River of Souls (6 page)

I gave him a grateful smile. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘We’re mostly benign, with a few exceptions,’ Donnelly whispered. ‘Give me a shout if you need anything.’

He hurried away, as if it was a sin to fraternise with newcomers, but it felt good to have found an ally. When I got back to the office, a middle-aged woman stared at me across a sea of empty desks. I raised my hand in greeting but she only gave a quick nod of acknowledgement before returning to her work. At least the silence allowed me to concentrate on Jude Shelley’s file. I ploughed through dozens of witness statements and transcripts of interviews with potential suspects.

The first report concerned Jamal Khan, Jude’s boyfriend at the time of her attack. It sounded as if the MIT had been heavy-handed from the start. He was studying at home the night Jude was hurt, his alibi confirmed by his flatmate. Despite having no evidence to implicate him, he was kept in custody for thirty-six hours, and recalled to the station twice for further questioning. The next report gave more background detail. Khan had been completing a Master’s degree in social work at the time of the attack, and his relationship with Jude had lasted over a year. When I logged onto the Police National Computer, his name came up immediately. Jamal Khan had been cautioned for an assault in Tottenham five months after Jude was hospitalised, but the victim never pressed charges. I made a note of his current address and phone number and carried on leafing through the reports.

I stayed longer than I’d intended that evening. My last task was to scribble down a list of appointments for the next day. It was seven thirty before I packed my briefcase. Mike Donnelly was working at his desk, twisting strands of his beard between his fingers, so absorbed in the file he was studying that he didn’t register me at first.

‘Have a good evening,’ I said.

‘And yourself, Alice. Take care now.’

He gave me a wide smile, the closest thing to friendship that anyone at the FPU had offered so far. But his reluctance to leave made me wonder if the consultants ever went home at a normal time. The hothouse atmosphere was a reminder that constant exposure to the worst acts of violence could turn even the sanest shrinks into obsessives.

I forgot about my new colleagues when I reached the Tube. The compartment smelled of wet umbrellas, old newspaper and exhaustion. A familiar surge of claustrophobia rose in my chest but I batted it away. My thoughts returned to Jude Shelley. Her assault was different from every other case I’d worked on. The normal motives for vicious attacks on young women were sex or robbery, but Jude hadn’t been raped and her purse was still zipped inside her jacket when she was dragged from the river. The fetishistic details of the attack were identical to Father Owen’s. The style of the original assault had been replicated with complete accuracy: a mysterious object tied to the priest’s wrist, his face ruined, then the baptismal plunge into the river. Judging by his words to Jude, the killer believed in immortal souls, yet he was capable of obscene brutality. But why had the killer waited a whole year before choosing his next victim?

I remembered my mother’s hospital appointment as soon as I got indoors. She sounded out of breath when I called, Parkinson’s disease making her voice quake, as though she was shivering with cold.

‘This is a surprise, darling. It’s lovely to hear from you.’

‘How did it go at Bart’s?’

‘It was a routine check-up, nothing more.’

‘Did you see the specialist?’

She sighed. ‘He’s terribly young, still wet behind the ears.’

‘Did he say anything helpful?’

‘Not really. A lot of medical jargon, then he booked me an appointment with someone else. Passing the buck, I’d say.’

‘Can I come with you next time?’

The temperature of her voice plummeted. ‘I’m not senile, Alice. I’m perfectly capable of handling this on my own.’

‘I know, Mum, but we could have lunch afterwards. We haven’t done that for ages.’

My mother’s tone only softened when the topic changed. She chatted breezily about a documentary she’d seen on ancient Greece, and how many friends had contacted her since she’d returned from her world cruise. We’d said goodbye before I realised that she still hadn’t agreed to let me see her neurologist. Isolation had always been her modus operandi, keeping emotional contact to a minimum to save disappointment. It was a trait I kept trying and failing to remove from my own behaviour.

I took off my coat and listened to a message from my friend Yvette about the walking holiday in Scotland we’d booked for August. Then someone from Stockholm University had left a scratchy, long-distance invitation to speak at their winter conference. My brother’s message came last. Will sounded almost as calm as he’d been in the old days, before his drug habit and mental illness took hold.

‘I’m in town, Al. Want to meet at the Dickens at nine?’

I swore quietly to myself. I’d have to run to St Katharine Docks to get there on time, but visits from Will were so rare that I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. I’d only seen him twice in the last six months, and he rarely answered my calls.

It took me fifteen minutes to jog to the pub. I scanned the crowded bar for a dishevelled figure in worn-out clothes, with a ragged beard and messy dark blond hair. There was no sign of him, so I found myself a table. His low voice reached me before I spotted him. Will was almost unrecognisable – clean-shaven and dressed in brand-new clothes, deep in conversation with a woman I’d never seen before, who was staring at him like she’d forgotten how to blink. A wave of shock crashed over me. My brother hadn’t been in a relationship since his illness kicked in ten years ago. It took me several minutes to regain my composure and approach them.

‘Hello, stranger.’

Will’s face lit up. ‘Al, come and sit down. I’ll get you a drink.’ He gave me a hug then loped off to the bar without introducing me to his girlfriend.

‘I’m Nina, it’s good to meet you.’ Her voice was husky with cigarettes, softened by a rich French accent.

