River of Souls (15 page)

By Butler’s Wharf the drizzle had become a deluge. We sheltered in a doorway, the river’s surface pitted by droplets large as pebbles.

‘Damn, I left my umbrella in the pub,’ Jake muttered.

‘Let’s wait here till it passes.’

When he leant down to kiss me it was intense enough to wipe away Burns’s image, and neutralise my anxiety about the case. Rain carried on ricocheting from the wall above our heads.

‘Come on. Let’s make a dash for it,’ he said.

He set off at a sprint, but by New Concordia Wharf his pace was slowing. Water poured from the hem of my coat as I trailed him up to the fourth floor. I stood in his living room while he went to the kitchen to make coffee; the river shore was visible from his window even in darkness, Whitechapel’s lights pulsing in the distance.

When he returned I was curled up on his sofa, admiring the view. He gave me a towel to dry my hair, but it made little difference – my clothes were saturated. With the light switched on I saw that his living room was packed with objects from his travels: small North African figurines, a hand-woven kilim on the floor, rows of brightly coloured bowls. Even the air smelled exotic, patchouli and the desert odour of baked clay. I felt sure he must have bartered for every item, or dug them from the ground. He handed me a glossy hardback with an aerial view of the Thames on the cover.

‘Handle with care. Hugh ploughed three years of obsessive research into this.’

‘I will, thanks.’ I started leafing through the pages.

‘Don’t read it now – peruse it at your leisure.’ He sat beside me, his hand closing around mine. ‘It’s still chucking down out there. I don’t think you should leave.’

‘What’s the alternative?’

‘Stay with me, obviously.’

‘There’s just one snag. I’m in love with someone else.’

‘But it’s over, isn’t it? You said so already.’

It was easier to kiss him than explain. Odd thoughts pulsed through my mind as the kiss deepened and his hand stole inside my blouse. I’d slept with two men in the last three years, and the number of times I’d had sex could be counted on the fingers of one hand. My skin was crying out for attention, even though relationships never worked for me. Jake kissed me again until I could hardly catch my breath, then he dragged me to my feet.

His bedroom was different from the lounge. It looked temporary, with little furniture except his outsized bed. A light bulb hung from a wire in the centre of the room, casting a fierce yellow glare.

‘That’s too bright,’ I said.

‘It’s perfect.’ He lounged on the bed, observing me. ‘I want to see every detail.’

Undressing for a man has always unnerved me, because I’m out of proportion. Skinny and five foot nothing, breasts a size too large for my frame. But a combination of booze and desire had made me brazen. I took my time unbuttoning my blouse, watching his eyes chase across my body, his gaze growing cloudy. When he pulled me onto his lap, the sex was quick and uncomplicated, and he was in too much of a rush to undress. The zip of his jeans chafed my hip as he entered me, my thighs tight around his waist. We came at exactly the same time, his head thrown back, muscles taut across his chest. It showed me the value of keeping the lights up high – I’d seen desire ebb and flow across his face, the way his skin flushed when he came. Afterwards he lay on his side, his arm heavy across my waist.

‘Where do these come from?’ I touched his thickened biceps.

‘Digging mainly, swimming now and then. I can’t stand gyms.’

‘Me neither.’

‘Something else we’ve got in common. Where did you get these?’ He skimmed his hand up my thigh, making me shiver again.

‘Running. I did a marathon last year.’

‘Next time I’ll come and watch.’ His hand closed around my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip. ‘I missed a few things just now. Can we try that again? I promise not to sprint this time.’

The second time was more relaxed, me on top of him, hips rocking fast then slow, refusing to let him climax. Afterwards he carried on watching me with his unfocused gaze, as though he’d lost something.

‘It’s unnerving, the way you stare.’

‘A man can look, can’t he?’

‘If you must.’

‘Take it as a compliment, Alice.’

