Jamie pushed through the throng even as the group surged forward to look. Human nature was ever to gaze at whatever horror lay beyond. Some of them pulled out their phones to take pictures.
She reached the edge of the railing that protected the ruined foundations and looked down. In the middle of the courtyard, a man lay spread-eagle on his back. Jamie automatically processed the crime scene in her mind, as she had always done in the police, scanning the area and noting the details of the body. The man's arms were a ruin of bloody flesh, the skin flayed off with a very sharp knife by the look of the clean wound edges. He wore the remains of a shredded cassock, slashed around the torso, the white collar still visible. His mouth was stuffed with white feathers and more lay around him, stained by his own blood.
"Call the police," Jamie shouted, her tone authoritative. "We need to secure the scene."
As Magda pulled her phone out, Jamie ran down the steps towards the man. The blood around him was fresh and he could still be alive. Stepping carefully so as not to disturb the area too much, Jamie bent to feel the pulse at his neck. There was nothing, but there still might be hope. She had to try.
With the cuff of her sleeve over her fingers, she tugged the feathers from his mouth, the goose down stuffed so deep into his throat that she couldn't get them all out.
After a moment, Jamie stopped. There was no way this man was alive. His face was frozen in agony, his eyes bulging and bloodshot. His thick dark hair was shot through with a streak of white. Jamie was aware of the lack of life in him. His body was still warm but the essence of it had gone, leaving only this ruined flesh. It was now more important to preserve the scene for those who could look into his death and bring him some kind of justice.
Jamie wiped away the prick of tears, frustration at another wasted life and the fact that she would not be on the police team that would investigate his murder. Her statement would be taken, as she had once taken them, but she would be on the outside this time.
Who was this man and why was his body left here? Was it a statement to the community and, if so, which part?
Jamie looked up at the faces staring down at her. At one end, the frightened faces of the sex workers and at the other, the hard expressions of the Society for the Suppression of Vice. Sirens rang out in the London night as the police arrived on the scene.
***
Dale Cameron stood in the shadows of Winchester Square, his heart pounding as the rush flooded through him. The sense of almost being discovered gave him an added thrill. He knew he should leave but he couldn't bring himself to move just yet. The initial scream of panic at discovery of the body had given way to a low hubbub. He could hear someone weeping. He breathed deeply and let the sounds sink into his consciousness as he savored the aftermath of violence.
He clutched a dark blue waterproof bag in his fist. It was designed to keep things dry while kayaking on the river, perfect for the collection of his trophies. It was heavy now, weighed down by the bloody skin inside. He stroked the outside of the bag with tentative fingers. The kill was nothing compared to the harvest of his bloody keepsakes.
Sirens burst through the noise of the disturbed crowd. Dale snapped out of his reverie. The sound belonged to his other self, his daytime self, and his phone would soon be ringing with the news.
A slow smile crept across his face.
As a Detective Superintendent he could even stay and help process the crime scene. The officers on duty would respect him even more for doing grunt work far below his station. Part of him was tempted by the idea – part of him wanted to skate so close to the edge that they might even suspect him. But no … He shook his head. There was too much at stake now and he was so close to his goal. These small purges were nothing to what he had planned for Southwark. For now, he needed to get away from the scene before it was locked down.
Dale walked through the back streets of London Bridge to his car with a confident stride. Not too slow, not too fast. Nothing that would draw attention to himself. He placed the bag in the trunk and got into the driver's seat, giving himself a moment before completing the final phase of his ritual.
He leaned over and opened the glove compartment, then reached in and pulled out a pot of Ponds Cold Cream. He unscrewed the top and lifted it to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled the floral scent.
Dale smiled. His mother had had such beautiful skin, with the translucence of Egyptian alabaster. He used to watch her as a boy as she smoothed cream into her arms and hands, massaging it slowly until it had all disappeared, leaving only a trace of scent in the air. One day, she had turned to him, the sunlight from the window a halo around her golden hair.
Come here, darling. Let me put some on you
. He had stood between her knees as she took a dab from the fragrant jar. The lotion was slick on her palms as she rubbed it between them and then she took his arm and touched him with cool fingers. Goosebumps rippled over Dale's skin at the memory, the sensation clear in his mind, a moment of happiness. But then … his face darkened and he screwed the top back on the cream, slamming it back into the glove compartment. He would not sully the perfect memory tonight.
High ceilings of paneled glass supported by the green pillars of Borough Market allowed the light to flood into even the inner corners of the building. There had been a food market here since the eleventh century, but these days it was aimed more at the high-end restaurants and well-paid foodies of the city. Jamie walked past an artisan baker, who piled sourdough and spelt loaves next to tempting sticky fudge brownies. She inhaled the smell of fresh bread and baked sugar goodies, sweetness lingering on the back of her throat. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation, but the problem with Borough was the sheer volume of choice. It was hard to know what to choose when every stall contained another tiny world of culinary pleasure.
Jamie was exhausted from last night. The police had arrived quickly and taken statements from those people who remained, although many had vanished into the darkness when the body had been discovered. Because of her history and contacts, her own statement had been processed quickly. She had been able to leave before the others, but she couldn't get the image of the man's face out of her mind and sleep had been hard to come by.
She weaved her way through the market, navigating the early shoppers, glancing at the abundance of produce as she passed. One stall was covered with baskets of mushrooms: wild, golden chanterelles and purplish pied bleu lying next to the thick trunks of king oysters. There were butchers with fresh game, carcasses of ducks and deer hanging down outside the shops where men with heavy hands served packets of paper-wrapped choice cuts. Proud chefs sold specialized wares – cider from a local orchard, honey made from urban Hackney bees, cured prosciutto from the happiest free-range, acorn-fed pigs. There was also a row of street-food stalls and coffee carts at the back near Southwark Cathedral, and Jamie wound her way through the crowds in that direction.
