Authors: Kate Rhodes
‘Too mysterious for my liking. He’s got a picture of a woman just like me on his phone. I’m sick of all the intrigue.’
‘What about the policeman?’
‘Still stuck in my head like a bad tune.’
Her grin widened. ‘That’s not like you. If things get tricky, you’re normally first out the door. What’s so special about him?’
‘There’s a connection. It’s more than just fancying him, I think about him all the time.’
‘Husband material, you mean.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘He’s married, Lo, and you’ve been reading too much Nora Roberts.’
‘Why not declare your interests, then let him make up his mind?’
‘Good plan. When hell freezes over, I’ll tell him just how I feel.’
She spent the next half-hour explaining all her attempts to kick-start the birthing process. ‘I’ve tried vigorous dancing, chicken vindaloo, and shagging morning, noon and night.’
‘Being pregnant sounds like heaven.’
At nine o’clock the Greek God returned from giving a music lesson, and I stayed for another cup of tea before hugging them both goodbye. The rain had set in again as I followed the river home. I sheltered under my umbrella and stared at the lights of Wapping. Guy Shelley was hiding somewhere, so gripped by mental illness that he couldn’t even phone home. It was possible that stress had tipped him into a state of infantile rage and he was killing anyone close to his father, even attacking his sister because she’d received more affection. But it was hard to imagine the sensitive young man I’d met using such sadistic methods. Julian Speller’s last hours had been horrific: tied up somewhere alone, waiting to drown. Someone had revelled in watching him gulp down his last breaths. When I opened my eyes again, an odd light had gathered over the river. Mist or a sheen of smoke hovered above the water’s surface, like a company of ghosts.
38
It’s late on Saturday evening when the man reaches Putney. He parks his car on a quiet street, then walks towards the bridge. He has no idea why the river has brought him here, its voice urging him to follow the embankment. Now it’s telling him to stop and rest. When he goes into a pub, the bar is almost empty, a TV flickering in the corner. The bartender seems preoccupied and points at the screen as the ten o’clock headlines appear. Julian Speller’s face fills the screen.
‘Nasty business that, isn’t it?’ the bartender says.
‘Terrible.’ He nods in reply.
‘Such a young guy, his whole life ahead of him.’
When the man glances at the screen again, he feels a pulse of shame. The reporter looks grave as she describes the gloom that has settled over Westminster. Pictures of the priest and Amala flash in front of him, but the man feels no pride. The actions don’t belong to him and neither does the river’s victory.
The man takes a sip of beer; when he looks up again, a new film is playing. A detective with a hulking build is talking directly to the camera, his gaze fixed. He claims that he will stop at nothing to find the killer. The detective’s spirit is buried so deep in his core that it’s hidden from view. He is so much broader than the blonde and brunette on either side of him that he looks like a giant. It’s the dark-haired woman that catches the man’s eye. Her soul is so powerful that he can see its dark outline, shrouding her features like a widow’s veil.
A bubble of anger bursts in his throat as he looks at the detective and his two lackeys. He can read their determination to stop him in his tracks, and suddenly the voices are screaming so loudly that he can hear nothing else. The man scans all three faces again. The river must have brought him here to reveal his new path. Now that his mission is complete, his only duty is to save himself.
39
I’d arranged to meet Heather in a French café on Battersea Park Road after she’d attended church on Sunday morning. The place was almost empty when a black sedan car with smoked-glass windows dropped her outside. I watched her cross the street, swaddled in a dark raincoat. She collapsed in the seat opposite, outsized sunglasses eclipsing her cheekbones, and I couldn’t decide whether they were for anonymity or to hide the fact that she’d been crying. It was obvious from the way she picked at her brioche that she had no appetite.
‘Have you heard from Guy?’ I asked.
‘Not a whisper. I’m sure something’s happened. He’d have called by now if he was all right; he hates making me worry.’
‘Maybe the pressure got too much. He needs time alone.’
Her glasses slipped down, revealing her reddened eyes. ‘The police have asked for his credit card details and passport number. They think he’s been taken, don’t they?’
‘They’re just concerned for his welfare.’ I didn’t have the heart to say that he was the main suspect in their manhunt. ‘How’s your husband coping with all this?’
‘Not well. Number Ten have told him to stay at home and for once he’s not arguing.’
‘Heather, I want you to think carefully about Guy’s behaviour. How’s he coped since Father Owen died?’
When she removed her glasses, her frailty showed itself, deep shadows circling her eyes. ‘He dealt with going back to college well. He called most days and came over at the weekends, but things got worse after Amala died. He went to see Jude, then he was in bits afterwards. He had one of his outbursts.’
‘What kind of outburst?’
Her hand skittered across the table. ‘It’s an anger management thing. He struggles to control his feelings.’
‘He lashes out, you mean?’
‘Sometimes.’ Her voice fell to a whisper, and I knew she would clam up if I carried on pushing.
‘And Guy visited Jude the day Amala’s death was announced?’
She nodded. ‘He thought she’d take the news best from him.’
‘I still don’t really understand Guy and Jude’s relationship.’
Her coffee cup hovered in front of her mouth. ‘Guy was eighteen months old when we adopted him. He couldn’t walk properly, and his speech was slow to develop. The hospital told us he might have been shaken as a baby but I thought it was an emotional thing after so much neglect. He hated school until he discovered his talent for drawing, then things got easier. His jealousy about Jude being our biological child passed after a while. They’ve been incredibly close since their teens.’
