Authors: Kate Rhodes
Heather’s exhaustion was clear by the end of our meeting. She seemed so focused on her children’s welfare that she had forgotten her own. I promised to report back as soon as I’d reviewed the evidence, but the hollows under her eyes looked even more pronounced as I prepared to leave.
‘Would it be okay to visit Jude tomorrow morning?’ I asked.
‘I’d better come too. Meeting new people always upsets her.’
‘It’s probably best if we meet by ourselves the first time.’
Her smile vanished. ‘My daughter’s too ill for any kind of stress.’
‘I realise that.’ I touched her arm lightly. ‘She’ll have to meet me sooner or later, Heather. I won’t stay long.’
Her lips trembled as she said goodbye, then the door gave an abrupt click as it shut behind me.
My head spun as I walked north to a coffee shop on Cromwell Road. It unnerved me that I’d only been working on the Shelley case for a few hours, yet I already felt involved. Heather’s suffering was visible to the naked eye, her concentration ruined, all of her answers arriving a beat too late. If she’d arrived for a consultation, I’d have diagnosed situational depression. I could tell she was fighting tooth and nail not to let it erode her strength, but she’d endured every parent’s worst nightmare. Dragging herself to the hospital each day to confront her daughter’s injuries must have taken its toll.
When I got back to my flat in Providence Square, I made myself some pasta, then peered out of the kitchen window. My plan to go running had been foiled again. Rain was falling in solid sheets, the clouds a relentless grey. A light shower would have been fine, but there are limits even to my masochism, so I opened the crime file and got to work.
The police medic’s report on Jude Shelley’s injuries described a lacerated throat, which had required a tracheotomy, severe cranial damage, loss of facial skin and tissue, and a broken jaw. On top of that, she had almost drowned. I stared down at the list, trying to imagine emotional triggers for such savagery, but all the evidence would have to be sifted before a psychological motive could emerge.
The graphic details were making me feel queasy, so I switched to the crime scene report instead. Jude had been found on the riverbank below Southwark Bridge at four a.m. on 20 June, almost a year ago to the day. Southwark Police had arrived within five minutes of the emergency call. The next piece of information stopped me in my tracks. DCI Don Burns had been the reporting officer, his outsized signature scrawled across the bottom of the page.
I tried to picture Burns kneeling on the cold mud, keeping the girl in the recovery position until the ambulance arrived. No matter how appalling her injuries were, he would have stayed there, clutching her hand. Thinking about him filled me with discomfort. I’d only seen Burns once since we worked together on the Foundlings case the previous winter. We’d had dinner in a country pub near Charnwood, beside a crackling fire. The signs had been good: he’d kissed me before getting back into his car and promised we’d meet again soon. But since then I’d heard nothing. My phone messages were never returned. When I realised he had no intention of calling, my hurt hardened into anger. The idea of contacting him now made my stomach twist into knots, but there was no alternative. I switched on my computer and hit the Skype key, determined to keep the conversation brief.
Burns answered after three rings. His face refused to come into focus, and his environment looked different. He must have left his flat, because his bookshelves had disappeared and unfamiliar paintings hung on the wall. But when the picture sharpened he was just as I remembered, hulking shoulders almost filling the screen, dark hair in need of a cut, his brown-eyed stare as intense as ever. Only his lopsided smile was missing.
‘I’ve been meaning to call you, Alice.’
Before he could speak again, another face appeared in the corner of the screen. An attractive brunette scowled at me then disappeared from view. It was no consolation that Burns looked as awkward as I felt when I blurted out my request. ‘The Jude Shelley case has reopened, Don. I need some information.’
‘You want to talk now?’
‘If possible.’
‘Can we meet tomorrow instead? Eight a.m. at Brown’s?’
I nodded then hit the escape button and his face vanished. I had no idea who his new girlfriend was, but the idea of him in bed with someone else started a raw ache at the base of my throat – a classic case of somatising. It had got the better of me dozens of times, emotional pain transforming into physical symptoms. My distress always manifested as headaches or insomnia, but I had no intention of yielding to it again.
I felt calmer after a long bath. I was about to go to bed when a message arrived on my mobile. Lola had texted a picture of herself, marooned on her chaise longue, vastly pregnant. I couldn’t help smiling. So what if my day had gone from bad to disastrous? I focused on the prospect of becoming a godmother in a fortnight’s time, and wiped everything else from my mind.
4
Burns was waiting for me at Brown’s the next morning. He sat by the window in a black raincoat, shoulders hunched as he gazed across the river to Whitechapel, pale skin stretched tight across his high cheekbones. The café had been our regular meeting place in the old days, because it opened early and served good coffee, its dimly lit interior often deserted. I approached his table reluctantly, annoyed that the physical connection was still there. If he’d invited me to check in to a hotel, it would have been impossible to refuse. He looked flustered when he spotted me, half rising to his feet.
‘It’s good to see you, Alice.’
‘Is it?’ I observed him steadily as I sat down. ‘Look, this won’t take long, I just want to ask—’
‘Can’t I explain why I didn’t call you first?’
‘There’s no need. Let’s keep this professional.’
Burns ignored me and carried on. ‘The boys weren’t coping with me and Julie being apart - Liam wouldn’t go to school. Moray kept wetting the bed, crying for hours.’
