Authors: Kate Rhodes
The tension in the room hit me with full force when I rose to my feet. ‘Something’s sparked this man’s violence again, a year after he attacked Jude Shelley. It could be a personal tragedy, or a recurrence of mental illness, or it could have been triggered by the reopening of the Jude Shelley case. He’s selecting victims from her family or closely connected to them. It’s almost certain to be someone they all know. Jude recognised his voice, but can’t name him, which confirms that he’s from inside their world. The fact that the last two attacks happened so close together makes it likely to happen again soon, and his violence is escalating. In some ways he’s a typical serial killer, hungry for bigger thrills. People who kill in this way tend to be males between the ages of eighteen and forty who gain pleasure from this level of ultra-violence. The calling cards he’s choosing are pieces of history gathered from the riverside. Hundreds of years ago they would have been sacrificial objects, but we need to know why he’s binding them to the bodies of his victims. It’s too soon to tell what they symbolise, but I think we’re looking for someone with two obsessions: the Shelley family and the river Thames.’
Most of their faces were blank with disbelief. Coppers operate in the world of facts and evidence; for most of them the mention of history and symbolism was a step too far. A few old-timers were struggling to disguise their scorn as Burns rose to his feet again.
‘We have to take the psychological angle seriously. The killer told Jude Shelley that the river was waiting for her soul, and Amala was killed at Execution Dock. Take a look on Wikipedia; thousands of people died there over the centuries. Maybe our man’s trawling the Internet, looking for kill sites where lives were sacrificed. Or he could believe that Amala did something to deserve punishment.’
The disgust on Burns’s face showed his contempt for the killer’s methods. I watched him issuing a raft of instructions. His build as well as his voice made him ideal to lead a large team, shoulders wide enough to deflect any criticism. The Scottish burr helped too: it gave a hard edge to his orders, every member of the team quick to acquiesce. It took less than fifteen minutes to send everyone on their way. Their work focused on deeper investigation into Jude’s social contacts, Amala’s private life, and the victims’ links to the Shelley family. I wondered how Mr Leigh, director of the Whitehall press office, would feel about the family being subjected to yet more questions. Even though Heather had pressed for her daughter’s case to be reopened, she could never have imagined the level of renewed scrutiny.
I was about to return to the FPU when Burns caught up with me.
‘Have you got time for a catch-up?’
‘Of course.’ I followed him through to his office. ‘I got a verbal warning from Whitehall yesterday to leave the Shelleys alone. It made me realise what the MIT were up against on Jude’s investigation. Apparently my conduct has been inappropriate.’
‘What did you say?’
‘That I’ll do whatever the case requires, with or without their permission.’
Burns looked amused. ‘Scotland Yard are twitchy too. The seniors want me to focus on suspects from Jude’s case as well as chasing new leads. I’m keeping Shane Weldon in my sights. They need to report progress to Whitehall, and he’s our closest fit.’
‘How can chasing the wrong man be seen as progress?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Did you know that Timothy Shelley’s tipped for deputy prime minister in the next reshuffle?’
‘So they’d do anything to bury this.’ It didn’t surprise me that the minister’s bland affability had won him friends in high places, but I was stunned that Downing Street was prepared to accept any arrest to shift media attention from their blue-eyed boy. ‘That doesn’t make the links between Weldon and the new attacks any stronger. He went to Father Owen’s church, but that’s all you’ve got.’
‘Shane would have seen the Shelleys every Sunday. Maybe it’s a case of jealousy; they’ve got everything and he’s got nothing.’
‘He killed a woman on impulse, two decades ago. The man we’re looking for researches, plans and covers his tracks. I’ve checked Weldon’s prison records. He had a whole year of counselling to address his violence, and there’s every chance that it worked. I think we should focus our attention on people with a specific interest in the Thames: students, history specialists, museum curators. Have you run a check on the academics at King’s yet? It’s where Jude studied, and their exhibition hall’s crammed with exactly the type of objects the killer uses for calling cards. That’s the line we should be pursuing.’
Burns looked sceptical. ‘We did that already. None of the staff has a record. How are we meant to find a lone history fanatic in a city this size?’
‘I’m just asking you to go deeper into the backgrounds of students and staff at King’s.’
I listened in silence as he explained why he intended to carry on doggedly pursuing Shane Weldon. After a few minutes he fell silent.
‘What’s wrong, Alice? You’re never this quiet.’
‘I think you’re taking the wrong approach, and I’m a bit distracted. My mother had a fall last night; I had to take her to Casualty.’
He shot me a sympathetic glance. ‘Getting old’s not an easy ride, is it?’
‘You can say that again. Are your parents alive?’
‘Dad’s hanging on, still smoking like a trooper. I don’t get much time to visit.’ He gave a grunt of disapproval, but I couldn’t tell whether his father’s cigarette habit concerned him or his own lack of care.
I rubbed my hand across my forehead. ‘Tell me what Weldon’s been up to recently.’
‘The blokes at Sinclair House say he doesn’t come back some nights, but if he’s got a girlfriend he’s keeping her quiet. His release contract says he’s got to declare any relationships or he’s in breach.’
‘I can see why he’s on your radar. The killer knows the river intimately; there are dozens of stairways and dockyards that are invisible from the road, and Weldon’s walked that route hundreds of times. But has he got the mental capacity to pull off a complex series of attacks? The perpetrator’s taking an intellectual approach, and he’s targeting the Shelley family’s circle for a reason. That’s a poor psychological fit with Weldon.’
