River of Souls (2 page)

I winced. ‘No one was implicated?’

‘The MIT closed the case after six months – no credible suspects. Their investigation was flawed.’

‘In what way?’

‘Let’s just say they weren’t quite thorough enough.’

‘And that’s why I’m here?’

‘The girl’s started remembering details. Her mother’s insisting the Met reopens the case.’

I held her gaze. ‘Solving it would be a tall order, after letting it go cold for months.’

‘We can’t afford to fall out with Whitehall. The order’s come from the commissioner himself.’

‘He thinks the Shelleys would go to the press?’

The CO looked uncomfortable. ‘This is about limiting damage to the Met’s reputation. I’d like you to work on the case for six weeks, starting immediately. Support the family and look for new leads. If nothing comes to light, we’ll close it down permanently.’

‘That isn’t possible, I’m afraid. I return to my hospital consultancy next month.’

‘Your boss has given the go-ahead. He’s prepared to release you.’

I leaned back in my chair. ‘Why me? You’ve got a whole building full of consultants.’

‘The girl’s mother’s read your book,
Understanding Violence
. She asked for you personally, and I think she’s right. You’re the best person for the job, Dr Quentin. You’ve got an excellent reputation.’

Despite her flattery, it irritated me that the decision had been removed from my hands. The CO was fixing me with an intent stare, and my chance of a holiday was slipping away, but I was already hooked. I wanted to know why the Murder Investigation Team had marred their reputation over such an important case.

‘When do I start?’

Jenkins looked relieved. ‘This afternoon, if possible; the girl’s mother wants to meet you. There’s a desk for you on the first floor.’

‘I’ll need the crime file.’

‘My assistant will bring it down. I appreciate you stepping in at such short notice; let me know how I can support you.’ Her expression grew more serious as I prepared to leave. ‘The problem with having a high profile is that people start requesting your help, Dr Quentin. You become a victim of your own success.’

The CO’s comment baffled me. It sounded like she was reflecting on her own position, not mine. Her job as the leader of a national organisation placed her head well above the parapet, and the weight of public scrutiny seemed to be telling on her. She started checking her phone before I’d left the room, attention already shifting to her next urgent task.

The desk I’d been allocated was in an open-plan office at the end of a dark corridor. The room contained at least fifteen workstations, but it was almost empty, apart from a few bearded men who appeared completely immersed in their work. I realised that I’d been ambushed. Many psychologists waited their whole lives to be invited to work for the FPU, but this case was daunting. If no new evidence emerged, my next six weeks would be spent consoling a well-known politician and his distressed wife. Despite her promise of support, the CO seemed to expect me to work entirely on my own. There would be no assistant to fall back on as I ploughed through past evidence, and my new colleagues appeared too busy to acknowledge my existence. The elderly man hunched over the desk opposite gave a vacant smile when I introduced myself, then focused again on his computer, as if the prospect of small talk embarrassed him.

The CO’s assistant delivered the crime file at half past ten. She looked glad to hand over the thick ream of paper, placing several kilos of confidential facts in my hands. The reports confirmed Christine Jenkins’s damning assessment of the investigation. It had stalled soon after it began. Interviews with the Shelley family had been cursory, which convinced me that the senior investigating officer had worn kid gloves because of the minister’s position. Under different circumstances, the police would have tested the family’s stories to destruction, aware that most violent crimes are carried out by family members, lovers or spouses. I flicked through the file with a growing sense of amazement: the investigators had taken the relatives’ alibis almost entirely on trust. Timothy Shelley had claimed that he was with a colleague in Brighton, preparing for a political conference, when his daughter had been attacked. The girl’s mother and older brother said they had spent the evening together at the family home. Closer attention had been paid to the victim’s boyfriend at the time, Jamal Khan, and to a convicted killer called Shane Weldon, recently released from Brixton Prison for murdering a woman and casting her body into the Thames. The SIO had pursued both men doggedly, but found no forensic evidence linking them to the case. I scribbled their names in my notebook. My first priority would be to interview each family member to build a picture of the victim’s social environment, before the profiling process could begin.

I was about to put the reports back when a manila envelope slipped from the folder. It was filled with photos. The first picture showed a tarnished triangle of metal, either copper or bronze, covered in a green patina. There was no information to explain where it had been found. The next photo was a portrait of Jude Shelley at around twenty years old. Her heart-shaped face wore a relaxed smile, light reflecting from her wide brown eyes. She looked pretty and untroubled, as though her life had been full of pleasures. The third image was harder to understand. A raw oval was attached to the same slim neck, but everything else had changed. There was nothing to guide my journey across the blur of exposed veins and bone. Most of the girl’s face had been removed. Her lips had gone and so had her nose. One brown, lidless eye stared back at me, unable to close. Even though I’d counselled patients with life-changing disfigurements, I’d never seen such terrible injuries. I pushed the photo back into the envelope, then stared out of the window as the reality of my task hit home.

3

The crime file was locked inside my briefcase as the taxi edged through the Pimlico streets into a roar of traffic. The city seemed to be spinning out of control. I’d spent the last six months working at Northwood Psychiatric Hospital, deep in the Berkshire countryside, and London had shifted into fast-forward during my absence. Pedestrians marched along Grosvenor Row at breakneck speed, as though their existence depended on absolute punctuality. Half-built skyscrapers dominated the view south from the Embankment, the shell of Battersea Power Station still waiting to be transformed into an oasis of deluxe apartments. The riverside to the west was a sheer wall of glass. Factories and warehouses had been replaced by rows of transparent tower blocks. But the Shelleys’ house was insulated from modern development, buried deep in the heart of Chelsea, the neighbourhood perfectly preserved for three hundred years. Georgian houses clustered around a garden square filled with rose-beds and cherry trees.

