River of Souls (11 page)

‘I’m interested in her relationships with lecturers and fellow students.’

He appraised me again, his smoke-grey eyes narrowing. ‘She’s told you about us, hasn’t she?’

‘Not in detail. I’m hoping you can explain.’

The lecturer allowed a dramatic pause before speaking again. ‘Jude wasn’t just beautiful, she was the smartest student I’ve ever taught. I was dazzled by her. She set the pace from day one – it felt like there was no other choice.’

My jaw dropped. ‘Of course you had a choice. Students often get crushes on lecturers, don’t they?’

‘You’re quick to judge,’ he said irritably. ‘But Jude held all the control. When she left me I needed counselling.’

‘How did it end?’

‘She met a student from the social work department.’

‘Jamal Khan?’

His expression soured, as if the name still haunted him. I listened to him talk, surprised by the strength of my animosity. He made it sound like he had fallen prey to a seductress. I’d counselled plenty of sexual opportunists in my time, but Ramirez was deluded enough to be in a league of his own. He seemed to believe that giving his female students a sexual education was a professional duty. He delivered his
coup de grâce
as I was leaving. He stood in the doorway, blocking my exit.

‘Surely you realise that women like Jude put themselves in danger.’

‘What do you mean?’ I stared at him.

‘Sexual confidence frightens some men. They find it threatening.’

‘You seriously think Jude invited her attack by being assertive?’

The look he sent back was probably meant to be smouldering. ‘She approached me, didn’t she? Maybe she came on to other men too.’

‘I’d like to leave now, Dr Ramirez.’ He paused before taking a step back, and I had to suppress my instinct to shove him out of my way.

Adrenalin bubbled through my system as I headed for the exit. My unprofessional reaction annoyed me almost as much as Ramirez’s belief that all women were fair game. Normally I could separate emotions from work, but Jude was different. It felt like my duty to protect her interests. The rage on the lecturer’s face when he spoke of her desertion made me question whether his wounded pride could have made him attack her. It seemed like a long shot; he had no motive to attack Father Owen or Amala, and I had a growing sense that the attacks were linked to the whole Shelley family. But it would be foolish to overlook Ramirez, like the MIT team had done. I would call Burns in the morning and remind him to investigate his background and alibis.

When I reached the foyer, my gaze landed on a poster for an exhibition organised by the university’s history department, called Treasures from the River. Small print explained that the exhibits had all been salvaged from the Thames. I wrote down the exhibition organiser’s name and contact details: maybe Dr Hugh Lister could shed light on the strange assortment of objects the killer had used as calling cards.

I made an effort to forget the case that evening, taking my time to get ready. I straightened my hair and put on my favourite jeans, a blue silk top, hoop earrings and thick silver bracelets. But things took a turn for the worse when the taxi delivered me to the Prospect of Whitby. There was a yawning gap where my bike should have been, nothing chained to the railings except thin air. I stood on the pavement, cursing. The bike had cost a cool four hundred pounds and had been my pride and joy. I’d used it far more than my clapped-out car. Bolt-cutters had sheered through the chain, my padlock abandoned on the ground. After a few minutes I forced myself to get a grip: I was lucky to be alive. A stone’s throw from where I was standing, Amala Adebayo had experienced the most terrifying death imaginable. I walked back along Wapping Wall, gradually calming down. At the top of Alderman’s Stairs I paused to watch a clipper skate across the surface of the river, then hurried on through the rain.

My mood had lifted by the time I reached St Katharine Docks. Will’s houseboat was moored to the furthest jetty; a ramshackle Dutch barge called
Bonne Chance
, with rust circling her portholes and rows of plant pots clustered on her roof. A familiar sound echoed from the hold. Lola’s laugh hadn’t changed since we were at school; it still had an edge of wildness, like she’d been snogging unsuitable men and knocking back tequila all afternoon. She was curled on a window seat, wrapped in an emerald green shawl, full of
joie de vivre
despite being days away from giving birth. The Greek God looked as protective as ever. Neal’s nickname suited him: he came from a moneyed background; blue-eyed, athletic and handsome. He’d been Lola’s boyfriend for two years but still seemed afraid that someone would abduct her if he blinked. Nina was busy at the far end of the galley kitchen when Will greeted me with a hug.