‘But you think he’s still angry?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Guy’s temper comes from frustration, not anger. He hates being unable to help her. He struggled for years to feel accepted, then she got hurt. Maybe it was more than he could stand.’
‘Did you know he’s been sketching Jude since her attack?’
She nodded. ‘It’s how he makes sense of things.’
‘How’s Jude? When I phoned the nurse said she can’t have visitors.’
‘She’s so weak, all she can do is look out of the window. I haven’t told her about Julian, but I’ll have to sooner or later.’ When she leant forwards a tear splashed onto the table. ‘It’s like I’m losing them both.’
I touched her hand but her barriers quickly rose again. She dabbed at her mascara with a tissue then shielded her eyes again with her sunglasses. Our meeting had only lasted half an hour but her driver was already impatient, the sidelights of his sedan flashing as he waited to deliver her back to Chelsea.
‘It’s Ben I feel sorry for,’ she murmured as she buttoned her coat.
‘Who’s Ben?’
‘Julian’s partner. They were very close.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got his number?’
She looked uncertain. ‘The poor man should be left in peace.’
‘That won’t happen, unfortunately. The police will be with him right now.’
She gave me Ben Altman’s number reluctantly. ‘Where are you going next? Do you need a lift?’
I accepted her offer because I was due to meet Burns in Pimlico, to interview Mark Edmunds. Travelling in the ministerial car showed me how it must feel to be escorted between appointments, diplomats waiting to welcome you. The back seat was more like a leather sofa than a car’s interior, the air tinged with expensive perfume, peppermint and smoke. Heather must have sneaked a cigarette on the way over to combat her stress. The effort of discussing her situation seemed to have exhausted her, but she kissed my cheek as we said goodbye. The gesture increased my sympathy, and made me wonder how many genuine friends she could rely on while her life fell apart.
There was no sign of Burns as I stood on the pavement at Millbank, but his lateness gave me the chance to call Ben Altman. His refined voice was cold with outrage that a complete stranger was contacting him so soon after his partner’s death. But when I explained that Heather Shelley had given me his number, he agreed to let me visit the next morning. Burns appeared as I was slipping my phone back into my pocket, unfolding himself from a taxi then swaggering across the road towards me.
‘I’ve just arranged to see Julian Speller’s partner,’ I said.
Burns gave a dismissive nod. ‘Good luck with that. I spent an hour with Altman, but all I got was monosyllables.’
‘He must still be in shock.’
‘His apartment’s like the inside of a fridge. If you can defrost him, try and find out why Speller’s colleagues say he’d been tetchy for the last few months.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Burns scanned the street. ‘Pretty posh for a student, isn’t it?’
‘Edmunds’s family’s wealthy.’
‘They must be. He wasn’t best pleased about our visit; apparently we’re interrupting his research.’
‘Have you found anything about his background?’ I asked.
‘There’s a connection with Guy Shelley; he was the year above him at school. His university records say he saw a counsellor the whole time he was at Cambridge. They nearly chucked him out for stalking an ex-girlfriend.’
‘That’s interesting. He comes over as lonely, rather than violent. Did he threaten the Cambridge girl?’
‘Not physically, but he sent her letters and texts, and followed her around for weeks.’
‘That’s bad enough.’ I gazed up at Edmunds’s Victorian mansion block and remembered the mildness of his smile. Maybe his appearance was deceptive, and he’d been disturbed enough to attack someone who had refused his advances, then go after her friends and family. We walked through the swing doors of his block into a stylish lobby. The parquet floor and Art Deco wall tiles were evidence of taste as well as money. Burns insisted we take the lift to the seventh floor. I would rather have used the stairs, to avoid the inevitable surge of claustrophobia. A band of panic tightened round my ribcage when the metal doors closed, or maybe it was the effect of proximity. Burns stood so near I could smell him – a mixture of fresh rain, espresso and the musk of his aftershave.
Mark Edmunds looked shocked when he opened his front door. ‘I didn’t know you worked for the police, Alice. Is that why you spoke to me?’ His baritone mumble filled the hallway.
‘We just need some information, Mark. Can we come in?’
His apartment seemed more suitable for a pensioner than a PhD student. Book-laden shelves covered the walls, antique furniture and knick-knacks crowding every room.
Edmunds looked uncomfortable. ‘I inherited the flat from my grandfather. I haven’t got round to decorating yet.’
‘You’ve got a great view,’ Burns commented.
Fifty metres away, the river was unwinding like a spool of dark brown wool. Edmunds remained silent; his pleasant smile was absent and dark rings shadowed his eyes. His frown made him look even plainer, blond hair sticking up in awkward curls.
‘You knew Guy Shelley at school, didn’t you?’
‘Not very well. Our paths didn’t cross that often.’
‘When’s the last time you met?’
He hesitated. ‘At a party in January. We know some of the same people.’
‘What about Jude? She remembers you from her time at King’s.’
His gaze was unblinking. ‘To be perfectly honest, I found her a bit stuck up.’
‘Yet you asked her out six weeks before she was attacked.’
His dark eyes locked onto mine. ‘I hope you’re not accusing me of hurting her, because I can account for myself that evening. I was in the library until it closed, then I came home. The concierge saw me unlock my door. It was a horrible shock to see the reports the next morning.’ Edmunds’s vulnerability had been replaced by a simmering tension that I could hear in his voice. ‘I was friendly towards her, but that’s not a crime, is it?’