River of Souls (37 page)

‘You’re shaking like a leaf.’ Angie appeared again at my side.

‘Give me something to do. Anything.’

She shook her head. ‘He was staying at the Kingsway Hotel, but there’s no sign of his car.’

‘And he’s not with his wife?’

‘She hasn’t seen him.’ She stood there, eyeballing me. ‘Go home. There’s nothing you can do. We’ll call when there’s news.’

‘I’m getting in the way, you mean?’

‘You look like you need a rest.’

Arguing would have been pointless. Angie was like a pit-bull terrier, prepared to fight to the death to win her point – but leaving felt negligent. My body fizzed with anxiety, as though I’d downed half a dozen espressos on an empty stomach. I stood on the pavement, waiting for my head to clear. I could have called someone, but sympathy didn’t interest me. The overriding need was to find Burns, worry building inside my skull like a new migraine.

I decided to visit Jude again, even though it was clutching at straws. Guy had fallen from the suspect list because he’d been in a holding cell when Burns was taken, but I still felt sure she could identify her attacker. She knew his voice, a man older than her brother with a familiar accent. A single, well-aimed question could send her hurtling back into the memory. The idea of forcing her to relive her terror filled me with guilt, but it might be the only thing that could save Burns.

The night sister grumbled loudly about my late arrival when I reached the Royal London, and I had to work hard to convince her to let me see Jude. The air in her suite had the cloying odour of medicine and fever, yet I found myself smiling. Jamal Khan was clutching Jude’s hand; he gave me a brief nod, then his gaze returned to her as if I’d ceased to exist.

‘How is she?’ I asked.

‘Drifting. We’ve been talking whenever she comes round.’

‘Is Heather here?’

‘Asleep in the next room. She was exhausted.’

Khan’s appearance had changed since we met in Tottenham. The tension had left his face, as if seeing Jude again had wiped the past clean.

‘Could I have a moment with her? I’ve got a question to ask.’

He rose to his feet reluctantly and a thought arrived before I could silence it. How would I cope if Burns was dragged from the river with the same horrifying injuries? Did I have the guts to sit there, willing him to recover? Jude looked weaker than ever, but her bloodshot eye still stared intently – even this close to death she didn’t miss a trick. The monitors above her bed revealed that she was hanging on by a thread.

‘You again.’ Her voice was a low rasp, but her face twitched as if she was attempting a smile.

‘Jamal beat me to it. Is it good to see him?’

‘Scary at first, not any more.’ The statement was little more than a rush of air.

‘Jude, I still need your help. We know it’s not Guy, but have you remembered anything else? Anything at all.’

‘Has another one been taken?’

‘Tell me the words he used. It doesn’t matter if they’re jumbled.’

Air gasped from the oxygen machine. ‘Souls, lonely, forgiveness, history.’

‘History? You never said that before.’

‘The river’s hungered for souls since the start of history.’ Her speech was a slow west London drawl, deeper than her normal voice, as though she was imitating someone. The tone sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

‘Is that what he sounded like?’

‘Pompous. Like he knew everything.’

A yellow light flashed on the panel above her bed as Jamal returned, her blood pressure dropping below eighty, vital signs on the verge of crashing. ‘Thanks, Jude, you’ve helped so much. I’ll come back tomorrow.’

When I left her room my own pulse quickened at the thought of Burns. The man who had destroyed Jude’s face had taken him somewhere, and he would die if I made a mistake. I forced myself to stay calm as I called Angie, but she had nothing new to report. Burns’s car hadn’t been found. I could see nothing beyond the hospital’s windows except silhouettes of empty buildings and the city’s grubby darkness. Jude had used the word history for the first time, mimicking her attacker’s opinionated delivery. And that’s when I made my decision. Even though their alibis had been checked, I had to follow my hunch and look again at the historians from King’s. I set off down the stairs with renewed energy, vaulting two steps at a time.

56

The man knows he must act fast because the detective is coming round, his voice a groggy string of expletives. He parks by his favourite bridge and wrenches open the car’s back door. Burns carries on grumbling curses, his soul bright as a halogen flare.

‘Get this fucking blindfold off me. My lot’ll be here soon, they’ll track my phone.’

‘I threw it away. Now stand up,’ the man barks. ‘Do as I tell you.’

Burns refuses to move and he has to haul him by his shoulders until his huge form spills onto the tarmac. It takes all his energy to drag him inch by inch across the walkway. A hard shove sends him falling, fifteen feet to the shore below. There’s a splashing sound as his body hits the mud, followed by a groan. The man stands still for a moment. There’s a grind of night buses in the distance, and a woman’s laughter, false and high-pitched. But the river is silent. Whatever he does now, he must cope without its guidance. All he can hope is that the conversation will resume when the new victim is delivered.

The man runs down the steps. One of Burns’s arms twists at an odd angle, as he drags his inert form into the water. His eyelids flutter as he slips in and out of consciousness. The man binds his wrists, then ties them to the scaffold cladding the bridge. The pain of Burns’s injury is waking him again.

‘Who the fuck are you? I recognise your voice.’ His feet kick out with wild strength, but the man drags the rope back and secures his legs to the iron bar. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘It can’t be explained.’ The man kneels to secure his ties.

‘My bloody arm’s broken, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘You should have followed my instructions.’

Burns gives a gasp of pain. ‘You can’t do this, someone’ll see you.’

