Authors: Kate Rhodes
I shook my head. ‘Leave it with me. The situation’s too volatile for more intervention.’
‘Can I come with you to see Jude tomorrow? There are some things I want to ask.’
It crossed my mind to refuse, but I nodded my agreement. On a selfish level it would be easier than visiting on my own. Confronting that ruined face without revealing my pity was one of the toughest things I’d done. ‘Is there any other news?’
He glanced down at a printout. ‘Now they know the attacks are linked, the higher-ups are pushing me to chase suspects from Jude’s investigation. Shane Weldon’s still in my sights. A street camera picked him up the night Father Owen died, heading for Battersea. He was in the right place at the right time so we’re watching him round the clock. If it’s him, I need to know why he’d target the Shelleys.’
‘I’m not convinced. Like I said, it’s rare for a killer’s MO to change so radically.’
He dumped my report back on his desk. ‘I brought Jamal Khan in yesterday, but he didn’t remember much about the bloke who threatened him before Jude was attacked. He kicked up a big fuss about being questioned again.’
‘Are you surprised? The MIT stopped him seeing his girlfriend while she was in hospital fighting for her life; he’s got reason to be angry.’
Burns frowned. ‘Taking sides, Alice? That’s not like you. I thought you prided yourself on being level-headed.’
I bit my lip to stop myself retaliating. People had been calling me guarded and emotionless ever since I was a child. ‘Injustice makes people angry. I’d say that was a fact, not a feeling. Have you found anything else on Paul Ramirez?’
‘A student accused him of sexual harassment ten years ago when he taught in Manchester, but she dropped the charge. It looks like he transferred to London with his tail between his legs.’
‘But his behaviour stayed the same.’
‘He may be a creep but his alibi’s rock solid. We still can’t find any reason why Amala was targeted, apart from her link to the Shelleys – her computer’s clean, and there were no ex-boyfriends hanging around.’
‘She was single?’
‘Her last relationship ended a year ago – some guy from her church. He was in France when she died. There’s no evidence anyone followed her the day she was attacked. Nine people got off at her bus stop. Five have been identified, but the picture’s too blurred for facial recognition of the rest. The photo boys are working on it now. She passed a street camera on her way home, but if anyone was following, he kept to the other side of the road. We’ve drawn a blank with house to house too. A neighbour saw a dark saloon car parked on her drive that night, but that’s all we’ve got.’
I changed the subject to lighten his gloom. ‘I found some information about the calling cards. It’s likely they all washed up on the banks of the Thames, and they’re centuries old. Our man could be a history buff.’
Burns gave a shallow groan. ‘That narrows it down to half the population. Have you seen all the telly programmes about past civilizations?’
‘I still think the objects could unlock the case. One of the lecturers at King’s College has agreed to identify them.’
Angie appeared in the doorway before he could reply; her irrepressible cheeriness had dimmed by a few degrees. ‘Can I have a word, boss?’
‘Come on in.’ He cleared space at the table.
‘It’s a logistical nightmare. Marylebone have lent us forty uniforms, but we need more. Most of them are doing house to house in Barnsbury, speaking to people at Amala’s gym, her church and all her regular haunts. I need at least thirty extras to finish searches at Wapping and input reports. No one’s giving. I’ve tried the DCIs at Holborn, Marylebone and Aldgate.’
Burns nodded. ‘I’ll call in favours. They’ll be here by the end of today.’
‘You’re a lifesaver.’
Angie’s smile revived before she scurried away, but it was clear that stress levels were building.
‘A hundred and twenty uniforms chasing our orders, and she’s taking the lead, poor kid,’ Burns commented.
‘How’s she doing?’
‘Good, but it’s a baptism of fire.’ He looked at me again. ‘How are you getting on with the Shelleys?’
‘It’s a complex picture. The mother’s falling apart, and Guy’s got mental health issues. Out of them all, Jude seems strongest, psychologically. I think she’s determined to stay alive until we catch him. The Minister for Employment’s been elusive, but he’s agreed to meet tomorrow.’
‘Tell him my lot need a pay rise.’ I was halfway to the door before he spoke again. ‘Can you come back tonight to go through your report?’
When I turned round Burns looked more dishevelled than ever, dark hair in need of a cut, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing muscular forearms. He’d have been more at home on a building site than shuffling papers across his desk. It took considerable willpower to refuse.
‘Ask me tomorrow during working hours.’
I felt a minor sense of victory as I escaped into the corridor.
21
The man is sheltering under his umbrella on Westminster Bridge. It’s six thirty and people are flooding from the City, their auras glittering too brightly, like candle flames before they expire. The man is tense with anticipation. His next target is familiar, and he’s been watching him for months. Today he must track him all the way home without being seen. He keeps his head bowed, even though his disguise is convincing: pale blue contact lenses, skin darkened to a healthy tan, a short black wig. When he stood in front of the mirror in a public toilet, he hardly recognised himself.
He finds it hard to concentrate as the crowd barges past. A young couple block his line of vision; the girl kisses her boyfriend right in front of him, her tongue slipping inside his mouth. The boy’s soul is filthy as cigar smoke, smothering his face.
‘Disgusting,’ the man hisses.
‘Shut up, you freak.’ The boy reddens with anger, but his girlfriend tugs his sleeve.
‘Don’t, Steve. Can’t you see he’s off his head?’
She drags her boyfriend back into the crowd and the man focuses again on his task. Big Ben’s face is already illuminated, tourists braving the weather for one last photograph, but there’s no sign of his target. The man looks over the railing at the water. Ghosts appear under the surface, chalk white, then dissolve again. They are so beautiful. He wishes he could capture one in a spirit jar to keep in his pocket.
