Killing the Shadows. Val McDermid
disturbed her departmental administrator, but not Fiona. She’d never been interested in woolly minds.
Some sixth sense made her look up and an unself-conscious smile spread across her face as she took in Kit’s burly frame strolling down the aisle between the ranks of seats. He returned her smile and leaned his forearms on the edge of the platform while she finished tidying her lecture notes into her briefcase. ‘Nice close,’ he said. ‘I like the image of the sociopathic killer as Peter Pan. The boy who never grew up.’
‘Now, that’s an interesting comparison. With a bit of work, I could make something of that. Captain Hook and the Lost Boys. Wendy as mother figure…Thanks, Kit, I think I’ll steal that. So, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ Fiona asked, descending to his level and brushing his cheek with a kiss.
‘I’ve been going like a train today, and I ran out of steam about an hour ago. And I remembered that there’s a launch party for Adam Chester’s new book at Crime in Store at six. I thought I’d swing by on the off-chance that you fancied joining me there.’ Kit fell into step beside her.
‘You haven’t forgotten we’re having dinner at Steve’s tonight?’ Fiona asked.
‘We’re not due there till eight. I thought we could swag a few glasses of publisher’s plonk on the way. Show my face and remind everybody that I’m still a contender. Up to you, love. If you’ve got too much on, I’ll meet you at Steve’s later.’ Kit put his arm round her waist and gave her a quick squeeze before they emerged in the atrium of the psychology faculty building.
Fiona considered for a moment. Nothing more pressing than marking essays should lie in store for her, and those could wait until morning. ‘Let me check my office, and if nothing urgent’s come up in the last hour, you’re on.’
The mystery bookshop was crowded with a mixture of authors, collectors and fans of Adam Chester’s complex and beautifully written 1950s police procedural novels. For this, the tenth in the series, his publishers had reprinted all his previous paperbacks with new jackets, the misty photographs evoking the dark and brooding ambience of the books. His editor and publicist stood proudly beside a display of the covers, flashing encouraging smiles at the potential buyers.
As soon as he walked in the door, Kit was immediately surrounded by an enthusiastic trio of women who turned up at every crime fiction event in the capital and who apparently adored him above all other writers. Fiona left him to it, edging through the crowd and helping herself to a glass of white wine. Kit was a professional; he’d give the women enough of his time to reinforce their view of him as approachable and amusing before disentangling himself and settling in for a good gossip with friends and colleagues. For herself, she was happy enough to take a back seat and watch him work the room.
‘He’s such a pro,’ an admiring voice murmured in her ear. Fiona immediately recognized the genteel Edinburgh tones of Mary Helen Margolyes and turned to greet her with a kiss.
‘Mary Helen, what a delightful surprise,’ she said, meaning it. In spite of hating her melodramatic Jacobite historical mysteries featuring Flora Macdonald’s younger sister, Fiona had a soft spot for Mary Helen, not least because of her acerbic tongue. ‘What drags you away from the Highlands?’
‘Oh, I had to come down to talk to some dreadful wee man at the BBC who’s making a TV series out of the Morag Macdonald books.’
‘But that’s good news, isn’t it?’
Mary Helen’s face puckered as if she’d bitten a sour apple. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew who they’ve cast as Morag.’
‘Tell me the worst.’ Fiona had spent enough time around writers to know exactly what was required.
‘Rachel Trilling.’ Mary Helen’s voice was fat with disapproval.
‘Isn’t she…?’ Fiona struggled to make sense of the name. ‘She’s the lead singer with Dead Souls, isn’t she?’
Mary Helen’s eyebrows rose. ‘My God!’ she exclaimed. ‘At last I’ve found somebody who’s heard of her. But then, what can you expect from a producer who thinks a white cockade is a tropical bird?’
‘Oh, Mary Helen, I am sorry,’ Fiona said.
‘I’ll just have to follow Kit’s perennial advice and take the money and crawl,’ Mary Helen said with a grim little smile.
‘Apart from that, how’s life treating you?’
‘It would be infinitely better if you’d pass me another glass of wine,’ Mary Helen said. Fiona obliged, but before they could say more, the shop manager began his introduction to Adam Chester. Adam spoke briefly and wittily about his new book, then read a fifteen-minute extract. A few questions from the floor followed, then it was time for the signing.
As the purchasers formed a queue by Adam’s chair, Kit glanced across the room. ‘Uh-oh,’ he said to Nigel Southern, the twenty-something writer of comic noir short stories he’d been talking to. ‘I better go and rescue Fiona from the clutches of Mad Mary Helen.’
Nigel raised his perfectly groomed eyebrows. ‘I’d have thought your lady was more than a match for the Highland Harpie. What’s it like, anyway, living with somebody who spends her days poking around the perverted fantasies of psychopaths?’
‘Funnily enough, we don’t talk about it that much. We’ve got a life,’ Kit said. ‘Anyway, that’s not what she does. She uses computer analysis, not psychoanalysis.’
Nigel shook his head pityingly. ‘I couldn’t be doing with that. I mean, it must be like living with the control freaks’ control freak. Isn’t she always telling you you’ve got it wrong?’
Kit gave him a good-humoured punch on the shoulder. ‘You haven’t got a fucking clue how the grown-ups live, have you? Listen, Nigel, if you are ever lucky enough to meet a woman with half the brains, the wit and the looks of Fiona, do yourself a favour. Go on a training course before you ask her out.’ Without waiting for a reply, Kit squeezed through the crowd and enveloped Mary Helen in a bear hug. ‘How’s the queen of the glens?’ he demanded, landing a resounding kiss on her cheek.
‘All the better for seeing you and Fiona. If I’m honest, the main reason I came to this do tonight was in the hope of seeing a few cheerful faces. This business with Drew Shand has cast a terrible pall over the Scottish crime-writing community. We’ve all been phoning each other every day for the last two weeks, making sure we’re still alive.’
‘You’re such a drama queen, Mary Helen,’ Kit teased her.
‘I’m serious, Kit,’ Mary Helen protested. ‘It came as a terrible shock to all of us.’
‘But surely there’s no threat to any of the rest of you?’ Fiona asked. ‘I thought the police were pretty much convinced he’d been killed by somebody he picked up that night in the gay bar, what’s it called?’
‘The Barbary Coast,’ Kit supplied. ‘So unless you’ve got a secret life in sadomasochistic society that we know nothing about, the chances are you’re safe,’ he continued, putting a reassuring arm round Mary Helen’s shoulders.
‘Would that I could lay claim to anything so exciting,’ Mary Helen said dryly. ‘But it’s not that straightforward, is it? I mean, Drew was killed in the precise manner in which he’d murdered one of his fictional victims. It’s hard to avoid the conclusion that whoever killed him had some sort of morbid fascination with the genre. You know about these things, Fiona. Wouldn’t you agree with me?’
Put on the spot by Mary Helen’s sharp blue stare, Fiona shrugged. ‘Hard to say. I know no more about the case than anybody else who’s read the papers and surfed the Net.’
‘You must have some sort of theory,’ Mary Helen pressed her. ‘After all, this is your field. Come on, don’t be shy, you’re among friends here.’
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