Authors: Kate Rhodes
‘It’s possible,’ I rubbed my hand across my eyes. ‘I still think the river’s our best hope. It’s worth patrolling stretches where he’s picking up his calling cards: London Bridge, Southwark and Vauxhall. He’s leaving the bodies at the most important sites for ritual sacrifice.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Where did you learn that?’
‘From an academic at King’s College.’
Burns’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I got a message from their top man this morning, Hugh Lister. He wants the crime-scene objects for his archive, as if we didn’t have enough to worry about.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. The guy’s a world authority on the Thames, and a first-class obsessive. He’s Mark Edmunds’s supervisor. I need information on both their alibis.’
He nodded. ‘Lister’s coming to the station to talk about the calling cards. I’ll speak to him then. Where are you going now?’
‘To see Heather Shelley.’
‘Can you stay for the press briefing?’
I’d have felt the same in his shoes. There’s nothing lonelier than announcing bad news while the entire nation watches you squirm. Tania and I flanked him while he made his statement, his Scottish accent more pronounced than ever, a sure sign that his stress levels were spiralling.
When the cameras stopped rolling, a police photographer disappeared between the plastic shrouds covering the stairway, and I caught a last glimpse of Julian Speller’s body, lying where the river had discarded it. He was starting to attract a more sinister type of interest than the police and the media. Crows were already massing overhead, hoping for a free meal.
34
My urgent tone must have done the trick because Heather Shelley agreed to see me immediately. Security was thick when I arrived at her house, two armed guards stationed outside her door, more officers in plain clothes milling in the square. It interested me that even though her son was missing, it looked like she had been on her way to an official function. Her blonde hair was swept into a French pleat, and she wore discreet pearl earrings, her tailored blue dress accentuating her slimness. She looked like a typical cabinet minister’s wife: so perfectly in control that a controversial statement would never escape from her mouth. It was only up close that her distress showed itself, her lips trembling with suppressed fear.
‘It’s Guy, isn’t it? Something’s happened to him.’
I shook my head. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’
Her hands flew up to her face. ‘Thank God. I’ve been going out of my mind.’
Heather led me into her cavernous living room. ‘I’m due at a fundraiser in twenty minutes. Tell me what’s happened, Alice.’
‘You might want to cancel your appointment.’
‘That’s impossible, I’m their keynote speaker.’
‘It’s bad news, unfortunately. Have you met Julian Speller?’
‘Of course. I’ve known him for years.’
‘I’m afraid he’s been killed. His body was found by the river at Wapping.’
Her eyelids fluttered. ‘He came here last week. We had dinner together.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I touched her hand but she snatched it away.
‘Tim will be beside himself. I should call him.’
She paced around the room as she made the call, high heels clicking on acres of parquet. My eyes caught on a pair of Guy’s drawings. One showed an old coat draped from a hanger, its hem unravelling. Beside it was an image of a broken lawnmower, lying on a patch of grass, the mechanism severed in two.
‘I can’t reach him.’ Heather frowned as she dropped her mobile on the coffee table. ‘The press are blocking the lines. They’ll be all over us, like they were with Jude.’
‘What kind of work did Julian do for your husband?’
‘Tim sits on the Ethics Committee. Julian had the best legal background to advise him on human rights and ethical business practices.’ Shock had slowed her speech dramatically; it sounded like a radio announcement, the battery running low.
‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water?’
‘I can’t stand much more of this.’ She stared down at her hands. ‘I should get in the car.’
‘You mustn’t drive until you calm down.’
She stood up abruptly and walked to the bay windows to pull the curtains. ‘The bloody snoopers’ll be here soon.’
Heather switched on the huge TV that hung on the wall as the one o’clock news began, cameras panning the crime scene. Wapping High Street had been cordoned with so much yellow tape it looked like it had been gift-wrapped. Angie stood in the foreground, lips pursed for once, keeping her thoughts to herself. The next clip was a close-up of Burns with me and Tania flanking him. We all wore matching expressions, shock mixed with anger that another life had been stolen.
‘A young man’s body was found at nine this morning,’ Burns announced. ‘It’s likely he was attacked by the same killer who has struck twice by the Thames in recent weeks. The victim has been identified as Julian Speller, and his family have been informed. If you saw anyone acting suspiciously in the Wapping area last night, or in the early hours of this morning, please call the helpline.’
The image changed to a melee of news photographers on the steps at Westminster, jostling like rugby players. Timothy Shelley was caught at the centre of the scrum. For once his professional calm had deserted him; his skin was taut and shiny, eyes reddened. He cleared his throat before attempting to speak.
‘Julian Speller was an extraordinary young man. He was a gifted and thoughtful member of my team for five years. He will be irreplaceable. My thoughts and sympathies are with his family.’
Shelley held up his hand to end the interview but the cameras pursued him, eager to catch every ounce of distress. He turned away abruptly, but not before his tears were captured on prime-time TV, his face bunched in misery.
‘Oh God,’ Heather muttered. ‘Poor Tim.’
Her own appearance had changed radically in the past half-hour. She had kicked off her high heels, her chic hairstyle unravelling like one of her son’s artworks.
‘Did Speller know Jude at all?’ I asked.
She nodded absently. ‘He helped her choose her law course; it’s partly due to him that she studied at King’s.’
My heart rate quickened. ‘Do you know if he ever visited her in hospital?’
