River of Souls (18 page)

‘A letter from a member of the public perhaps, or an unpleasant email?’

‘That’s not unusual; constituents often criticise their MPs.’

‘Including Mr Shelley?’

He replaced his glasses. ‘I’m not at liberty to share private information.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll ask him myself. I’m just trying to find out if anyone might be targeting his family.’

‘The minister works under considerable pressure. Sometimes that makes people a little thoughtless towards those closest to them.’ Moorcroft delivered his cryptic speech slowly and with full eye contact, as though he was transmitting a coded message. Then he returned to his work, remaining silent until Timothy Shelley blustered into the room at ten o’clock, exuding bonhomie.

‘Forgive the delay, I’m afraid they’re a fact of life here. Come on in.’

His office was considerably plusher than his underling’s. It contained a huge mahogany desk, and a suite of sofas for ministerial powwows. The walls displayed beautiful artworks, including a Hockney landscape vibrating with sunlight, which must have been worth a fortune. Shelley looked exactly as I remembered, pink-faced and blessed with an aura of absolute entitlement, wearing a placatory smile.

‘How can I help, Dr Quentin?’

‘I’m still gathering information. I wondered if anyone has ever threatened you while you’ve been in post.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Did Giles tell you about the incident at my constituency office?’

‘He’s too discreet. I couldn’t get a word out of him.’

He gave a satisfied nod, as if his assistant’s loyalty was a matter of pride. ‘A man threatened me the April before Jude got hurt. When the police investigated, he’d given a false name and address and they couldn’t track him down. But it didn’t strike me as particularly serious.’

‘Do you remember what he said?’

Shelley’s gaze evaded mine. ‘I’m afraid not. He seemed rather unhinged.’

‘And that’s the only incident?’

‘One or two unpleasant phone calls, but nothing personal.’

Shelley went on a charm offensive after that. He regaled me with anecdotes about threats his colleagues had received, including a junior minister who had almost had his house burned down. It seemed odd that even though his daughter was gravely ill and two people in his immediate circle had been killed, he seemed emotionally removed, just as his wife had predicted. I was about to thank him and leave when I remembered Guy’s comment the previous day.

‘I don’t mean to pry, but your son mentioned something about family secrets. Can you think what he might have meant?’

Shelley’s smile faltered. ‘Guy’s always believed in conspiracies. It’s part of his creativity, I suppose. The only secrets in my family are open ones, like the fact that he’s adopted.’

‘Can you think of any other secrets that might affect your family?’

Anger flared in his eyes. ‘Shouldn’t you be finding out who attacked Jude, not putting me through the third degree? Inspector Burns questioned my family at length the evening after Father Owen died. He seems to think we’re existing under some kind of curse.’

Shelley’s character revealed itself in the depth of his frown. Under his smarmy exterior, he resented criticism, and his aggression helped me understand his assistant’s statement. If anyone crossed him, I felt sure he would treat them abominably. The door swung open before I could reply and Moorcroft entered the room, head bowed.

‘Time for your next appointment, Minister.’

Shelley gave a crisp nod. ‘I’d appreciate it if you spoke to my wife about these matters from now on, Dr Quentin.’

Moorcroft escorted me back to the lobby in silence, but I handed him my card as I said goodbye. ‘Please contact me if you remember anything unusual about the months before Jude’s attack.’

I felt sure he was longing to say something, but loyalty held him back. He gave a tense smile before slipping the card into his pocket furtively, as if that gesture alone could get him fired.

23

I thought about Timothy Shelley’s ability to bury his feelings as I arrived at the Royal London. Jamal Khan’s claim that Jude and her father had been locked in a secret feud had stayed with me. I was still wondering what Shelley had done to upset his daughter when I saw Burns, standing by the hospital’s reception desk, glowering. His expression only softened by a fraction when he spotted me.

‘You’re late, Alice.’

‘By approximately three minutes. Sincere apologies.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Did your team check Timothy Shelley’s alibi for the night Jude was attacked?’

He nodded. ‘One of his assistants shared a car with him down to Brighton. Shelley went to his room alone around nine p.m., to rehearse his speech. The call came through to the hotel about three a.m., but he wasn’t in his room. He said he’d left his mobile there and gone for a walk in the hotel grounds. Apparently he was sleepless, thinking about the conference the next day.’

‘If you wanted to put him in the frame he could have driven to London at nine p.m., attacked his daughter and been back in Brighton two hours later.’

‘You’ve got a vivid imagination.’

‘The whole family’s lying. Shelley told me he worked with an assistant until midnight before going to bed. Guy and Heather have different versions of how they spent their evening too. She told me she cooked him a meal, but he says she went to bed early with hay fever.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘We need to know why none of them are telling the truth.’

Burns gave a curt nod. ‘I’ll talk to Shelley again, and see what I can get out of him.’

‘I’ll speak to Heather and Guy. Shock could have confused them all, but I’d like a clearer picture.’

We signed in at the reception desk and headed for the first floor. Burns’s lumbering stride was slower than normal, as though he was reluctant to reach the destination.

‘Does Jude know I’ll be with you?’ he asked.

‘I phoned her doctor yesterday.’

