River of Souls (19 page)

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘I’ve seen more relaxed environments. Why’s everyone working so hard?’

‘The Met keeps threatening to cut our funding, so people are worried about their jobs. The boss likes results in double-quick time.’ He slipped into a stage whisper. ‘And there are plenty of weirdos here. Most of us make Freud look normal.’

‘You think so?’

‘Christ, yeah.’ He nodded vehemently. ‘There’s a woman on the second floor who’s been looking for the Sutton strangler for four years; dealing with the worst murders ever committed. She wanders about chatting to herself. Spend too long here and you go crazy or start wearing sandals all year round.’

I scanned the glum-faced individuals in the café, noticing their dubious footwear, and couldn’t help giggling. But that was all the levity the afternoon provided. When the CO called me to her office at three o’clock, an overweight man of around sixty was standing by her desk, sparse grey hair combed flat across his scalp, his skin reddened by anger or high blood pressure.

‘Alice, this is Mr Leigh, the director of Whitehall’s press office,’ Christine said. ‘He wanted to meet you.’

The man’s handshake was so cold it felt like he’d rinsed his hands in ice water, his eyes glittering like chips of jet. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, Dr Quentin, most of it positive. But questions have been raised about your approach. In future, please don’t contact the minister directly. Submit questions to my office and we will obtain answers for you.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

‘The tone of your inquiry has been judged inappropriate. If you approach Mr Shelley again, Whitehall will press for your removal.’

I gazed at him, too flabbergasted to reply. Mr Leigh’s collar was at least one size too tight, double chin trapped behind the starched material. Our meeting seemed to be increasing his tension, his overstretched skin turning puce. Eventually I found enough calm to speak.

‘My work doesn’t just concern the minister’s daughter. Two other victims have been killed. My colleagues from the Met will interview Mr Shelley again, and I may need to speak to him too. This is a murder investigation; nothing can obstruct it until the killer’s found.’

Mr Leigh’s small eyes bored into my face. ‘It would be unwise to ignore my advice. If you trouble Mr Shelley with any more intrusive questions, I’ll complain to the commissioner myself.’ He swept out of the room, leaving an odour of outrage and wet gabardine.

‘Admirable self-control.’ The CO gave a wry smile. Maybe she hadn’t realised that I was capable of standing my ground, but it took several minutes for my anger to neutralise. It was clear that Whitehall and Scotland Yard were united in their desire to protect the Shelleys from scrutiny. Christine’s body language was jittery as we reviewed my work, her heel tapping a staccato rhythm on the lino. It made me certain that the top brass were passing pressure down from above.

At five o’clock I caught the Tube to Euston to collect the crime-scene objects from the Met’s Forensic Services Lab. It was hidden behind Euston Square, a Seventies concrete box that was yielding to decay, metal window frames patchy with rust. The basement smelled of rat droppings and damp, as the forensics officer wrapped each item in foam, then placed them inside a polystyrene box, like family heirlooms. The woman wore her white hair in an austere bun, and looked alarmed by my request to take the items away.

‘These are classified objects. I’ll come with you, then they’ll be brought straight back here after your meeting.’

She insisted on carrying the box herself while I hailed a taxi. Our only moment of small talk came during the journey, after I mentioned that the history lecturers at King’s were a bunch of well-meaning oddballs.

‘I can imagine,’ she replied. ‘My brother’s an academic and he struggles to do up his shoelaces.’

When we arrived at King’s she was still cradling the box protectively against her chest. Jake’s office was filled with faces I recognised from our expedition along the riverbank. There was a hubbub of chatter, Mark Edmunds’s soft baritone throbbing in the background. Only hatchet-faced Hugh Lister seemed immune to the excitement. It still looked like he’d been spat out of bed on the wrong side.

‘Is it okay if this lot see your finds, Alice?’ Jake asked.

‘The more the merrier,’ I replied.

Lister led the way to a classroom packed with benches and scuffed wooden tables. His face was grave as he removed the objects wearing sterile gloves. It reminded me of Fiona Lindstrop conducting an autopsy, focused and methodical, leaving nothing to chance. He laid the sharp piece of metal that had been tied to Jude’s neck on a foam-lined tray and leant down to examine it. The lines on his face were more deeply carved than I remembered as he frowned in concentration.

‘A Bronze Age arrowhead, from around 1000
BC
, in poor condition. The patina’s oxidised, it’s been in the water so long. It needs careful cleaning.’ Lister cast me a scathing look, as if I’d brought him substandard goods. But his expression brightened when he picked up the opaque glass circle that had been tied to Father Owen’s wrist. ‘Flux glass, made from sand and lime. It’s Roman, probably early sixth century. This would have been the centrepiece of a necklace. It’s like one we found at London Bridge; unbelievable it’s still in one piece.’

The rest of the team took turns peering down the microscope, while Lister waited, arms crossed. His engrained frown suggested that it had been years since he cracked a smile, irritability pouring from him in waves. Only Jake seemed unperturbed by his bad mood.

‘Come and look, Alice,’ he said. ‘The scratches are typical of ancient glass from a river sacrifice. It’s been damaged by rubbish the tide’s dragged over it for centuries.’

Under the microscope, the glass was covered in minute cracks and whorls, and the same pattern covered the earthenware glaze of the bellarmine. Lister confirmed that all the objects had come from the Thames, which made me see the killer differently. He possessed enough patience to wander the muddy shore, collecting the treasure yielded by each high tide. But why did he feel compelled to return it with the corpses of his victims?

When I looked up again, the room was emptying. Now that the identifications were finished, the historians were retreating to their dusty world of books and artefacts. Lister turned his harsh gaze in my direction.