Burns’s face set in a scowl. ‘Maybe he went to St Mary’s last Sunday night to confess, and Father Owen wouldn’t absolve him. I’m getting a warrant to search the hostel. I want him in for a full assessment.’
‘There are no grounds for that, but I’m prepared to compromise. If he breaches his licence, I’ll interview him again.’
‘That’s your idea of a compromise?’ he growled.
My refusal to comply seemed to destroy Burns’s peace of mind. His jaw clenched so tightly I decided to stay silent; if he ground his teeth any harder, the bones might crumble.
27
It’s early evening by the time the man sets out for the warehouse, in full disguise, resentful about being delayed. He takes the back streets, hoping that no one is following. The river is calling incessantly, begging him to act.
When he reaches the dock he looks around cautiously, then drags the concrete block from the hatch. The first sound he hears is a raw scream. The river’s work is almost done, water lapping at the victim’s throat, his eyes round with terror, broken jaw gagging. The tape across his mouth has soaked away and his shrill cries echo from the walls of the chamber.
‘Let me go! Please. Why are you doing this?’
He crouches on the wet stair, the young man’s pleas silenced by the river’s victory cry. The tide is the predator; he only has to position the souls correctly so it can claim them. A dozen rats swim across the surface, preparing to escape through the open window. Water laps tenderly at the victim’s face and his spirit flares in a burst of yellow light, sending out sparks like a Roman candle as he begins to drown. Then the water closes over his head. He fights to the surface one last time, bubbles spewing from his mouth.
The event is more beautiful than anything the man has witnessed. Heat rises to greet him as the river claims its new victim, the water shimmering gold, lights arcing across the walls. Then all that’s left is a hymn of gratitude, and his panic dropping away. Now he has time to relax. Two more tides must cleanse the young man’s body before he can work on his face.
28
It was early evening by the time I caught the bus boat to Greenwich. I’d heard nothing from my mother, but Will had texted to let me know that she was being kept under observation for another day. I bought a coffee and made my way to the front of the boat. The river journey was preferable to the endless drive through the suburbs. I stared at the northern bank as the clipper passed Wapping Pier. The Prospect of Whitby was doing a roaring trade, a crowd visible through the large windows, even though the terrace where Amala Adebayo’s body had been laid was still cordoned off. The letter E was stencilled high on a brick wall, marking the site of Execution Dock, the old gallows still in place. If buildings had memories, the bricks and mortar of Wapping Wall must be replete with them. The death penalty had once been applied so regularly that the condemned waited in line for hours, listening to the screams of the dying before being marched to the hangman’s noose.
The clipper passed a procession of old wharfs. Some had been converted into expensive housing developments, while others remained derelict. It was the abandoned ones that interested me, their architecture almost untouched. Rusting hooks and rope-pulleys were a reminder that cargo would have been lowered to the ships anchored below. The reason why the developers had neglected the warehouses was obvious: they must be riddled with damp, water gushing into their basements. My gaze traced the outlines of disused piers, trying to guess which stairway the killer had dragged Amala down. At Canary Wharf, dozens of city workers piled onto the boat, grey-faced from hours of calculations. The majority wore sharp suits; they were younger than my brother was when the finance world’s expectations burnt him out. Anxiety welled in my stomach. It took a stretch of the imagination to picture Will and my mother spending time together without the usual fireworks.
The nurse at the hospital informed me that Mum had been moved to a separate room. When I peered through the observation window, she was relaxing on a cloud of pillows. The wide bruise on her forehead had darkened, and Will was sitting beside her. As far as I could tell, no missiles had been thrown.
‘Hello, darling,’ she greeted me calmly. ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Much better. Will’s been marvellous, he made them give me this room.’
‘He’s a miracle worker.’ I wondered how he’d achieved the impossible. From experience I knew that single rooms in NHS hospitals were reserved for the mad or the dying.
Nina was lurking in the corner wearing black trousers and a dark red blouse, which made her slim figure look chic instead of boyish. I nodded a smile of greeting in her direction.
‘Nina’s been telling me about her thesis,’ my mother enthused. ‘It sounds fascinating.’
The whole thing felt like a dream. Not only was she communicating peacefully with Will, but she had accepted his new girlfriend too, even though her tattoos were on full display. Lines of ornate script scrolled down the side of Nina’s neck, statements half hidden by her clothes. It fascinated me that she seemed to be turning her skin into an essay.
‘You’ve made some decisions, haven’t you, Mum?’ Will said quietly.
She gave an obedient nod. ‘I’m going to find a home help. And Will’s getting a stair-lift fitted for me.’
The information rendered me speechless. In just one day my brother had achieved more than I had in months. Mum’s relief at being reunited with him after such a long absence had probably given him an advantage, but the method was unimportant. All that mattered was the outcome. She was accepting help, for the first time since her diagnosis.
The visit to the hospital gave me another chance to observe Will and Nina’s relationship first hand. She was a million miles from the chatty, ambitious career girls he’d chosen in the past, so self-contained that she could become invisible without vacating the room. But her presence calmed Will instantly. If a look of irritation crossed his face, she could remove it with a single touch.
At eight o’clock a nurse advised us that visiting hours were over, and I watched in amazement as Will bent down to kiss Mum’s forehead, her smile broadening. For a few seconds it hurt that she never showed me that much affection, but I quelled the thought immediately. The last time she’d seen him, his bipolar disorder had been at its worst. She must be overjoyed that he was more in control. I squeezed her hand as I said goodbye but she barely responded, her eyes already closing.
Will and Nina travelled back with me on the clipper. There was a stunned look on my brother’s face, as though he couldn’t believe his luck.