The next victim appears at seven fifteen. He’s in his twenties, handsome and dark-haired. A friend is with him, dressed in the same expensive clothes, as if they had shopped together for matching items. The companions walk side by side, enjoying each other’s jokes.
Once they have crossed Westminster Bridge, they disappear into a pub on Addington Street. The man is angered by the delay, catching glimpses of them through the window, deep in conversation. But the river’s voice reminds him that the prize is worth waiting for. It’s growing dark when his victim finally emerges. He squeezes his friend’s shoulder before turning away. The man’s heart rate increases as he pursues him into the Tube station. His soul is easy to spot, a haze of sulphurous yellow rising above the crowd.
The man stands at the end of the compartment. He hates the press of flesh, the tainted air. It’s a relief to leave the train at the Oval and breathe more easily. He follows the young man past the entrance to the cricket ground, maintaining a fifty-metre distance. The man dips his umbrella carefully as he reaches Clayton Street, concealing his face as he passes a CCTV camera, then watches his target enter an apartment block. He waits until a window lights up on the first floor. After fifteen minutes he stands by the security door, and smiles politely at a young woman as she emerges. She’s in such a rush that she doesn’t register him as he slips inside the building.
The young man is still dressed in his suit when he answers the door.
‘Sorry to disturb you. I’m here about the noise downstairs,’ the man says calmly.
‘What noise?’
The first punch sends the young man reeling as the door slams shut. The next blow knocks him out cold, the river’s voice flooding the room. The attack has already ruined his looks, his dislocated jaw stretched in an exaggerated yawn. The man steadies himself before opening his satchel and sealing the victim’s mouth with gaffer tape. He lays him on his side, fastening his wrists behind his back with a length of rope, then tying his ankles. Once he’s finished, he speaks directly to the man’s spirit.
‘I’ll come back for you, I promise.’
The soul flares upwards, longing to be released.
22
A text arrived from Jake Fielding on Tuesday morning, inviting me to dinner. Despite his mysterious bathroom cabinet, it was tempting to accept. I hedged my bets by sending back a message to remind him that Hugh Lister was identifying the crime-scene objects that evening, and suggesting a drink afterwards. Hearing from him raised my spirits as my bus trundled through the early morning traffic towards Westminster. I stared out of the window across the river to the South Bank. Even on an overcast day, it was a Mecca for tourists. My eyes panned past the Royal Festival Hall, and the London Eye, glittering like a charm bracelet, to the sculptures in Jubilee Gardens. Guy Shelley’s flat must be hidden somewhere between public monuments.
I got out at Westminster Bridge at nine a.m. and hurried to the House of Commons. All I remembered from my obligatory school trip was being led through endless dark chambers, which echoed with silence. Security levels had risen considerably since then. Two armed officers were stationed in the lobby, automatic machine guns strapped to their chests, checking the crowd for potential assassins. The hall was grand enough to take my breath away, its vaulted wooden ceiling carved with heraldic symbols. A throng of lobbyists was braying at top volume, company logos dangling from their necks. After five minutes Giles Moorcroft arrived to collect me. He was wearing another expensive suit, cufflinks with a club insignia and highly polished Oxford brogues. A cloud of discreet aftershave wafted in my direction as he extended his hand. He looked older than I remembered from seeing him at the hospital, dark brown hair greying at the temples. His face bore a solemn expression, but no distinguishing features whatsoever, not a single blemish or scar. Even his voice was anonymous, the clipped authoritative tone affected by most politicians and bureaucrats.
‘Sorry it took so long to find a meeting slot, Dr Quentin. I’m afraid the minister’s been called to the House; you’re welcome to wait in my office.’
He ushered me down a poorly lit corridor. The building smelled of beeswax and dust, with an undertone of alcohol, as though MPs were already drowning their sorrows in sherry behind closed doors. Mr Moorcroft’s desk was in a small anteroom, below a gloomy portrait of Disraeli, volumes of Hansard lining the walls. But at least he had a direct river view: the grand outline of Lambeth Palace rose from the opposite bank as clippers shuttled between the piers.
‘Can I offer you some coffee?’ he asked.
The black liquid in his percolator smelled like it had been brewing for days. ‘I’d better not, thanks. I’ll exceed my caffeine limit.’
‘So will I.’ He gave a dry smile. ‘It’s my biggest vice.’
Moorcroft sifted through a stack of papers, signing and organising them into piles. His job obviously involved far more than filling Timothy Shelley’s diary, and I wondered if it gave him professional satisfaction. He looked like a throwback from the days when civil servants made a virtue of discretion, his dark blue tie clipped neatly to his shirt. I peered around the room for a sign of his real personality, but found little, apart from a black raincoat hanging behind the door and an old-fashioned umbrella with a wooden handle.
When the phone rang, Moorcroft picked it up without saying a word, then replaced the receiver. ‘I’m afraid the bill’s delayed. Could you come back another day?’
‘I’d rather wait, if possible. I’ve got some urgent questions.’
He took off his reading glasses to study me. ‘Mr Shelley told me about your efforts to help Jude. I saw a lot of her as a child. She was always a chatty little thing when she came to the constituency office. It’s hard to believe the suffering that girl’s gone through. Is she beginning to recover?’ His mouth snapped shut when his statement ended, as though he regretted his candour.
‘I’m afraid she’s very weak. She’s got pneumonia.’
His grey eyes clouded with pity. ‘That’s a terrible shame.’
‘Could I ask a question, Mr Moorcroft? Do you know if anyone has ever threatened Mr Shelley during his time in office?’
His guard rose in an instant. ‘I don’t see your meaning.’