‘Can we keep these pieces for our archive?’ he asked.

The forensics officer looked horrified. ‘Not while they’re police property.’

Lister scowled deeply but didn’t reply, his worn-out jacket flapping behind him as he left.

‘Hugh’s not great on social skills, I’m afraid.’ Jake gave her an apologetic look. After she’d gone, he turned his attention to me. ‘Let’s get out of here and find somewhere to eat.’

I waited in the corridor while he collected his things. The office next door belonged to Hugh Lister and I couldn’t resist peering inside. There was no sign of him, but the room was packed to the ceiling with belongings. Towers of books were stacked against the wall, papers spewing from a filing cabinet’s open drawers. A pillow and a rolled-up sleeping bag sat on his desk, and lying in one corner there was an aqualung with a wet suit thrown across it. Lister seemed to have forced all his worldly goods into a room less than four metres square.

‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’ Mark Edmunds appeared beside me. ‘Management keep asking him to clean up, but it never happens.’

‘How does he get to his desk?’ I asked.

‘With difficulty, I imagine.’

‘Why does he keep an aqualung in there?’

‘Hugh’s been diving shipwrecks and reefs for years. He made a TV series about it in the Nineties.’

I finally realised why Lister’s face was familiar. I’d watched his programmes as a child, featuring marine excavations in exotic seas, hunting for buried treasure. Back then he’d been a typical enthusiast, explaining each find in excitable tones. Either he’d produced a different persona for the camera, or some tragedy had killed his optimism. Edmunds was still standing attentively at my side, short blond curls swept back from his face.

‘Would you like to come to the pub? A few of us are having a drink, you’d be welcome to join us.’

‘That’s kind of you, but I’m waiting for Dr Fielding.’

‘In that case, enjoy your evening.’

His face flushed with embarrassment before he marched away. I was still wishing I’d handled the encounter better when Jake reappeared.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘I think one of your PhD students just invited me on a date.’

‘Which one? I’ll give him a written warning.’

‘Mark Edmunds.’

Jake gave a slow nod. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

The Strand was full of escapees from shops and offices as we headed for Charing Cross. The air was dense with drizzle, but it wasn’t heavy enough to bother with an umbrella.

‘I wish this would stop. I hate being permanently drenched.’

‘I don’t,’ Jake said, grinning. ‘You look great soaked to the skin.’

Salvador and Amanda’s was packed with couples poring over trays of tapas, so I left him searching for a table and queued at the bar. He raised his eyebrows when I delivered our drinks.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘Tequila with a shot of lime.’

‘Good choice. I haven’t drunk that since I left Cancún.’

‘Tell me about Mark Edmunds.’

His eyebrows rose. ‘He’s got mental health issues; apparently the guy suffers from paranoia. It was a gamble, pairing him with Hugh, but they connect pretty well and studying has a calming effect on Mark. To be honest, I couldn’t refuse his PhD application.’

‘Why?’

‘His family gave the department a big donation last year.’

‘But he struggles with social situations?’

‘We’ve only had one major incident – last term he threw a punch at another student. Mark thought the bloke was mocking him. Afterwards he apologised profusely and there’s been nothing since. He’s a workaholic, though, which explains why he gets on with Hugh.’

The information confirmed my suspicion that the history department was even more dysfunctional than the FPU; students and staff using it to shield themselves from the outside world. I took a slug of tequila and decided on direct communication. Now that I was clear of Burns, honesty seemed like the best policy, wherever my relationship with Jake was heading. Secrecy had only led to confusion in the past.

‘Who lives with you? Your bathroom’s full of cosmetics.’

An emotion crossed his face too fast to identify: guilt perhaps, or panic. ‘I live alone. That stuff belongs to my sister Annie. She stays over when she’s in town. Did you think I had a secret romance?’ His erratic eye contact proved that he was lying.

‘Just curious, that’s all.’

‘I’d like to know more about you too. You’re not exactly open.’

‘What do you want to hear?’

‘The usual stuff: family, relationships, the past.’ For once his dark blue eyes focused on my face rather than the middle distance.

‘I grew up in Blackheath. My mother worked in a library, Dad at the tax office. He had a drink problem that we all paid for. I’ve got one brother, Will, who’s bipolar. The illness kicked in ten years ago. He’s had a bumpy ride since then, but right now he’s madly in love.’

Jake looked stunned. ‘That’s quite a life story.’

‘You can have the full psychological case study, but I’d hate to bore you.’

We picked through olives and white anchovies while we exchanged details about our relatives. It sounded like his family was on the opposite side of the spectrum from mine.

‘They’re solid law-abiding citizens. One older brother and a younger sister, both much more savvy than me. I grew up in Weybridge, beside the river. Dad’s a retired surveyor, Mum’s a lawyer. All very suburban.’

‘Sounds idyllic to me.’

‘Most of the time it was tedious as hell.’ He reached out and touched my hand. ‘Why don’t you come back for coffee? We’ve talked enough for one day.’

24

Apart from one shot of tequila, I was stone-cold sober, which helped me make judgements instead of acting on impulse. I watched Jake brewing coffee in his kitchenette, humming quietly to himself. His physique certainly gave no cause for complaint. He had the lean build of a dancer or a gymnast, and his deep-set blue eyes had appealed to me from the start. He was the opposite of Burns, whose giant scale suggested he could easily knock down walls. Jake was ideal boyfriend material: interesting, good company, great in bed. But one vital ingredient was missing. His body language told me he’d lied about living alone, and I was intrigued enough to find out why.