‘You could have told me you’d gone back to your wife. A text would have done it, or an email.’
He studied the surface of the table. ‘I didn’t know what to say. I felt terrible for messing you around.’ His eyes scanned my face as if he was checking for signs of damage.
‘That’s not why I called. I’m here to talk about Jude Shelley. The report you filed says you reached the scene before the ambulance.’
At first I thought he wouldn’t reply. His attention had shifted to the view, watching a barge dragging itself upstream. ‘I had a trainee in tow. It was the poor sod’s first call-out; he was off sick for a week afterwards.’
‘Was she conscious?’
‘That was the worst thing. She kept coming round, even though the pain must have been unbearable.’
‘Did you notice anything, apart from her injuries?’
‘There was a bit of metal round her neck. Sharp-edged, a couple of inches long, tied to a leather string.’
I remembered the photo from the crime file. ‘What do you think it was?’
‘The paramedics came before I could get a closer look.’
‘Did she say anything about her attacker?’
‘Nothing coherent. She kept babbling about souls.’
‘Maybe she thought she was dying.’
Burns shook his head. ‘It was something about the soul of the river.’
Outside the window, the Thames was blacker than the sky, dense with silt and pollutants. Surely no one could believe that a spirit existed under its dark surface? When I focused again on Burns, he was watching me cautiously. His rugby fullback shoulders were still raised high enough to deflect a rough tackle.
‘Have you seen today’s papers?’ he asked.
When I shook my head, he shunted his copy of the
Independent
across the table. The first headline caught my eye: PRIEST DROWNS IN VIOLENT ATTACK. The story explained that Father Kelvin Owen’s body had washed up on the banks of the Thames at Westminster Pier the previous morning with severe facial injuries.
‘Just like Jude Shelley,’ I said quietly.
‘You think it could be happening again?’
‘Why would he wait a whole year? The injuries worry me, though. Facial mutilation’s so rare, I’d like to know more about what happened to him.’ It seemed too coincidental that someone had been attacked in exactly the same way as Jude, on the very day her case reopened. But no one had known about my work apart from the authorities and her family.
‘I can get details for you.’
‘No need. The FPU gave me a password for the Police National Computer.’ I pushed my coffee cup away. ‘Did you work on the Jude Shelley case again after you found her?’
He scowled. ‘The MIT took over. I met her dad though, the Right Honourable Timothy Shelley. He made a complaint about slow response times. The bloke’s everything you’d expect from the English ruling classes: smarmy, vicious and arrogant.’ Burns’s Scottish accent grew stronger as the chip on his shoulder widened. It irritated me that I could have sat there all day, listening to him rant. I rose to my feet quickly and belted my coat.
‘Thanks for your time.’
‘Call me again if I can help.’ His eyes lingered on my face and it looked like he was planning another apology, so I ducked out of the door before he got the chance.
My throat burned as I walked towards Spice Quay, my heart beating uncomfortably fast. By Tower Bridge I had to stop and counsel myself. I perched on a bench and watched clippers cutting through the drizzle towards Bermondsey. Burns had been at the front of my mind for months, but unrequited love was a slippery slope. It was meant to help twelve year olds test their emotional range, not smart thirty-three-year-old psychologists. My vulnerability made me feel like kicking the nearest lamppost. Maybe I should have yelled at him in the café, but it wouldn’t have changed anything. Burns’s decision to do the right thing and return to his family only made me like him more. The best option was to wipe him from my mind. I allowed myself one more minute of abject self-pity, then continued my journey along the river path.
Jude Shelley was being treated at the city’s most expensive private hospital. The Royal London glittered with luxury. Drinks machines in the echoing foyer dispensed free mineral water and cappuccino, every surface polished to a high shine. The building faced north across the river to the Custom House and Old Billingsgate. It was ironic that the girl’s room must have a direct view of Lower Thames Street, where she’d been attacked. In her shoes I’d have begged for an immediate transfer.
A middle-aged nurse led me up to the first floor, examining me from the corner of her eye. ‘Have you visited Jude before?’
‘This is my first time.’
‘Can I give you some advice?’
‘Please.’
‘Try not to stare. People don’t realise they’re doing it; under all that damage she’s just a normal twenty-three-year-old girl.’
By now we were standing outside room nine, and she gave me an encouraging smile before walking away. I took a moment to compose myself, then knocked on the door. The anteroom smelled of fresh flowers, iodine and stale air, but the thing that hit me hardest was the darkness. The curtains were closed even though it was mid-morning. A girl lay on the bed, wreathed in shadows. She was wearing a hat with the brim pulled down, her face hidden, but her greeting was cheerful as I approached her bed.
‘You must be the shrink Mum told me about, Alice Quentin.’ Her voice was light and breathless, the words accompanied by air hissing from her respirator.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not here to psychoanalyse you. Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘Feel free. You’re saving me from the crap on daytime TV.’
I laughed. ‘I know what you mean. Last year I was in hospital for a while – by the end I was almost brain dead.’
‘You’ve experienced the joys of
Flog It
and
Bargain Hunt
?’
‘Not to mention
Loose Women
and
Countdown
.’ I had no idea if she could see me, but smiled anyway. I got the sense that she was trying to put me at my ease. ‘Do you know why I’m here, Jude?’
‘My mother’s asked you to profile my attacker. She’s one hundred per cent certain you’ll find him.’