Authors: Kate Rhodes
‘Did you cast a spell? I’ve been telling her she needs a home help for months.’
‘I’ll manage things from now on, Al. It’s my turn to deal with her.’ He made negotiating with my mother sound like the emotional equivalent of lion taming.
‘She seems okay to me,’ Nina said quietly. ‘A bit cantankerous, but her illness can’t be easy.’
I stared down at the water as the wash unfurled like a bride’s train. When we reached Cherry Garden Pier, I gave them both a hug, then stood on the dock as the boat headed for Tower Bridge. Will’s expression was still blank with disbelief, and I crossed my fingers. Not long ago, seeing Mum would have signalled a downturn in his mental health – hopefully Nina’s support could prevent that from happening.
I checked my phone for messages when I got home. One had arrived from Jake, inviting me out the next evening. The decision was so tricky that I considered phoning Lola for advice, but it was too late to disturb her, so I accepted on impulse. Seeing him again might help me understand why he was permanently distracted. An evening with Burns would have been far more interesting, even though it was out of the question.
My brain was fizzing with the day’s events, so I checked my email instead of going to bed. Christine Jenkins had sent a cryptic request to meet me and Burns the following day at her office. I noted the appointment in my diary then leafed through my papers, studying the map I’d printed from the Internet. It showed the Thames snaking through London, bisecting south from north. The killer’s territory stretched between Battersea Bridge and Wapping. I’d marked the site of each crime scene in red ink, beginning with Jude Shelley’s abduction from Lower Thames Street in the affluent north, her body washing up by Southwark Bridge. Then Father Owen had been taken from his church in Battersea, his mutilated body discovered at Westminster Pier. And the final attack had shifted to the East End. He had left Amala’s corpse hanging from a rope at the city’s infamous execution site in Wapping. It was the escalation that alarmed me, the killer growing more assured with each new challenge. I gazed at the map again and considered Burns’s favourite suspect, Shane Weldon. He could have passed between the ten bridges hundreds of times, memorising hiding places. But Jude was certain that she knew her attacker’s voice, and she had never encountered Weldon. His south London drawl was nothing like the refined accent Jude had described. The history connection made me doubt his involvement even more. I couldn’t imagine him possessing enough patience to search for relics on the riverbank, then developing a complex and symbolic killing ritual.
When I checked my watch it was quarter to eleven, but I took a gamble on my hunch that Burns would still be working and picked up my phone.
‘Any news?’ I asked.
‘Yes, indeed.’ His voice was low with tiredness, but I detected an edge of triumph. ‘Our Mr Weldon’s breached his licence. He couldn’t resist bragging at the hostel about having a girlfriend. I’m interviewing the lady in question tomorrow, and I’d like you to be there.’
I gritted my teeth. ‘What’s the address?’
The street was in Vauxhall, not far from the Tube station. I put down the phone in a state of amazement. Why would anyone date a man who had served a life sentence for killing a woman then chucking her body into the river like a piece of litter? The question repeated itself as I climbed into bed and switched out the light.
29
The morning’s visit intrigued me, even though Burns was bound to crow. I’d always been fascinated by the psychology of relationships between women and violent male offenders. A behaviourist would probably say that it stemmed from watching my father beat my mother during my childhood, powerless to help. It amazed me that many of the UK’s most notorious prisoners had dozens of female pen pals. It seemed like a problem of misinterpretation: they saw violence as a form of potency. But hundreds of prison visits had given me a different view. The most violent offenders were often profoundly damaged, lashing out at their victims through a combination of hatred and fear.
Burns was waiting outside a council block on Black Prince Road when the taxi arrived in Vauxhall. It was a ten-minute stroll along the river from Sinclair House, which probably explained Shane Weldon’s passion for night-time walking. The building sat right by the road, the daily grind of traffic darkening its windows with exhaust fumes.
‘Not the classiest postcode,’ Burns commented.
We peered into the lift but decided against it; the metal chamber stank of urine, vinegar and cheap booze. Rain dripped from the atrium as we climbed the stairs, and I tried to ignore the dark brown stains smeared across the concrete.
Sue Rochford must have been waiting for us, the door of her fifth-floor flat hanging open. It was a chilly day but she was dressed for summer in cropped black trousers and a turquoise vest top. The woman was so thin that I glanced at her arms, but the skin was unblemished. If she was a user, she was canny enough to shoot straight into her thigh.
‘Thanks for giving your time, Mrs Rochford,’ Burns said.
‘It’s Ms, actually. My husband fucked off years ago, thank God.’
Her lounge was full of mismatched furniture, armchairs upholstered in emerald green fabric, which clashed with her orange settee. The air had a synthetic smell, as though she’d emptied an entire can of air freshener in preparation for our arrival. She studied us nervously, grey roots visible in her dry blonde hair. Her age could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty, deep grooves bracketing her mouth, eyes spiralled by a network of lines.
‘We’d like to hear about your relationship with Shane Weldon,’ Burns said.
She rolled her eyes. ‘The bloke made one stupid mistake. You lot need to get over it.’
He returned her gaze steadily. ‘Do you mind me asking your age, Ms Rochford?’
‘Thirty-eight. Why?’
‘Shane killed a woman of thirty-six. He slit her throat, then dropped her body in the Thames. He didn’t know her from Adam.’
Her expression didn’t flicker. ‘I thought about topping my ex plenty of times. I had it all planned.’
‘But you didn’t, did you? Shane told his trial judge he wanted to know how it felt to kill a woman. No other reason.’
She frowned at him, then examined her nails. ‘I still don’t get why you’re here.’