‘What a gorgeous room,’ I commented.

The galley was crammed with souvenirs and photos from the owner’s travels. Hand-painted mugs and copper pans hung from hooks on the wall, utilising every inch of space. A Lloyd Loom chair stood in one corner, paint blistering from its arms. Interior designers would have described the mismatched crockery and clashing colours as the epitome of bohemian chic. It was nothing like Will’s old flat in Pimlico, which had been so minimalist that trinkets never saw the light of day.

Nina gave a tense smile as she passed round a tray of bruschetta, but at least Will seemed relaxed. He sprawled on a bench and told us how he’d spent his day.

‘I got a job finally, after a week hoofing the streets.’

‘You’re too lanky for a hoofer, my friend,’ Lola said. ‘What’s the job?’

‘Full-time server in a juice bar in Covent Garden.’ He wrinkled his nose.

‘Don’t knock it,’ she said, grinning. ‘At least you’ll never go short of vitamin C.’

Will swung round to face me. ‘What about you, Al?’

‘I’m good, except my bike just got nicked.’

‘Damn. That thing cost a fortune, didn’t it?’

‘It’s my own fault. I should have used a better padlock.’

‘How’s work been going?’ he asked.

It crossed my mind to admit that I was advising on a particularly grisly case, but it would have soured the atmosphere. ‘I’m keeping myself out of mischief.’

‘You’re not still working for the Met, are you?’ His eyes clouded with anxiety.

‘Not so much these days.’

‘Thank God. You should keep out of all that misery.’

I touched the back of his hand, then changed the subject. Will was convinced that contact with the police was hazardous, and mentioning it only fuelled his anxiety. It was easier to avoid talking about my career.

Will’s new girlfriend remained silent as the evening progressed. But Lola and Neal regaled us with a stream of anecdotes about their acting careers. Nina was leaning against the boat’s curved wall, her arm threaded through Will’s. Their relationship fascinated me. It seemed like my brother had stepped from ten years of loneliness straight into cohabitation without a backwards glance. Nina’s quiet presence obviously relaxed him, and they served up a gorgeous meal: aubergine parmigiana, followed by raspberry pavlova oozing with cream. I blinked at him in amazement. A year ago I’d struggled to make him eat a sandwich, but now he could prepare a complicated menu, and appeared to be enjoying every mouthful.

I helped Nina clear the table after we’d finished dessert. She seemed more at ease than the first time we met, no longer struggling to meet my eye.

‘What type of psychologist are you?’ she asked.

‘Clinical, mostly. I do forensic work now and then for the Met.’

‘You’re not the kind of shrink that locks people away, are you?’

‘Hardly ever. Most patients recover better at home.’

‘I’m glad to hear that.’

‘Why?’

She concentrated on stacking the dishes. ‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you another time.’

‘Sounds intriguing. I’d love to know more about your MA, too.’

‘I’m studying the poetry the Romantics wrote here in London. My focus is on Wordsworth and Coleridge.’

‘God, that makes me feel like a philistine – I haven’t read a book in months.’

‘Borrow some of mine.’ She gave a tentative smile, then nodded at the stacked bookshelves that lined the galley.

‘Thanks, I’ll take you up on it.’

I helped her carry the coffee mugs back to the table. The conversation had left me with a set of questions. She’d been more open than before, but seemed to believe that shrinks were inclined to section patients at the drop of a hat.

‘We should go,’ Lola said at eleven o’clock. ‘I’d hate to spoil the evening by giving birth on your kitchen floor.’

