“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.