‘Keep your voice down or I’ll gag you.’

‘What have I got? Two hours till the tide’s over my head?’

‘No more than an hour. You need to hear why you’ve been chosen first.’

‘Untie me and I might listen.’

The man beats his clenched fist against the detective’s broken arm, making him release a sharp moan. The water is already up to his knees and he’s desperate for someone to hear his story. He’s never felt more completely alone.

‘The sacrifices have a reason. The river understands because of its history, it’s always craved souls.’

Burns gives another loud cry of anger or pain. The man ties a sharp piece of metal round his neck, then gazes across the river. The water’s rising fast tonight, blacker than memory, threatening to knock him from his feet.

57

‘It’s the middle of the night.’ Jake sounded half asleep. I pictured him under his bare light bulb, mobile pressed to his ear, rubbing his eyes.

‘Someone else has been taken. I need your help.’

There was a slight pause. ‘Give me ten minutes, then come to mine.’

He was fully awake by the time I arrived, listening to me babble as he led me into his lounge.

‘It’s the detective running the case,’ I explained. ‘I know it’s a long shot, but you have to predict the next kill site. There’s hardly any time left to find him alive.’

Jake looked startled, then pulled his river map down from the wall. Outside his window the Thames snaked past, streetlights casting a glow over its oily surface. ‘So far he’s gone for Battersea, London Bridge and Execution Dock. They’re all places where human blood’s been spilt for centuries. If he’s taken the top man, this is his big finale. That would have to be at Vauxhall Cross.’

‘Why?’

‘More victims died there than anywhere else. He’d see it as the best site for a sacrifice.’

‘The search team already looked there. Now they’re working east, towards Wapping.’ I rubbed my hand across my face. ‘I’ve thought all along that the killer’s obsessed by the river’s history. The calling cards have to mean something, and your team have been looking for exactly the same objects. Can you think of anyone who could be doing this?’

Jake blinked at me. ‘You’re asking me to identify someone on my team as a serial killer?’

‘Have any of them been behaving strangely?’

His mouth twitched. ‘Mark Edmunds is the only one with mental health issues, but he told me he was leaving for a dig in York on the last day of term.’

‘Anyone else?’

There was a moment’s pause. ‘Hugh had a row with the dean last week; I heard him yelling that she had no reverence for history. It sounded slightly crazed.’

‘Where does he live?’ I remembered Jude saying that her attacker sounded pompous, as if he knew every answer, just like Lister.

‘His flat’s by Gabriel’s Wharf. But surely you don’t think it’s him?’

‘It’s worth a visit. The killer knows the Thames like the back of his hand, and Lister’s a world expert.’ I was already tapping out a message to Angie on my phone.

‘That doesn’t make him a murderer, for God’s sake.’

‘He kept calling the crime line, asking for the objects. I thought he was just an eccentric but I have to check.’

‘If you seriously think he’s dangerous, you’re not going there alone.’

I was too grateful to argue. Even though Angie would send officers to Lister’s flat, I wanted to see him myself. By now my shock about Burns’s disappearance was turning physical. Rain smeared my face as we paced towards the building; it felt colder than before, my legs weakening as we ran upstairs.

There was no answer when I rang Hugh Lister’s doorbell, but the commotion had roused his neighbour. An elderly man peered from the doorway opposite, his bathrobe wrapped tight across his chest.

‘He’s not in,’ the old man said briskly. ‘I heard him leave about seven o’clock.’

‘Do you know where he went?’ I asked.

He looked surprised. ‘Dr Lister never speaks to anyone. He comes and goes as he pleases. Has something happened?’

‘I work for the police. We need to get into his flat.’

‘He won’t like that one bit. He hates people invading his privacy.’

‘Then we’ll break down the door.’

Lister’s neighbour looked horrified. ‘Wait there. He gave me a key years back.’

I took a sharp intake of breath when we finally entered the living room. The scene was a textbook definition of hoarding. Boxes were piled to the ceiling, newspapers in vast bundles, parcelled with string. His kitchen was even worse. A crate overflowed with empty cartons and egg boxes, and the air stank of sour milk, burnt food and decay. The shrink in me wondered how much loss the historian must have endured to hide behind such an impenetrable wall of rubbish.

I turned to Jake. ‘I’m clutching at straws. Lister knows all about the crime scene objects, and his path could have crossed with Jude’s at King’s, but the police believed his alibis. There’s nothing solid connecting him with the other victims.’

He nodded. ‘I can’t see why he’d hurt anyone. Hugh’s got a temper, but he’s never seemed violent.’

My panic was leading to bad judgements. I had wasted precious time chasing someone the police had already checked. But my certainty that there was a link to the river’s history hadn’t faded. Knowing that the killer might already be completing his business made it hard to stand still. Burns could be tied to the riverbank, his murderer planning to return later to butcher his face. I took a step backwards as a police siren wailed outside.

‘Wait here,’ I said. ‘Tell the police everything you know about your team, and get them to search Mark Edmunds’s flat.’

I heard Jake protest as I rushed outside, but there was no point in taking him with me. If Burns had been left to drown, he could be stranded anywhere beside a river that stretched for miles.

58

The river is higher now, its wide sweep pulsing with energy as it races inland. The water has reached the man’s waist, but he doesn’t feel the cold. Its contact is reassuring as an embrace. The detective’s teeth are gritted as he listens, the pain from his broken arm clearly overwhelming him.