Authors: Kate Rhodes
‘I don’t want her upset, she hasn’t been well.’
‘Write it down for me.’
Weldon clenched the biro tightly between his fingers, labouring over each digit. I wondered whether the problem stemmed from dyscalculia or a more complex learning difficulty.
‘How did you get your scar?’ I asked.
‘In prison, they did it with a piece of glass.’ His expression was unreadable, small eyes refusing to meet mine. ‘There are twenty stitches in there.’
‘Where did you take your walk on Sunday night?’ Burns interrupted.
‘Albert Embankment, Nine Elms Road, up to the power station.’
‘You came back along the river too?’
He shook his head. ‘I did a circle, over Chelsea Bridge.’
‘That’s where you attacked the girl, isn’t it?’ Burns said casually. ‘Have you been hurting people again like you hurt her?’
Weldon jerked back in his seat. ‘I never touched anyone. Ask Mr Bell, I keep myself to myself.’
His gaze settled again on my chest as we said goodbye. I was longing to escape, but the manager was waiting in the foyer, rubbing his hands in anticipation. His office smelled of fresh carpet and brand-new furniture. Clearly he’d blown the charity’s meagre budget on improving his own comfort.
‘Do you keep a log of your clients’ movements, Mr Bell?’ Burns asked.
He sucked in his cheeks. ‘This isn’t a bail hostel, Inspector. Our residents are free agents. We’re here to help ex-prisoners reintegrate into society, not to police them.’
‘How often do they reoffend?’
‘We only had two incidents last year.’ The man’s grey smile reappeared. ‘Shane’s one of our success stories. He helps in the kitchen, goes to church, holds down a steady job. We’re very proud of him. That’s what I wanted to tell you.’
Burns’s expression remained neutral while the manager extolled his client’s virtues, but he voiced his disbelief when we got outside. ‘It’s too close for comfort, isn’t it? I’ll call Weldon’s mother, and the street cameras will show where he took that stroll. He’ll need a surveillance team put on him.’
‘He’s not a great fit, Don. His attack was spur of the moment: no staging, no signature and no facial mutilation. And why would he admit going to St Mary’s Church so easily if he’d just killed the priest?’
Burns returned my stare. ‘The bloke would have seen the Shelleys at church, and he knew the priest. Amala’s the only victim he doesn’t have a link with, but I bet you we’ll find one.’
‘Killers hardly ever change their MO. He wouldn’t just go from hasty opportunism to a planned campaign. I doubt he’s got the intellect for something this complex.’
His grumbled reply was too quiet to hear. I was still trying to work out what had struck me as odd about Weldon. His problems with writing made me wonder about his mental capacity. If it was low, he would have fitted in perfectly at Brixton; most of the UK’s prison population scored badly in IQ tests. But he was bright enough to drive, which placed him inside the normal range. I felt like reminding Burns that the objects tied to the victims’ bodies deserved more attention, but there was no point. The dogged look had returned to his face as he paced across the wet pavement back to his car. He would pursue every lead obsessively until Shane Weldon’s life had been turned inside out. Already he was so focused on his task he didn’t notice that he was stamping through deep puddles, throwing out enough water to soak passers-by.
16
I’d arranged to meet Dr Hugh Lister in the exhibition hall that evening. The room on the second floor was impressively grand, with pillared walls and a marble floor, but there was no one in sight. Glass display cases lined the walls, and a sign explained that the items had all been salvaged from the banks of the Thames during an archaeological survey. The range of objects was staggering, and some were in mint condition. I stopped to admire a jadeite Roman necklace, stones so glossy it could have been worn yesterday. A thousand-year-old dagger still looked sharp enough to wound. I was admiring an ironwork scabbard when a voice interrupted me.
‘You must be Alice Quentin.’ A man was gazing down at me with a startled expression in his dark blue eyes. He was medium height, slim and clean-shaven, in his early thirties, with light brown hair cropped close to his skull.
‘Thanks for agreeing to help, Dr Lister.’
‘I’m afraid Hugh’s been called away. My name’s Jake Fielding, I run the history department here. How can I help?’
‘I’ve got some objects that need identifying. I’m a psychologist working for the Met, with no historical background, so you’ll need to use laymen’s terms, please.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ He gave a disarmingly gorgeous smile, still studying my face so intently he seemed to be trying to carbon-date me.
‘This is one of the pieces.’ I scrolled through the photos on my phone to the ceramic bottle that had been tied to Amala’s body.
He stared at the picture. ‘It looks like a bellarmine. Where did you find it?’
‘That’s a long story.’
‘Let me show you the ones in our collection.’
Fielding led me across the room, giving me time to observe him. His walk was full of controlled energy, as though he could break into a run at any minute. He didn’t fit my stereotypes about historians. I’d been expecting grey-faced professors in tweed jackets and corduroys, but he wore faded jeans and a grey shirt that clung to his muscular arms. By now we’d reached a small display case, which held a row of clay bottles just like the one in my photo. Fielding’s hand brushed my shoulder as he pointed them out.
‘They’re three centuries old,’ he said.
‘What were they used for?’
‘Witchcraft rituals. The name bellarmine comes from a cardinal who was unpopular in the seventeenth century. His face was always embossed on the side. The witches called them spirit jars. They believed that human souls existed separately from the body and could be coaxed into the jars, then cast into the river, imprisoned forever. A neat trick, don’t you think?’