The bright light didn’t prevent Jake from falling asleep soon after. I got up to use his bathroom and couldn’t resist nosing around his flat. It was smaller than mine, with just one bedroom but a perfect riverside view. A smear of blood was oozing from the graze where his zip had caught me so I hunted for cotton wool in his bathroom. The contents of his cabinet made me do a double take. It was crammed with every beauty product a girl could desire: mascara, Clinique eye shadow, Liz Earle foundation. Unless he regularly transformed himself into a woman, it was proof positive that he didn’t live alone.

I sat on the toilet seat to take stock. It had never occurred to me to ask whether Jake was single. For all I knew he was happily married, his wife away on a business trip. The brandy I’d drunk was starting to sour, my mouth filling with bitterness. The place was too small to share with anyone other than a partner. Sex with him had been exhilarating, but after my experience with Burns, I was in no mood for complications. I rushed back to the bedroom and retrieved my clothes before taking a last look at his perfect body sprawled across the bed. I considered turning out the light but the sudden change might have woken him. Instead I grabbed Hugh Lister’s book from his living-room table and escaped into the dark.

18

The man’s bed is empty when he wakes at dawn, his eyes bleary with sleep. For once the river is quiet. The silence frightens him; his life would be meaningless if the voices stopped. He dresses quickly and peers out of the window. The water looks the same as ever, stretching for miles, the city’s diluted history stored in its memory. He listens intently until he hears it at last: a faint whisper, calling his name like a lover, soft but insistent. He finds his coat and rushes down the steps, scarcely noticing the rain. Soon he’s at the water’s edge, no one in sight. The sky to the east is already turning pink, leaving little time to complete his task. The river’s calls coax him as he unlocks his car, odours of brine and tar enveloping him, like an exhaled breath.

It takes quarter of an hour to drive to the abandoned wharf. Builders planned to develop it and erase another stretch of the river’s memory, but luckily the foundations were too weak. There’s nothing here except condemned warehouses, holes gnawing through their roofs. The dock is home only to ducks and pigeons, but it contains everything he needs. The man picks his way between fallen tiles and abandoned scaffolding, then pulls open a metal trap door and descends the rusty steps. Even at low tide the cellar floor is drowned by water, a few rats swimming across its surface. When the warehouses were built, the basement would have been dry enough to store grain, but three centuries have seen water levels rise. The incoming tide laps the ceiling of the vast room every day, tons of water gushing through the broken windows, forcing the rats from their riverside home on a daily basis.

The man squats on the stairs to inspect the space. The river led him here days ago, and it’s the perfect hiding place. The voices are louder now, suddenly jubilant as he splashes across the uneven floor, jeans drenched to the knee. When he reaches the opposite wall he leans down to inspect his handiwork. Two metal brackets are embedded in the bricks. The man pulls hard to test them, relieved that they still hold his weight. The tides have left them intact. It’s impossible to yank them from the wall. He pictures himself following the river’s instructions. Its voice is growing impatient, demands harder to ignore.

A new sound spills through the window, a church bell pealing six a.m., chimes resonating from the opposite bank. The man’s sense of guilt quickly fades. Religion helped him once, but it’s a long time since he lost his faith. The river’s instructions are all he can rely on now. Everything else has abandoned him.

19

Lola looked tired when she opened her door at eight on Monday morning. Since the start of her pregnancy she’d been waking early, inviting me to breakfast several times a week. Her cat-like eyes observed me closely as she kissed my cheek.

‘Been partying, Al?’

‘A touch of insomnia, that’s all.’

‘Liar.’ She smirked at me. ‘You’ve been shagging that policeman out of your system, haven’t you?’

There was no point denying it, so I kept my mouth shut. Lola’s uncanny ability to read my mind had irked me ever since secondary school. I watched her rubbing her back while the kettle boiled.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Hormonal. I’ve cried enough salt water to raise the sea level.’ She rested her head on my shoulder. ‘Don’t say anything kind, it’ll only set me off again.’

I carried the tray into the living room and she wolfed down a croissant without bothering to chew.