‘Your boyfriend’s serving a lifetime sentence. He’ll be on probation till he shuffles off this mortal coil. His bail conditions mean that he’s got to report whenever he starts a relationship so his lady friends know about his murder conviction.’
‘Now you’ve told me, you can fuck off.’
‘Charming,’ Burns muttered.
‘How did you meet Shane?’ I asked.
Rochford’s blurred gaze shifted in my direction. ‘He walked me home from the Lord Nelson one night. I thought he was a real gent, he didn’t lay a finger on me.’ She still seemed blithely unconcerned by her boyfriend’s violent past.
‘Have you got a job at the moment?’ I asked.
‘I was a care assistant, but these Filipinos agreed to take less money.’ She gave me a poisonous look. ‘There should be a law against them flooding the country.’
‘Cash must be tight,’ Burns said. ‘Your benefits can’t leave much for clothes or trips out.’
‘I get by.’ Rochford scowled at him.
‘How much does Shane give you? Forty quid a week? Fifty?’
‘You filthy bastard,’ she snapped. ‘I’d never sell myself to anyone. I could report you for saying that.’
Burns gave a relaxed shrug. ‘Shane told a mate at Sinclair House that he pays you a few quid to keep your door open. But I’m not here to arrest you for soliciting, I just need some facts. Have you got a car, for example?’
The anger in her voice gave way to exhaustion. ‘A blue Ford Escort, ten years old.’
‘How often does Shane borrow it?’
She blinked rapidly. ‘Just to visit his mum now and then, over in Wembley.’
‘I’ll need the keys, and the dates when Shane’s used it.’
Rochford protested but finally offered the information. Afterwards she jumped to her feet to show us out, as though we were polluting her environment.
‘One more thing, Sue,’ Burns said. ‘Has Shane ever been violent?’
‘Do I look stupid? I’ve had enough of that to last me a sodding lifetime.’
She slammed the door so hard the casement rattled, but Burns said nothing. When we reached ground level he tipped his head back, staring up at her window.
‘Why in God’s name is she seeing him?’
‘We don’t know her history,’ I replied. ‘And we haven’t proved anything. Maybe Shane killed a woman on impulse, served his time, and now he’s reformed.’
Burns gave me a pitying look. ‘Even if I’m wrong, he’s not exactly love’s young dream, is he?’
We took shelter from the rain in a café before the meeting with Christine Jenkins. I felt a pang of regret for the days when our conversations were full of flirtation and banter, but Burns was sticking to the letter of my warning. Oddly enough his remoteness made me want to touch him more, although he didn’t seem to notice. He used the time to update me on his team’s hard work.
‘Hancock found something weird in Amala’s house at the spot where she was tied up. There are strands of synthetic blond hair on the carpet.’
‘That fits Jude’s description. It sounds like he wears a wig and disguises himself in other ways too. Maybe the victims know him, and he’s afraid he’ll be recognised.’
He gave a distracted nod. ‘I’ve got a warrant for a fingertip search of Shane’s room and I’ll get one for his lady friend’s flat.’
‘The killing ritual matters as much as the attack. If it’s Weldon, you’re going to find objects he’s salvaged from the river. Those pieces are costing the killer a lot of energy or money.’
‘I don’t think he bought them. We’ve checked all the main auction sites.’
‘I’m still more interested in the students and staff at King’s. I’d like to know about a history PhD student called Mark Edmunds. If we’re looking for someone with an obsessive interest in the Thames, he fits the bill.’
Burns looked unimpressed. ‘Do you want me to widen the search to every history teacher and GCSE student in London?’
‘Intellectuals sometimes kill, you know that. Some of the researchers at King’s are so passionate about history it’s bordering on madness.’
‘Angie’s organising more detailed checks. What’s the head of department’s name?’
‘Jake Fielding.’ It crossed my mind to mention that I’d been seeing him, but it would have broken our rule about keeping our personal lives separate, so I kept my mouth shut.
Christine Jenkins looked solemn when we reached Dacre Street. It was so cloudy outside that her office was full of shadows. She perched on the edge of her desk when we sat down.
‘Whitehall’s getting concerned. The longer this drags on, the worse the impact on public confidence. I’ve had Mr Leigh on the phone twice already today.’
‘With respect, ma’am, my team’s working to capacity,’ Burns said calmly. ‘I should be in the incident room now, supervising them.’
She gave an apologetic nod. ‘The commissioner wants me to give an overview to the exec at Scotland Yard when I report on Alice’s work, otherwise I wouldn’t have brought you here.’
‘We’re pursuing a key suspect from Jude Shelley’s attack. And we’ve got strong lines of enquiry for the recent murders,’ said Burns.
‘You’re aware that the commissioner wants loose ends from the first investigation tied off. They need assurances that no stone’s been left unturned.’ She gazed down at a stack of reports on her desk. ‘So many things got missed last time, we can’t make the same mistake twice.’ She turned to face me. ‘And what about you, Alice?’
‘I think it’s a mistake to get distracted by the original suspects. None of them are a good fit for this killing series. It still seems odd that these attacks started just as Jude’s case reopened, as if the killer was forewarned. I’m almost certain Jude Shelley knew her attacker, even though she’s buried the memory. He’s in disguise when he attacks, so it’s possible that he’s known to all the victims, but I’m not getting much help from the Shelleys. The minister’s keeping us at arm’s length. His adopted son has an anxiety disorder, and his wife’s at breaking point.’
She shot me a look of sympathy. ‘Far from ideal working conditions. What’s your take on the psychology of the offender?’