Читать книгу Killing the Shadows - Val McDermid, Val McDermid - Страница 20

Kit whistled softly. ‘That is seriously creepy shit.’

Fiona logged off. ‘You’re not kidding.’

‘So what’s your take on it?’

‘Probably much the same as yours,’ Fiona said. ‘He clearly planned his crime to mirror the circumstances of one of the murders in Shand’s book. Which in turn mirrors one of the original Ripper murders, apart from the gender of the victim. That he’s succeeded so accurately indicates a high degree of control and organization. His intelligence therefore is likely to be significantly above average. He has a highly developed fantasy life and would probably use violent pornography to support that. He would be unlikely to respond well to authority, so if he had a job it wouldn’t be commensurate with his intelligence, which in turn would be a source of irritation to him.’ She pulled a face. ‘But saying that is simply a matter of playing the probabilities.’

‘But what about his relationship to Drew? Is he a stalker, a jilted lover, or some sort of fucked-up wannabe acolyte? What do you think?’

She dropped into one of the chairs by the window and stared out at the city. When her answer came, she spoke slowly, feeling her way from sentence to sentence. ‘That is without doubt the most interesting question, Kit.’ She gave him a quick smile. ‘Hardly surprising that it was you who asked it. That the murderer fixated on the book and copied its crimes isn’t particularly remarkable. Often killers who display their victims’ bodies ritualistically are replicating images they’ve seen in pornography or in some situation that was particularly meaningful to them. But most sexually motivated killers would be satisfied with wreaking their havoc on any victim who broadly fitted their fantasy. To have chosen to hunt and destroy the creator of the very fiction that fuelled his desire to kill is curiously personal. And in a crime where depersonalizing the victim is often crucial to the process, it’s distinctly unusual.’

Kit ran his hands over his scalp, his face a mixture of amusement and exasperation. ‘It’s always got to be a lecture with you, hasn’t it? You still didn’t answer the question.’

Fiona grinned. ‘I sort of hoped you hadn’t noticed. If you pushed me on it, I’d probably plump for a stalker who has become obsessed with Copycat. But that’s purely speculation.’

‘So is Murder Behind the Headlines, but it doesn’t stop you reading that,’ Kit pointed out. He got up and wandered round the room. ‘It’s a bit freaky, isn’t it? The thought of somebody following Drew around like a shadow, invisible till the last moment when he shows himself. You never think of anything like that when you’re writing. That some nutter is going to read their life story into your words.’

‘You’d probably never write another book if you give that possibility space in your head,’ Fiona said. ‘Other people’s madness is not your responsibility. Come here, give me a hug.’

He crossed to her and gently pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her. She turned her face up to his. ‘There are other ways of taking your mind off things, Kit,’ she said softly as his lips came down to meet hers.

Inside the city walls of Toledo, the evening paseo was in full swing. Around the Plaza de Zocodover, people strolled in couples, families and groups, taking the evening air and catching up on the business of the day as they moved between pools of yellow light. Restaurants, many half-empty now the height of the tourist season was past, served dinner to tourists and locals, greeting their regular customers with smiles and the small change of social intercourse. The bars were doing a thriving trade, their tables full inside and out as older clients enjoyed a digestif with their coffee and the young men checked out the women gossiping and giggling in their separate groups. It was a sharp contrast to the dimly lit alleys and narrow streets that radiated out from the plaza, linking it with the rest of the city.

In one of the cafés on the edge of the square, Miguel Delgado smiled across at the Englishwoman who worked behind the reservation desk at the Hotel Alfonso VI. Two nights before, he’d engineered an encounter where he’d tripped over her handbag and knocked over her drink. She’d been with friends, so she’d suspected no ulterior motive when he bought her a drink to replace the one he’d spilled. Tonight, though, her friends were absent. For the price of another drink, he could make the down payment on his next act of revenge.

He swallowed the last of his café solo and folded up his newspaper. Careful not to draw attention to himself, he crossed to her table, inclined his head in a small bow and smiled. ‘Buenas tardes,’ he said.

The woman returned his smile, without a trace of uncertainty. Minutes later, they were deep in conversation. Delgado was back in business.