River of Souls (9 page)

‘So he was working at speed?’

She nodded vigorously. ‘Definitely, or the shock of the attack would have killed such an elderly man before he hit the water. It takes effort and forethought to remove someone’s face so neatly.’ Her eyes glittered with interest.

Lindstrop showed us the piece of glass she’d removed from the priest’s wrist on our way out. It was more beautiful than it had looked in the crime scene photo: a pale blue circle, with embossed markings, its edges delicately curved. It looked ornamental, but I couldn’t guess its age or how it had been used.

‘What do you think it is?’ Burns asked.

‘Goodness knows. I’m a pathologist, not a historian. It was attached by a reef knot, double-tied. The victim would have struggled to do that himself.’

She ushered us out, clearly keen to start her next autopsy. I pointed at the inscription above the door before asking what it meant.

‘A rough translation is, “This is the place where death rejoices to teach those who are still alive.” A fine sentiment, but my schedule allows little time for celebration.’ She pointed at Burns. ‘You owe me a drink for rushing your victim to the top of my list.’

‘Text me, Fiona. I’m at your disposal.’

She hurried away, leaving me convinced that I would make a poor pathologist. Lindstrop’s eyes shone with excitement at discovering the reason for a fatality, but death rarely made me feel enthusiastic. In an ideal world, I would never have to attend another autopsy. Burns looked equally fazed, the colour slowly returning to his face. But even now, that unwelcome itch of attraction was still there.

Burns’s Audi was parked three blocks away, and I was glad of the exercise, fresh air scouring the taste of formaldehyde from my mouth. Apart from a few grumbled comments about the autopsy, he was monosyllabic on the way to the police station on St Pancras Way. I noticed that the place hadn’t changed since my last visit. The walls of the reception area held the same laminated warnings not to smoke, swear or behave abusively towards staff. Burns filled two cups of coffee on our way through the staff room, without bothering to check if I wanted one. He seemed to assume that normal business had resumed. By the time we reached the meeting room, rage was flooding my system, and I was hanging on to my professionalism by the skin of my teeth. The sourness of my expression probably explained why he kept his tone formal.

‘I’m glad you’re working on this, Alice. I need all the help I can get. I went to see the Right Honourable Timothy Shelley the day after the priest’s body was found, but he was just as slippery as I remembered.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘His answers sounded like he was rehearsing soundbites for the TV. Owen had been his family priest for over twenty years, but there was no sign of real grief.’

‘That’s how he seemed to me too. His wife and son say he doesn’t do feelings; he’s about as repressed as they come.’

‘Have you found any fresh information on Jude’s attack?’

‘Not really. So far I’ve assessed her twice, interviewed relatives and two of her friends.’

‘Did they give any new angles?’

‘There’s a family conflict she won’t discuss, to do with her dad, and I think she may have experienced violence before. The first investigation didn’t even scratch the surface. The MIT took Jude’s family members’ word about what they were doing on the night of the attack. They didn’t even probe deep enough to find out about her previous boyfriends.’

‘I’m going back over the alibis and everything they missed.’ Burns shifted forwards in his seat. ‘I hope you haven’t told the Shelleys you think the police mishandled the investigation.’

‘Of course not. But I’m certain it’s someone closely connected to the family. Father Owen’s death happened the same day Jude’s case reopened; only her relatives and the authorities knew about it.’

Burns looked sceptical. ‘You think her attacker waited a whole year to kill the man who baptised her?’

‘He throws his victims in the river, doesn’t he? Maybe he sees it as a kind of baptism.’

‘I can’t believe a family member attacked Jude. It was them who asked for the case to be reopened.’

I shook my head. ‘Only Heather Shelley wanted it. Her husband thinks Jude can’t handle the stress.’

‘But you don’t agree?’

‘To survive this long, Jude’s tough enough to deal with a few intrusive questions. She’s cagey at the moment, it’ll take time to win her trust. I think you should run a background check on the man she saw before Jamal Khan; his name’s Paul Ramirez. I’ve arranged to visit him. He’s a law lecturer at King’s College.’

Burns scribbled the name down, then met my gaze again. ‘All we’ve got so far is that Father Owen visited Jude regularly and he was killed by the same method; Lindstrop confirmed that today. He was alive when he went into the river, just like Jude. I’m not convinced the link to the family’s as direct as you say. It could be any freak who’s got it in for the cabinet minister, targeting his daughter, then his priest. The date of the second attack could be a coincidence. Security’s been stepped up round Shelley and his wife and son, in case they’re next on his list.’ He rubbed his hand across his jaw. ‘You realise we’ll face a lot of intervention, don’t you? Whitehall don’t want the press knowing the two investigations are linked. They’re paranoid about a media storm.’

‘That could slow things down.’

Burns checked the clock on the wall. ‘Do you want to get something to eat and go through the details?’

I took a moment to gather myself. ‘Maybe I should explain how I intend to work on the case. I’ll attend meetings, answer emails and phone calls, and perform my professional role to the best of my ability. Anything else is off limits.’

For once Burns’s cockiness had disappeared. He opened his mouth to speak but swiftly closed it again. His skin was paler than it had been during the autopsy, and his silence continued when I said goodbye.

11

The man drives back through the darkness to the woman’s house. He pulls on sterile gloves then unlocks the door with keys stolen from her bag. She’s conscious now, lying exactly where he left her, gagged and bound on the living-room floor, terror visible in her eyes. He loosens her gag to let her breathe more easily.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she splutters. ‘Is it money? Take my bank card. I’ll tell you the code.’

‘That’s not the reason. You know too much, Amala.’

‘What do you mean?’ She tries to scream, but he wads her mouth more thickly this time, so no words can escape.