‘I’m huge, but I can’t stop stuffing myself.’ She curled up on her chaise longue, her green dress stretched tight across her bump, a torrent of wild red curls cascading across her shoulders.

‘You still look glorious, for what it’s worth.’

The compliment seemed to be the final straw, because she burst into tears, cheeks flushed with exertion. All I could do was sit there clutching her hand.

‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’

She blotted her eyes with a tissue. ‘Neal’s gone to an audition. We had a huge row before he left; he’s still refusing to be at the birth. He says he’s scared of flaking out. You won’t let me down, will you?’

‘Of course not, I made you a promise.’

She was soon back to normal. Her outbursts were like tempests, powerful but quickly blown over. ‘Tell me about your love life, Al. I need distraction.’

I helped myself to more coffee. ‘There’s not much to report. I’ve been seeing a history lecturer, but it’s a non-starter.’

‘How come?’

‘His bathroom’s got more beauty products than Boots.’

‘Maybe he’s into personal grooming.’

‘Eye shadow and blusher? And sometimes he looks at me like I don’t exist.’

‘But he’s good in bed?’

‘Hell, yes.’

Lola gave a dramatic shrug. ‘So ask about the crap in his cabinet and find out one way or another.’

She was right, of course. But I couldn’t see myself rushing to Jake Fielding’s flat to confront him about his absent lover. I changed the subject quickly, and spent the next hour listening to Lola’s birth plan. It included soft music and lavender oil instead of anaesthetic. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about my month on a maternity ward during med school: in all likelihood she’d end up yelling for an epidural after three hours, like everyone else. By the time I got up to leave, her mood had brightened.

‘Thanks for listening, Al. Sorry I’m such a misery guts.’

‘At least I got a sumptuous breakfast.’ I gave her a tight hug then set off down the stairs.

I still felt calm when I reached the FPU. My ability to separate personal from professional issues had revived. All that mattered was finding Jude Shelley’s attacker: so long as I could deliver my work commitments, my private life was unimportant. Even the solemnity of the office felt less unnerving. A row of grey faces glanced up at me, then swiftly returned to their computer terminals. Apart from Mike Donnelly, no one had responded to my overtures with more than a few monosyllables. I was longing to learn more about their work because some of the senior consultants were working on famous cold cases, but everyone seemed too busy for idle conversation.

I flicked on my computer and concentrated on my profile report. It was less than four pages long, even though I’d included every fact at my disposal. All three attacks carried the same idiosyncrasies, and the only clear link between the victims was the Shelley family. Father Owen had known Jude since he baptised her twenty-three years ago, and Amala Adebayo had worked as the children’s nanny. The attacks appeared to have nothing to do with criminality as none of the victims had been robbed. There was no overtly sexual dimension and the time lapses between the bouts of violence were unusual. The killer had waited almost twelve months before striking a second time. It still struck me as odd that his violence had resumed on the same day the original case reopened, as if he had received a warning. But Burns’s team had checked that the only people who had known were his family and the authorities.

I still couldn’t rule out the possibility that one of Jude’s close relatives had attacked her. I scanned the computer screen, flicking back through the evidence. The police had spoken again to Timothy Shelley’s colleagues, who had confirmed his presence in Brighton on the night Jude was attacked. Heather and Guy’s alibis were more questionable. Their recollections of how they had spent the evening differed, and they relied on each other to corroborate their stories. But Heather’s involvement seemed unlikely. She had insisted on having the case reopened and had no motive to attack her own daughter. I could imagine Guy’s emotional volatility turning into violence. And it still seemed possible that an unknown killer had developed an unhealthy fixation with Jude, extending his obsession to people she cared for. Or maybe his obsession was with the minister, and anyone in his orbit was vulnerable. Now that his appetite had revived, he was working at speed, striking twice in less than a week. He might have killed more victims in the interval since Jude was mutilated. If his MO was consistent, he could have cast them into the river, their undiscovered bodies washed out to sea.