Her eyes were still blurred. ‘A few times. I think he went with Tim two or three weeks ago.’
I rocked back in my seat. All of the victims had known Jude and her father. The killer seemed intent on hurting people close to them both, which made me concerned for Heather’s own safety. My thoughts were interrupted by the bleep of her mobile phone. She pressed it to her ear without saying a word, her face even paler when the call ended.
‘Tim’s on his way. He sounds in a dreadful state.’
I sat forwards, trying to get her full attention. ‘Heather, you realise this changes everything, don’t you? The attacks are linked directly to your family. There’s a secret you need to tell me, isn’t there? Someone hurt Jude when she was a child. Who was it?’
She gasped in a long breath. ‘My son,’ she whispered. Her eyes were glassy with distress. ‘After he learned he was adopted, I couldn’t leave them alone together, even for five minutes. It was the worst kind of physical bullying. One time Guy pushed her so hard she broke her wrist. He used to hit other kids at school too. The psychiatrist gave him medication, and things settled down, but Jude was terrified. They only grew close again in their teens. Normally he can control his outbursts these days.’ Her gaze trailed back towards the window.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t want Guy to be questioned. He’s too vulnerable.’
‘You’ve covered for him before, haven’t you? Where was he the night Jude was attacked?’
Her mouth trembled. ‘He was at his flat, but he had no way of proving it. It was my decision to tell the police he was with me. He wasn’t strong enough to deal with them after Jude got hurt.’
‘So you both lied about that evening?’
Her hands flew up to her face. ‘He was cracking under the strain. I couldn’t lose them both.’
‘Where is Guy now?’
‘I don’t know, he’s not answering my calls. Something terrible could have happened to him.’ Her voice was raw with guilt.
‘You were right to tell me the truth. I’ll find out if there’s any news.’
As I walked into the kitchen, I realised that Guy’s claim that his family was held together by secrets had turned out to be true. His closest relatives had concealed his violence for over a decade.
It took several attempts to reach Burns, a hum of noise in the background as I explained what I’d learned about Guy’s background.
His reply was a dull monotone. ‘We’ve put out a nationwide search for him and his car, but had no sightings.’
He sounded so tense that there was no point in asking questions. I switched off my phone and returned to the living room. Heather had dissolved into floods of tears. I rested my hand on her shoulder, but my thoughts veered towards her missing son. If he’d been disturbed enough to lash out as a child, his aggression could have returned. Guy might be unbalanced enough to kill anyone within his reach.
I waited with Heather until her husband returned. We stood side by side, peering through a gap in the curtains. A crowd of photographers had occupied the steps, cameras flashing furiously. Giles Moorcroft pushed through them, with Timothy Shelley following. I got a taste of how punishing it must be to spend every waking moment in the public eye as I watched the minister stumble inside. When I reached the hallway, Moorcroft was laying his boss’s briefcase on a table carefully, as though it held bone china. He shot me a look of concern but the MP glared in my direction, his eyes red and glistening.
‘You should leave,’ he hissed. ‘My wife and I need time on our own.’
‘Of course,’ I replied.
Heather’s tone was apologetic as she said goodbye, but it was her husband’s reaction that fascinated me. The loss of Julian Speller had brought him to his knees, his public guard evaporating. Neither of the two earlier murders had bleached the colour from his face in the same way. This time he looked ready to collapse.
‘Thanks for staying with me,’ Heather said quietly.
Over her shoulder I saw Moorcroft, stiff backed and awkward, tending to his boss. The civil servant would obviously have preferred to be at his desk, but he was steadfastly doing his duty. He wore a look of pity on his face as he helped Shelley out of his coat, as though he was undressing a poorly child.
I looked at Heather again. ‘Would you mind if I visited Guy’s flat? I’m concerned about him.’
I felt sure members of Burns’s team would be waiting there to intercept him, but she gave me a grateful look, then produced some keys from her handbag. ‘Phone me if he’s there, won’t you?’
‘I’ll go this afternoon.’
‘Promise me you’ll call.’ She gripped my arm tight enough to burn.
‘Of course I will.’
The panic on her face made me feel guilty. I was torn between concern for her son’s mental health, and a nagging suspicion that he might be the murderer.
35
I left the Shelley’s house by the back exit, but some photographers had set up an ambush, cameras snapping as I hurried past. After two blocks I pulled out my phone and called Burns again. ‘I’ve got permission to visit Guy Shelley’s flat, but I need an escort.’
‘You think he’s been taken?’
‘He could be the killer, Don. Violent kids can become violent adults.’
I heard him draw a sharp breath. ‘Where are you? I’ll pick you up.’
‘No need. Meet me there in half an hour.’ I read out the address and heard his footsteps quicken, as if he was racing for his car.
I tried to put my thoughts in order during the short train ride. Maybe my certainty that the killer was suffering from twin obsessions with the Shelley family and the river had blinded me to more obvious suspects. I tried to recall my first impressions of Guy Shelley. Concealed stress had been obvious in his jittery body language. He seemed to hate talking about his sister, even though a year had passed since her attack, and soon after our meeting he’d slipped back into his anxiety state, hiding himself in his room. I’d felt sure he had something to confess, but his revelation about family secrets had been too vague to pin down. Pins and needles pricked my spine as I remembered Father Owen. Guy had said that he sometimes went to confession – perhaps he’d admitted something that he’d later regretted. If he was seriously mentally ill, that might have triggered his attack on the priest.