‘You should have kept yourself clean.’

He takes off his coat, then pulls the knife from his briefcase. For a second the room spins. This is the part he hates most, but the river’s voice can’t be ignored. He gazes around the room to steady himself. There’s a wooden dining table, clothes drying on the radiator, a brass crucifix on the wall. The room smells of washing powder and furniture polish. He raises the knife and steels himself for the first incision. The woman stares back, refusing to pardon him. He’s praying it will get easier after he makes the first cut, but his body refuses to comply. Her face is too perfect to destroy. He drops the knife, then staggers to the kitchen and vomits into the sink, tears spilling from his eyes. He shivers as he swabs away the mess with bleach. It shakes him to the core that he can’t bring himself to follow the river’s instructions.

The man runs upstairs and rummages through the cupboards. When he returns to the living room he forces himself to kick the girl’s skull hard, rendering her unconscious again. He lays a suitcase on the floor and lifts her inert body inside. It sheathes her form like a chrysalis, her knees tight against her chest. He waits until the street is silent, lights out in every house, before heaving the case into his arms and carrying it to the boot of his car.

His sense of failure haunts him as he drives south. The river whispers a string of complaints, but he feels stronger by the time he reaches Wapping. He parks his car on the wharf, the suitcase twitching as he cradles it. The Victorian streetlights cast a dull glow, but there’s no one around, the pub locked up for the night. He staggers down to the foreshore, wishing he could walk away, but he can’t let himself fail again. His heart thunders as he undoes the zip. The rope around the woman’s feet has worked loose and she kicks out wildly.

‘Stop that,’ he snaps. ‘The river’s waiting for you.’

The man reties the rope, then binds the earthenware bottle tight around her waist with a leather string. He abandons his shoes before wading into the water. The river smells different tonight, metallic as rust, silt oozing under his feet. The woman’s limbs are rigid as he drops the noose around her neck, tightens it, then loops it under her arms. It takes seconds to attach the rope to a mooring ring on the wharf, the river’s voice rising in ecstasy. She thrashes like a line-caught fish, and suddenly it becomes easier to do his duty. The blade of his knife slices her face again and again. Then he forces her body underwater, her limbs jerking in a frenzy of movement. The river’s ecstasy sends a sheen of light flickering across its surface until the last bubbles disappear.

12

I went for a run in Southwark Park early on Friday morning. The buildings around the perimeter looked like they had been soaked in grey emulsion, the boardwalk slick under my feet, but at least my body was glowing when I got home. I was halfway through my bowl of muesli when a text arrived from Will, inviting me to dinner that evening. The prospect of meeting his mysterious new girlfriend again was so intriguing that I accepted immediately.

One of Guy Shelley’s statements kept nagging at me. He believed that his father’s job exposed him to danger from members of the public. Keen to check whether he was correct, I put through a call to the House of Commons just after nine a.m. Tinny versions of Vivaldi and Mozart squeaked in my ear, then the receptionist announced that she was putting my call through to Giles Moorcroft, the minister’s diary secretary. The voice that greeted me was a pleasant Etonian drawl, professionally polite, and I remembered Shelley’s sombre dark-haired assistant at the hospital, hovering in the background.

‘How may I help?’

‘Could I make an appointment with the minister please? My name’s Dr Alice Quentin.’

‘Can I ask the nature of your enquiry?’

‘I work for the Forensic Psychology Unit. I met him this week at the Royal London when he was visiting his daughter.’

There was a long pause, as though he was trying to place me. ‘I’ll check the minister’s schedule and call you back. I’m afraid you may have to wait some time.’

‘It needs to be on Monday, please. This is a matter of urgency.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Maybe I imagined it, but I thought Moorcroft groaned quietly. Perhaps the minister had instructed him to keep me at arm’s length, to show his lack of support for the reinvestigation. The thought crossed my mind that he might be avoiding me because he had harmed his daughter, but that seemed too preposterous. Shelley’s time must have been in constant demand.

My phone rang as I was about to leave. My heart raced as I answered, on high alert for a call from Lola summoning me to her flat. The woman’s raw East End accent was difficult to hear. Background noise was drowning it out - a car engine revving, then a babble of voices. It took me a few seconds to realise that I was talking to DI Tania Goddard, Burns’s deputy.

‘Can you come to the Prospect of Whitby pub straight away?’ Her speech was so terse she seemed to resent wasting a single word.

‘What’s happened, Tania?’

‘One of our officers has been found dead on the riverbank. Burns is asking for you.’

She rang off while I was still processing the idea that the killer might have struck again. I pulled on my waterproof coat and hauled my bike into the lift; there was no point in attempting to drive through the rush-hour traffic. The rapid ten-minute ride to Wapping gave me little time to speculate. The river was at high tide, blacker than ever, vanishing between the ancient buildings on Wapping Wall.

The street outside the Prospect of Whitby was a hive of activity. It had been cordoned off by three police vans and a traffic patrol car. The Met had commandeered the pub, which was heaving with officers. When I headed inside, the dark wooden panelling seemed to absorb every speck of brightness, as though natural light never penetrated the leaded windows. My eyes scanned the interior looking for Burns, but caught instead on a sign over the bar stating that the Prospect was London’s oldest riverside pub, open since 1520. The interior had been salvaged from old ships; the bar was made of pewter, walls supported by old barrels and masts. I was still studying the ancient flagstone floor when a young woman appeared. She was almost as small-framed as me, with cropped red hair, her pixie-like face splitting into a smile of greeting. It was Angie Wilcox, one of Burns’s detectives from his days at Southwark. The last time I’d worked with her had been on the Crossbones case, but her ability to talk ceaselessly without ever drawing breath was unchanged.