She was beginning to find her way around after moving into Southwark last month. Her old flat in Lambeth had become unbearable after Polly's death, memories slamming into her whenever she walked in the door. Jamie had wept in the empty room before locking it for the last time, but her daughter was free now and Jamie needed to live as Polly had asked her to. She had handed over all her old cases after resigning from the Metropolitan Police, and closed that door as well. But she couldn't bring herself to leave London. The city held her tightly, curled itself within her.
Jamie caught sight of Detective Sergeant Alan Missinghall at the edge of the throng, his six-foot-five frame dwarfing the people around him. He was struggling to hold two coffee cups along with several bags brimming with pastries. Jamie grinned as she hurried through the crowds towards him, happy that some things never changed. Missinghall always made food a priority.
"Let me help with that," she said. He turned at her approach.
"Hi, Jamie. Good to see you."
Missinghall handed her the pastries and bent to kiss her cheek. Jamie was slightly bemused by the affection, something he would never have shown on the job. They had worked together on a number of cases and he had been junior to her at the time, as a Detective Constable. He had covered her back during a couple of dangerous investigations and was probably her closest friend in the Met by the end.
"Let's go sit in the churchyard with these," she said, leading the way through the gates and into the grounds of Southwark Cathedral, where they found a free bench in a patch of sun. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment sipping coffee as the busy market bustled behind them and the calls of the market traders echoed across the little square.
"How's business then?" Missinghall asked, as he started into the second cheese and ham croissant. He leaned forward, making sure the crumbs fell to the pavement below. Pigeons came pecking within seconds and cleared up his scraps. This area was teeming with bird life, drawn by the rich pickings from Borough Market.
"It's quite a different side of the city, that's for sure." Jamie smiled. "But it's interesting work so far, especially round here. I got a few clients within days of putting up the new website. Thanks for putting the word out."
Missinghall grinned. "Recommending you is good for my reputation. You're quite the celebrity, to be honest. And that pic on the website is a hit."
Jamie blushed a little. She had used a picture of herself in black leather, standing with arms crossed against her motorbike, black hair loose in the wind and the City of London in the background. Her gaze was no-nonsense and capable, with a hint of challenge. It was a look she had never been able to fully embrace when she worked as a Detective Sergeant, but now she worked as a private investigator, she could do whatever she liked.
It was hardly idyllic, however, and Jamie pushed down her guilt at lying to Missinghall. Her new business as a private investigator was only just paying the bills, and the cases were dull and repetitive. Prenuptial investigations and matrimonial surveillance were not quite as fascinating as homicide cases. It seemed that the pull of death was in her blood, echoing the pulse of the city. She missed the all-consuming cases in the way that an addict missed a fix – with the sure knowledge that it was killing as she indulged. She missed the camaraderie and the sense of doing something good for the community – though she didn't miss the paperwork, or Detective Superintendent Dale Cameron.
"And what about you, Al?" Jamie said. "How's life as a DS?"
"The promotion's alright and the missus appreciates it. But to be honest, I miss the way we worked together. I guess I'll get used to it soon enough. Nothing stays the same in this city …" Missinghall's voice trailed off as he looked up at the Gothic cathedral in front of him. "Well, nothing except the architecture anyway. I'm glad we can still meet up though, and you know I'm happy to help out if I can."
Jamie took another sip of coffee, letting the hot, bitter liquid soothe her tired brain.
"Do you know anything about the homicide that happened here last night?"
Missinghall chuckled. "I thought you'd want to know more about it when I saw your name on the witness statements. We off the record?"
"Of course. I'm part of the community here now and I was there, so …"
Missinghall nodded.
"Turns out that the murdered man, Nicholas Randolph, worked here at Southwark Cathedral. He was part of the community outreach team, working closely with the toms. There have been suggestions that he used to be a sex worker himself, but not confirmed as yet. You might be able to find that out more easily than we can. People round here are pretty tight-lipped about that kind of thing."
Jamie frowned. "What about his arms? They looked flayed."
"We got some pictures from the next of kin. Randolph had full-sleeve tattoos that revealed quite a bit about his past. A combination of religious iconography and gay-pride images."
Jamie raised an eyebrow. "You can see how some might have objected to that. Any suspects?"
Missinghall shook his head slowly. "You know I can't talk about that." He paused and looked up at the sky. He took a deep breath and Jamie waited, taking another sip of coffee and allowing him the silence.
Finally, his dark eyes met hers and she saw concern there. "Look, tell your mates round here to keep an eye out." He paused. "Off the record, this isn't the first homicide with this MO. There've been two other bodies found recently in Southwark – undesirable characters by some definitions. They also had flayed parts of their bodies where tattoos had been excised. But they were illegal immigrants and this is the first high-profile case. A man of the church, whatever his past. Even the Mayor has gotten involved. With the run-up to the election, he'll be antsy to get this solved."
"Is Dale Cameron really running?" Jamie asked.
Missinghall grimaced at the name. Dale Cameron was a rising star in the Met with the looks of a corporate CEO and the slippery shoulders to match. He had been their superior officer on previous cases, and crossing him had directly led to Jamie's resignation from the police. When she'd woken from nightmares of smoke and burning body parts, she'd been sure that he had been in the drug-fueled haze of the Hellfire Caves.
"Yes," Missinghall said, shaking his head. "He's got a good chance, as well. Loads of the top brass want someone with a hard line on crime in the Mayor's seat. And Cameron is a hard bastard, that's for sure." He sighed. "But whatever we think of him, he certainly gets results. Crime's down across the city. He's cracking down on immigrants and he's moving the homeless and mentally ill out of the central areas."