I’m sure your family would like to see something of you.’
He gave a soft snort of laughter. ‘I’m sure they would. But like you, I’ll be working this evening, I’m afraid.’
‘At least I’ll have Kit’s company for dinner. He has the knack of making me laugh, even in the middle of something as grim as this. And let’s face it, Major, there aren’t too many laughs in this line of work.’
He nodded gravely. ‘I know what you mean. Sometimes I feel I’m dragging the sewer in behind me when I walk in from work. I almost don’t want to pick up my children and hug them in case I infect them with what I’ve seen, what I know.’ He leaned across to open the door for Fiona. ‘Good hunting, Doctor.’
She nodded. ‘You too, Major.’
Fiona’s first reaction when she opened the door was bewilderment. The only light in the room came from the distant vista of Toledo, dramatically uplit by dozens of spotlights. Silhouetted against the light, Kit was sitting on the end of the bed, elbows on knees, head hanging. ‘Kit?’ she said softly, closing the door behind her. She didn’t know what could be wrong, only that something clearly was.
She crossed to him with swift strides, shedding briefcase, laptop and coat on the way. Kit raised his head and turned to face her as she sat down beside him. ‘What’s the matter, love?’ she asked, concern and anxiety in her voice. She put an arm round his shoulders and he leaned into her.
‘Drew Shand’s been murdered,’ he said unsteadily.
‘The guy who wrote Copycat?’
‘According to BBC World, they found his body early this morning just off the Royal Mile.’ Kit sounded dazed.
‘That’s how you found out? From the telly?’ she said, dismayed at the thought.
‘Yeah. I thought I’d catch the news headlines.’ He gave a bleak bark of laughter. ‘You don’t expect to hear one of your mates has been murdered and mutilated.’
‘That’s terrible,’ Fiona said, conscious of the inadequacy of her words. She understood only too well the shock and pain of such a discovery. Though in her case, it had been the telephone that had been the unwelcome messenger.
‘Yeah, and I’ll tell you what’s worse. Because he was out and proud and hung in the kind of bars where the patrons indulge in the sort of sexual practices that your average Edinburger finds repulsive, he’s already being trailed as the engineer of his own destruction. It’s blame-the-victim time. Nothing like that approach to make the respectable citizens sleep easy in their beds, knowing it couldn’t happen to them.’ He sounded angry, but Fiona recognized that as a defence against the hurt.
‘I’m so sorry, Kit,’ she said, holding him close and letting him nestle against her.
‘I’ve never known anybody who was murdered before. I know we’ve talked about Lesley, and I thought I understood how you felt about what happened to her, but now I realize I didn’t really have a clue. And it’s not even as if I knew Drew particularly well. But I just can’t get my head around the idea that anybody would kill him. I just can’t imagine why.’
Fiona had never met Drew Shand, but she knew too much of murder and its consequences not to feel the horror that lay behind the bare fact of his death. She knew only too well what murder meant to those left behind. It was the reason she had become the woman she was.
Kit had hit her with the trigger word. Lesley. If she closed her eyes, it would all come flooding back. It had been a Friday night like any other. She’d been in her first year of university teaching and had fallen into the habit of unwinding at the end of the week with the clinical staff from the institute where she was conducting a research study. They’d start in a pub in Bloomsbury, then work their way up towards Euston Station, ending up in a curry house in a side street on the far side of Euston Road. By the time she’d got back to her two-roomed flat in Camden, it had been almost midnight and the rough edges of the week had been blurred into a genial wooziness.
The light on the answering machine had been flashing crazily, indicating half a dozen messages or more. Intrigued, she’d hit the playback button and carried on walking towards the kitchenette. The first words on the tape stopped her in her tracks. ‘Fiona? It’s Dad. Phone me as soon as you get in.’ It wasn’t what was said, it was the manner of its saying. Her father’s voice, normally strong and confident, had been almost a whisper, a pale quivering echo of its normal self.
A bleep, then the next message. ‘Fiona, it’s Dad again. I don’t care how late it is when you get this message, you’ve got to phone.’ This time the voice cracked towards the end of the short message.
Already, she was turning, moving towards the phone. A bleep, then her father’s voice again. ‘Fiona, I need to talk to you. It won’t wait till the morning.’ All her instincts told her it was bad news. The worst kind of news. It must be her mother. A heart attack? A stroke? An accident in the car?
Fiona grabbed the phone and punched in the familiar number. Almost before it could ring, it was answered. A strange voice said, ‘Hello? Who is this?’
‘This is Fiona Cameron. Who are you?’
‘One moment, please. I’ll get your father.’ There was a muffled exchange then a clatter, then her father’s voice, almost as alien as the stranger’s.
‘Fiona,’ he blurted. Then he started sobbing.
‘Dad, what’s wrong? Is it Mum? What’s happened?’ All Fiona’s professionally soothing skills vanished in the face of her father’s tears.
‘No, no. It’s Lesley. She’s…Lesley’s been…’ He forced