Will hugged us all goodbye, but Nina kept her hands safely behind her back, giving a casual nod as we walked away. Lola waited until we reached the dockside before turning to me.

‘She’s not Will’s usual type, is she? A shy one, that’s for sure.’ Her eyes glinted with concern.

‘You think so?’

‘Christ, yes,’ Neal agreed. ‘I wish she’d talk more, that French accent’s glorious.’

Lola elbowed him in the ribs. ‘You’re only noticing other women’s sexy voices because I’m a barrage balloon.’ Her grin unfurled as he grabbed her for a kiss. ‘Do you want to share our taxi, Al?’

‘Can you wait a minute? There’s something I need to do.’

They sat on a bench while I dug my Dictaphone out of my bag. I walked along the path to record the sounds of the river at night: night buses chugging towards Aldgate, wind hissing through the ornate fretwork of Tower Bridge, and in the distance a couple conducting a blazing row. After ten minutes I switched the recorder off, confident that I’d taped everything the river had to say.

‘You’re so weird. Why would you need a recording of the Thames at night?’ Lola asked.

I grinned at her. ‘Trust me, I do.’

Lola kissed me goodbye as the taxi pulled up outside my apartment block. ‘How’s the unrequited love?’

‘Fading nicely, thanks.’

Three glasses of Pinot Grigio had helped to lighten my mood. Will’s girlfriend was slowly coming out of her shell, and Lola was impatient for her baby to arrive. At least the people I loved were safe, even though another victim had lost her life. I paused under a streetlamp to check my phone. My heart sank when I saw that Burns had sent two messages: the first was terse and professional, but the second was so rambling and unclear I felt sure he’d been drinking. He was begging me to call him back so we could talk through details of the case. I hit the delete button twice, angry that he’d phoned me out of hours. But by the time I reached my flat, common sense had returned. For Jude’s sake I needed to work with Burns to the best of my ability. I sent him a business-like text arranging to meet the next day, determined not to dwell on the past.

14

At night the voices grow louder than ever. The man surveys the river, trying to ignore the calls from unquiet ghosts writhing under the water’s surface. He grips the railing and focuses on the view instead. On the opposite bank he sees the outlines of apartment buildings, the spire of a Hawksmoor church, car headlights needling the dark. The skyscrapers of Canary Wharf are half a mile away, their electricity flooding the horizon with artificial brightness.

The man turns his back on the river, but still it calls to him. There’s no way to forget what he’s done. The brittle sound of metal against bone, the priest’s skull shattering. It’s the policewoman’s face that haunts him most. Her look of terror was unforgettable. Why couldn’t she accept that the secrets she knew had to be drowned? He closes his eyes to erase the image of her body thrashing, slick pools of blood collecting on the water’s surface.

Two teenage girls sway past in high heels, arm in arm, as he returns to his car. Their spirits glint brightly, tempting him to follow. But he knows there’s no point – the river selects its own victims. He slumps in the driving seat, unwilling to go home. The calls grow louder inside his flat and sleep is impossible. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel, hands gripping the smooth leather. Already the river is begging for its next soul.

15

I woke on Saturday morning with a hangover and a dull awareness that lying in bed wasn’t an option. Burns had cancelled weekend and holiday leave until the riverside killer was found, and I agreed with the strategy. For Jude’s sake I was prepared to put rest on hold until her attacker was behind bars. After a pint of orange juice and two shots of espresso I felt well enough to call the House of Commons. I half expected to reach a weekend answer-machine, but a woman’s cool voice explained that Giles Moorcroft had failed to arrange the Monday appointment I’d requested with Timothy Shelley. I decided to call Heather later. The minister’s reluctance to talk was ringing my alarm bells; hopefully she would apply pressure until he agreed. I felt a pang of envy as I left my flat and followed the river path past Butler’s Wharf. Flocks of people were taking slow weekend strolls, despite the overcast sky. I wished I could join them, instead of returning to the Royal London.