Her expression showed that she was making an effort, but her smile never reached her eyes. It was hard to judge her age. She was a brunette with close-cropped hair, around thirty-five, with the kind of looks the French call ugly-beautiful, her features slightly too large for her delicate bone structure. The blue edge of a tattoo was visible on her collarbone, a sentence in neat italic script, too small to read. We chatted awkwardly until Will returned, and it was clear that she was reserving all her energy for him. He seemed to revel in the attention, like in the old days when girls used to hurl themselves at him. The only difference was the time-lag between his statements, medication forcing him to think more slowly, his sky-blue eyes slightly out of focus.

‘How long are you in town?’ I asked.

‘Three months at least,’ Will said, smiling.

‘A friend’s lent us his houseboat till September,’ Nina added. ‘Then we’ll look for somewhere else.’

‘It must be great being on the water. How did you two meet?’

‘In Brighton, at Narcotics Anonymous,’ she replied steadily.

My mind raced to catch up. She was nothing like the ex-junkies I’d counselled, who emanated vulnerability. Nina was rigidly self-possessed, eye contact so intense she seemed to be daring me to make judgements. It was a relief when she went outside for a cigarette.

‘Amazing, isn’t she?’ Will sighed. ‘I knew the right one would come along.’

‘It’s great you’re so happy,’ I said, touching his hand.

I reminded myself that forecasting would be pointless. Will was far more stable than he’d been a year ago, and worrying about his fragile equilibrium if the relationship failed couldn’t protect him. It crossed my mind to tell him about Mum’s illness, but it felt wrong to sour his happiness. He had been out of contact with her all year and I’d have to choose the right moment to explain that she was ill. Nina still seemed tense when she came back. Even though I tried to put her at ease, her smile never revived.

‘What are you planning to do while you’re here?’ I asked.

‘Finish my MA dissertation. That should take a few months.’

‘What are you researching?’

‘Late eighteenth-century Romantic poetry.’ She made the statement through gritted teeth, as though the subject was too sensitive to discuss.

My brother spent the next hour chatting about his plans to find work, but Nina stayed quiet. She seemed happiest whenever Will touched her, relaxing visibly when he knotted his fingers through hers.

At eleven o’clock I rose to my feet. ‘I’d better get home. I’ve got an early start.’

‘Come and have a meal with us soon on the boat,’ Will said, beaming.

From the doorway I saw Nina lean across and kiss him passionately, clearly relieved to have him to herself again.

I still felt shaken when I got outside. It would take some adjustment before the situation made sense. Part of me was thrilled that Will had found someone, but caution told me that partnerships between former addicts rarely worked, and Nina was such a departure from the society girls he’d dated in the old days . . .

I watched the water flowing east, black and viscous as diesel. Small droplets of rain settled on my face as my hands gripped the railing, knuckles calcium-white in the streetlight. I looked at the river again, oozing towards the sea, and realised it was too late to worry. For my sake as well as Will’s, it was time to let him go.

8

The next morning was dry for the first time in days, although the weight of the air announced that the next shower could arrive in a heartbeat. Burns had sent an email requesting a meeting the following afternoon, but the prospect of working with him again still worried me. I made myself concentrate on that morning’s tasks. My first appointment was with Jude’s ex-boyfriend, Jamal Khan. Evidence from the riots four years ago was still visible when I emerged from Tottenham Hale station. Scorched bricks and broken masonry could be seen on the fronts of buildings, but the High Road was teeming with life. Middle Eastern and African shops were selling rugs and hand-printed fabrics; fruit was piled high on stalls with signs promising bargains for a pound. The houses in Bruce Grove were crying out for TLC, rows of Victorian terraces trapped behind broken gates and neglected front gardens.

The Chandos estate was a sea of beige concrete trapped between Lordship Lane and Higham Road. The only greenery in sight came from knee-high weeds thriving on the cracked asphalt. A giant mural by the entrance depicted a waterfall surrounded by lush forests. The town planners must have been hoping to bring some natural beauty into the urban landscape, but the mirage couldn’t alter reality. A maze of concrete walkways linked the tower blocks, deserted apart from a few boys slouching against walls, wearing the standard teenage uniform of grey hoodies and outsized jeans.

I realised where the local population were hiding when I reached the main square. The queue outside Chandos Community Support Centre was fifty metres long, a babble of languages spilling from the reception area. I heard French and Portuguese and an elderly man arguing with the receptionist in a rich Jamaican patois. The young woman behind the counter gave me a tired smile.

‘Take a seat, if you can find one. I’ll tell Jamal you’re here.’

Khan appeared just after ten. He was average height and neatly dressed, around twenty-five years old, black-haired with coffee-coloured skin and a serious gaze. ‘We’d better get out of here,’ he said. ‘All the interview rooms are full.’

The café he took me to was on the other side of the square. It looked like a Seventies time capsule, with lino peeling from the floor, plastic chairs and chipped Formica tables. Khan observed me coolly over a mug of tea. I could see why Jude had fallen for him. His features were classically handsome, dark green eyes surrounded by mile-long lashes.

‘Can you tell me what this is about?’ His expression gave nothing away.

‘Jude Shelley’s case has been reopened. I’d like to talk about the night she was hurt.’

‘I told the police everything back then – not that they believed me.’ Khan’s tone resonated with controlled anger.

‘You’re not being singled out, Mr Khan. All of Jude’s contacts are being interviewed.’

‘I wasn’t a contact, I was her boyfriend.’ His gaze was as focused as a laser. ‘The police treated me like an animal until my lawyer arrived. They kept me away from her for three days. My family made a formal complaint.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I know this must be hard for you, but you could help Jude by telling me what you remember.’