The set of Burns’s jaw revealed that he was nervous, not that he’d have admitted it. He always retreated behind a wall of Scottish machismo when his emotions were exposed. We waited at the nursing station by Jude’s room, and the sister crossed our names from her list. She was a pretty Indian woman with a sympathetic smile, as if she believed that visitors deserved as much tenderness as patients.

‘She’s very weak today. I’m afraid she may not be able to see you; I’ll have to check.’

‘Is her chest infection improving?’ I asked.

‘Not yet.’ Her smile faltered. ‘But she’s a fighter. If anyone can beat it, she will.’

The sister’s words hit home. Jude’s life hung in the balance; she was weakening every day, but we were no nearer finding her attacker. Burns refused to meet my eye as we stood on the landing, still as a method actor preparing to go on stage. After a few minutes the sister returned, her expression concerned.

‘The consultant says you can have ten minutes, maximum.’

The room felt different this time. Jude normally kept the light dim, but now it flooded the room, the ventilator beside her bed hissing quietly. The air smelled of medicine and the bitter tang of aloe. She lay motionless against a mound of pillows, and I could tell she was past caring who saw her injuries. All her strength seemed to have vanished. Behind me I heard Burns take a sharp intake of breath.

‘Who’s my new visitor?’ Jude’s voice was a raw whisper, followed by a gush of oxygen.

‘DCI Burns from the Met,’ I said. ‘Do you remember him?’

‘I don’t think so. Do we know each other?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Are you well enough to talk?’

‘That’s all I’m good for these days.’ The next sound was a cross between a sob and a laugh. ‘Guy told me about Amala. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? It’s the same man.’

‘I’m afraid that’s possible.’ I sat beside her bed. At this distance there was no avoiding the extent of her wounds, thick sutures holding her skin grafts in place. Each one must have been harvested from a different part of her body, a patchwork of skin types and textures. Her words emerged from the raw slit where her lips should have been.

‘Did he cut her face too?’

Burns stepped forwards. ‘It was a different kind of attack.’

‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘He did, didn’t he? He hurt her just as badly.’

‘She died of drowning, but her facial injuries were severe.’

‘I knew it.’ Her voice was shrill with distress, a monitor bleeping above her bed, her pulse hitting a hundred and twenty. ‘Why the hell haven’t you caught him? Can’t any of you do your jobs?’

‘We will, I promise you.’ Burns’s reply was calm. ‘It’s just a matter of time.’

‘You can help us, Jude,’ I said, ‘by talking openly about the past. Before the attack you’d had a row with your dad. Can you tell us what that was about?’

‘Just the usual father–daughter stuff.’

‘Like what?’

‘We disagreed about the internships I’d applied for. Nothing serious.’ Her words came out in a breathless gush and I could tell she was hedging.

‘Jamal said you were really upset.’

Her shoulders twitched. ‘He misread the situation.’

‘What about your relationship with Amala? Were you close?’

‘Very.’ There was a pause while she steadied herself. ‘I confided in her. She was amazing to me and Guy when we were kids.’

‘Did she mention anyone threatening her?’ Burns asked.

‘Never. Last time she talked about how she loved working for the police.’

Her blood-oxygen monitor had fallen so low that the sister was bound to throw us out at any minute. ‘Look, Jude, we’ll have to let you rest soon. Have you remembered anything else about your attack?’

‘It was weird, after you left. All I could smell was cheap fake tan, and I kept hearing the strain in his voice. I thought about it for hours.’

‘What about facial details? Can you remember any of his features?’

Her voice weakened. ‘I keep trying, but I can’t see him.’

‘Maybe you’re trying too hard. Let the memory float back, in its own time. There’s something else I wanted to ask. Can you think of anyone you ever fought with? Even someone you knew as a child.’

She sighed. ‘I thought I was surrounded by friends, but someone hates my guts.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He’s attacking people I love, isn’t he? This is my fault.’

‘You shouldn’t think like that,’ Burns said quietly. ‘There’s no clear picture yet. It could be nothing to do with you.’

Jude’s eye roamed in his direction. ‘I know your voice, don’t I? Come nearer so I can see you.’ When Burns walked forwards her hands fluttered at her sides. ‘You’re the one who stayed with me in the ambulance.’ Her voice was quieter now, her bloodshot eye focused on him. ‘If you’d let me die, Father Kelvin and Amala would still be alive.’

The sister whisked in and politely shooed us outside, giving Burns no time to reply. By the ground floor he was still white-faced and silent, so I fetched him some water from a dispenser.

‘I made a mistake,’ he muttered. ‘With injuries like that, maybe I should have let her go.’

‘What choice did you have? You had to call the ambulance.’

‘I could have taken my time. If I’d left it five minutes she’d have slipped away. Her quality of life doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘Don’t punish yourself, Don.’

‘She must hate my guts. I would in her shoes.’

He sat there in mute discomfort and I reached out to touch his hand. He looked shocked for a moment, then his fingers closed around mine. Anyone passing through the foyer would have assumed we were a pair of grieving relatives. The gesture probably helped me more than him, because it neutralised my anger. Giving Burns comfort put me back in control. I reminded myself that he was the type of man who would fight tooth and nail to protect his kids, which was his strongest draw. The best thing I could do was let him get on with it and hide my feelings from plain view.

It was a relief to spend the rest of the day in silence, while my colleagues at the FPU slaved over their desks. When I bumped into Mike Donnelly in the café that afternoon he produced his usual encouraging smile.