“I’ve also got no budget,” Steve said bitterly. “I’m supposed to be pursuing a discreet, deniable investigation here, which means I’ve got hardly any bodies to speak of and even fewer resources. There’s no way I can mount the sort of operation you’re suggesting, even if I thought I could justify it.”
“Maybe it’s time to call in your markers,” Kit said. “There’s got to be some of your team that owe you big time. Or feel like they owe Susan Blanchard and her family. Not to mention all those coppers that are smarting at what the judge had to say. I bet a few of them wouldn’t mind giving you the odd bit of unofficial unpaid overtime. Fuck it, if all you need is somebody to sit outside his house in a car, I’m up for it.” He grinned. “Never say die, Stevie.”
Steve shook his head. “You put me to shame, you two. Fiona spends hours analysing Horsforth’s shitty operation, and you offer to doorstep the number one scumbag in the capital. And all I can do is sit and whinge about how hard it’s all going to be.” He straightened his shoulders unconsciously. “Thanks, both of you. At least now I’ve got a new line of inquiry to get people energized.”
Kit raised his glass. “To a result,” he said.
Steve gave a wry smile. “To the right result.”
It was after midnight when they got home. Kit announced he was too wired to sleep and too mellowed on Steve’s wine to write so he was going on line to see if any of his international playmates were around on one of the several multi-user computer games he treated as a way of winding down. “Seven o’clock on the East Coast,” he mumbled as he wandered through to his office. “Should be somebody out there ready to be killed.”
Fiona climbed the stairs to her attic. She’d drop off her papers in her office, then head for bed and a blissful seven hours of sleep. The winking red eye of the answering machine gave her a moment’s pause as she turned to leave. Ignore it or hear it out? Duty won over desire, not least because there was obviously only one message.
It was Salvador Berrocal, his confident tones deadened by the soundproofing. “I thought you’d like to know that we have identified a suspect in the two Toledo murders,” he said. “I am sending you the details via e — mail, but I wanted to let you know as soon as possible that we have made progress.”
“Yes!” Fiona clenched her right hand and punched the palm of her left. Now she was as restlessly awake as Kit. Two swift strides took her to the computer where she accessed her e — mail. There were half a dozen messages, but only one that interested her. She downloaded it and opened it immediately.
From: Salvador Berrocal [Sberroc@cnp.mad.es]
To: Dr. Fiona Cameron [fcameron@ psych.ulon.ac.uk]
Subject: Toledo consultation
Dear Dr. Cameron,
Finally we have managed to procure the details that we needed to make progress. And so we now have developed what we believe will be a viable suspect. His name is Miguel Jose Delgado. He is a bachelor and is twenty-nine years old. Until two months, he was the owner of a small general store. The shop sold mostly groceries to local people. The business was failing, which Delgado believed was a result of the city centre residents being forced out into the suburbs. He lived in a small apartment behind the shop. The owners of the building wanted to sell it to an American hotel chain. The resistance was led by Delgado. According to locals, he spoke with great violence against the proposed development. He claimed that tourists were a cancer eating away the real life of Toledo. Interestingly, one witness said he was saying often that he wasn’t going to ‘bend down to be fucked in the ass’ by the Americans. So, two months ago, the landlord found out that Delgado was going away overnight. When Delgado came back, his shop was boarded up and he could not gain access to his apartment. The landlord had moved all his possessions and the stock of the shop into a new apartment about three miles south of the city. They gave Delgado the keys to his new apartment and ‘a large sum in cash’ and told him he could no longer run his business from their building. Delgado was not much liked by his neighbours or his customers and that probably has more to do with why his business was doing badly. They describe him as ‘sometimes surly and unwilling to be helpful’, although some say he could be charming enough if he wanted to, especially if he got on to his pet subject, which was the history of Toledo. He lived alone and had no girlfriend that we can discover. So, you will see that he is a close fit on the profile but also that he is appropriate to the geographical profile as well as the psychological one. We have only one problem. We are unable to discover where Delgado is living. He has never been seen near his new apartment. In fact, two weeks after he was to move in, the neighbours called the landlord about the smell. When the landlord’s men let themselves in, they found that all the perishable goods from the shop had gone bad. The one good thing is that in spite of our failure to track him down, the killer has not yet attacked another victim. Once again, I must thank you for your help. Without it, we would still have no idea who we are looking for. I will keep you informed of the progress of our search.
With best wishes, Salvador Berrocal.
Fiona reached the end of the message and smiled. At least one police officer looked like he was headed for the right result. She’d been nervous that the next time she’d hear from Berrocal would be when he reported that another foreigner had been killed. But for some reason, Delgado — if he was indeed the killer had temporarily stopped.
Either that or they just hadn’t found the body yet.
Whatever, there was nothing she could do about it. Fiona switched off her computer and headed downstairs. As she turned the last corner in the stairs, she saw Kit standing in the doorway of his office, a sheet of paper in his hand and a worried look on his face.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
He looked up, his eyes wide and troubled. When he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically high in pitch. “I’ve got a death threat.”
SEVENTEEN
Kit held the sheet of paper out to Fiona. Gingerly, she took it by the top left-hand corner. It was a single sheet of A4 paper, folded twice to fit a standard business envelope. There was nothing to distinguish it from any other computer-generated document. Standard font, nothing complicated about the layout. All of this Fiona took in first, bracing herself before she read the words. Kit Martin, you are a thief of other people’s creative endeavour and a traducer of other people’s reputations. You steal what you cannot yourself make. And your lies deprive others of what is rightfully theirs. Your work is a feeble reflection of other people’s light. You have striven to ensure that competition is driven from the field. You take, you destroy, you are a vampire who sucks the blood of those whose gifts you envy. You know this to be true. Search your pathetic grimy soul and you will not be able to deny what you have deprived me of. The time has come for you to pay. You deserve nothing from me but my contempt and my hatred. If killing you is what it takes to grant what is rightfully mine, then so be it. The hour and the day will be of my choosing. I trust you will not sleep easy; you do not deserve so to do. I will enjoy your funeral. From your ashes, I will rise like a phoenix.