I wondered who owned the neighbouring houses as I sheltered from the rain in Heather Shelley’s porch: fading rock stars, probably, and Russian oligarchs. It surprised me that Mrs Shelley opened the door herself rather than sending a housekeeper. She was in her forties, a blonde version of her daughter before the attack, with the same heart-shaped face, but the shadows under her eyes were too dark to conceal. She reached out and grasped my hand.

‘Thanks so much for coming.’

There was a warm northern burr to Mrs Shelley’s voice and I studied her again as she led me along the hallway. I’d seen her on the news when her husband was re-elected, an archetypal politician’s wife, giving the camera a glacial smile. Today she seemed far more human. She wore jeans and a navy blue jumper, a small silver crucifix resting on her collarbone, suede boots even scruffier than mine.

While she made coffee, I glanced around her kitchen. It was large enough to house every state-of-the-art appliance under the sun. A framed photo hanging on the wall showed a family that looked immune to adversity. Heather and her husband sat in a sunlit garden with Jude and a dark-haired young man who I guessed was her brother. He was equally good-looking, but had a heavier build and darker skin tone, his smile more cautious. The Shelleys all looked glossy with health, relaxed in each other’s company.

Heather sat opposite me at the table, picking at the skin around her nails. ‘Where do you want me to start?’

I gave her a smile of encouragement. ‘Wherever you like. I’ll need to interview each of you, but perhaps you could begin with some family history. How did you meet your husband, for example?’

‘Tim and I met at Oxford.’ She swallowed a deep breath. ‘I suppose we were chalk and cheese. He’d been to Eton, but my parents ran a greengrocer’s in Leeds. I’d won a scholarship to study medicine.’

‘Did you ever practise?’

‘I never qualified. Tim’s career took off, and I wanted to be at home with the kids. It was the logical choice.’ Her voice was matter-of-fact, but I wondered whether she’d ever resented sacrificing her career.

‘Your daughter studied law, didn’t she?’

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, voice catching as she spoke. ‘She did a year of voluntary service in India after leaving school. It made her decide to specialise in human rights. Jude didn’t deserve any of this; she wanted to make a difference. She had so many friends.’ Her outburst petered into silence, and my sympathy doubled. One more piece of bad news would be enough to shatter her fragile coping mechanisms.

‘Can you tell me why you wanted a forensic psychologist to work on your daughter’s case?’

‘We need someone who understands this kind of violence. The Met were hopeless. My husband insisted on the top people, but they went round in circles. They focused on Jude’s boyfriend, but I was never convinced. I only met Jamal twice, but he seemed crazy about her.’

‘Did Jude keep in contact with any other ex-boyfriends?’

‘I don’t think so, but I doubt she’d tell me. My daughter’s always been a private person – losing her independence has been terrible for her. She’s never been home since it happened.’

‘What does your husband think about her case being reopened?’

Heather’s expression hardened. ‘Ask him yourself, if you can track him down.’

‘His job must be very demanding.’

‘It’s his escape route; he buries his problems under a mound of work.’

Her openness shocked me. Within five minutes she had revealed the strain in her marriage to a total stranger. ‘Is your daughter’s health improving?’

Heather’s gaze locked onto mine. ‘Jude was on the waiting list for a face transplant, but she’s too weak for such a huge operation now. Last week she spent twenty-four hours in intensive care. The only thing keeping her alive is the dream that her attacker will be caught. She’s terrified he’ll hurt someone else.’

‘Your whole family must have been affected very deeply.’

‘Our son’s taken it worst. Guy had a breakdown afterwards. He only went back to art school at Easter; he’s still very vulnerable.’

I scanned my notes. ‘You and Guy were together the night of the attack, weren’t you? Can you tell me what happened before the police called?’

Her shoulders tensed. ‘Nothing unusual. I cooked him a meal around seven, but I was feeling under the weather. I had a bath and was in bed by nine. Guy decided to stay rather than go back to his flat, because Jude was coming over in the morning. They wanted to catch up.’

‘Do you know how your son spent his evening?’

‘He was working on an art project.’

‘Would it be possible to speak to him?’

‘Not today.’ Her face clouded. ‘Guy won’t find this easy, I’ll have to prepare him.’

‘I’ll keep the interview short, I promise. Was Jude living at home or in halls of residence when the attack happened?’

‘She shared a flat with her friend Natalie, but she always came home for the holidays.’ Her eyes were brimming again. ‘We’re all so worried. She’s got an infection she can’t shake off.’

‘Maybe the case reopening will give her a boost.’

‘That’s what I’m praying for,’ she agreed quietly.

‘Could I see Jude’s room while I’m here?’

Heather balked at the idea at first, but after some gentle persuasion she led me up to the top floor. She stayed outside on the landing, as though she was reluctant to invade her daughter’s territory. The bedroom walls were a delicate shade of pink, a pin-board held Polaroid snaps of teenage faces in various stages of delight, bookshelves loaded with Stephenie Meyer and J. K. Rowling. I’d been expecting rows of heavyweight law journals, but the space was more suitable for a child than an undergraduate studying human rights. Even though the family must have cleared her apartment, no evidence of Jude’s adult life was on display. The room felt like a monument to the pleasures of youth. Her wardrobe held an array of glitzy party dresses, hanging in perfect readiness, as if time might suddenly lurch backwards and render her whole again.