‘Was the Thames used for sacrifices?’
He nodded vigorously. ‘Since prehistory. People living by the estuary have always feared its power. We’ve found hundreds of valuable items like jewellery, daggers and swords. They must have believed that rituals could keep it in check.’
‘What about human sacrifice?’
‘That’s likely too. Hundreds of decapitated skulls were found a few years ago; the victims were probably executed after losing a battle.’ He gazed at the bellarmines again. ‘Some of these are still sealed. The witches did a good job of trapping their victims’ spirits.’
There was something unsettling about the intensity of his gaze, so I returned my attention to the row of clay flasks and tried to imagine the kind of man who thought that human souls could be imprisoned for all eternity. Over Fielding’s shoulder, I saw a caretaker rattling his keys with an irate expression on his face.
‘I’ve outstayed my welcome, haven’t I?’
‘Come back another day. Hugh’s our Thames expert, he can tell you everything you need to know.’
‘Thanks, I’ll call him on Monday.’
‘Let me walk you to the exit.’
‘There’s no need.’ I glanced at his clean-cut profile as we fell into step.
He gave another attractive smile. ‘I could use the exercise. I’ve been trapped inside all day.’ When he paused by the doors, I assumed he was about to share one last piece of historical information. ‘Listen, my team’s working by the river tomorrow afternoon. If you meet me on London Bridge at five, you can meet Hugh then.’
My answer blurted out before I could edit it. ‘That would be great, thanks.’
He tapped my number into his phone, then walked back into the building at a rapid pace, as though nothing could break his stride. We’d spent the past twenty minutes chatting, yet I’d formed no clear impression. He was well spoken, with a crisp west London accent, and he’d been unselfconscious about studying me during our conversation, but that was the extent of it. For all I knew, his clean-cut exterior disguised a multitude of sins. He might be even more predatory than Paul Ramirez, his bedpost covered in notches.
My brain fizzed with ideas on the bus ride home. Maybe the killer had found the bellarmine beside the river. When I closed my eyes I could almost see him, stooped on the muddy ground, as the high tide raced past. I still felt sure Jude could identify him if she could summon the courage to access her memory.
On Sunday morning I woke up dry-mouthed, from a nightmare that refused to clear. I’d dreamed myself back at the Prospect of Whitby, the pub empty apart from Jude behind the bar. She seemed unaware of her injuries, turning her ruined face towards me as she poured my drink.
I stayed under the shower a long time, rinsing the images away, then took longer than normal to get ready. My mother was bound to criticise every flaw, so I clipped my hair into a French pleat, selected a knee-length dark red dress, black low-heeled boots and my Whistles raincoat.
I only had to wait five minutes for a boat from Tower Pier. Clippers are one of my favourite ways to get around the city, cutting back and forth along the Thames between Putney and the Thames Barrier, with no traffic to slow them down except cargo ships heading for Tilbury. I stood by the railing, watching the Tower of London shrink into the distance, wash streaming from the propellers. The sky was gunmetal grey, the water two shades darker. It smelled of brine and decay, three millennia of human waste trapped in its depths.
It took half an hour to reach Greenwich, and I hurried to the covered market, hoping to arrive first, but my mother had beaten me to the coffee shop. Even from a distance I could tell something was wrong. She had always prided herself on choosing expensive clothes and styling her hair perfectly, but today she looked dishevelled. Her stiff deportment was letting her down. She was slumped awkwardly in her chair, as though she lacked the strength to sit upright. I steadied myself before marching through the shoppers who were queuing to buy flowers and bric-a-brac from the busy stalls.
‘There you are, darling.’ Her tremor passed through my hand as I touched her shoulder.
‘What can I get you, Mum?’
‘Something milky, please. Not too strong.’
It was the first time in years that I’d seen her without makeup, her hair uncombed. I remembered watching her dab powder onto her cheekbones as a child, painting on lipstick with a brush, gradually turning herself into an artwork. I rushed inside to place our order. When I joined her again, it was obvious she was in no mood for questions.
‘Don’t fuss, Alice. Mornings are shaky, but by lunchtime I’m myself again.’
‘Why not let me see the specialist?’
‘Let’s not waste time arguing. Are you on holiday at the moment?’
‘I’m working for the Forensic Psychology Unit. They tell me it’s meant to be an honour.’
Her pale eyes studied me. ‘More murders and misdemeanours; I don’t know how you stand it.’
‘Neither do I sometimes. This latest case is fascinating, but it’s the worst yet.’
‘What about boyfriends?’
‘Nothing serious, but I’m seeing a historian this afternoon.’ My meeting with Jake Fielding couldn’t be called a date, but at least the white lie brought a smile to her face.
‘And what about Will?’
‘He seems well. He’s living on a houseboat at the moment.’
My mother’s defences faltered. ‘He never answers my calls.’
‘You know how forgetful he can be. I’ll remind him.’
Coffee slopped from her cup when she tried to drink, hands performing a Saint Vitus’s dance across the table. The quake in her voice sounded like Katherine Hepburn’s, with an odd rattle behind her words. I racked my brains for facts about Parkinson’s, remembering that symptoms could accelerate suddenly, without warning. My mother’s condition had worsened visibly since the last time we met.
Normally she would have said goodbye promptly, then marched home through Greenwich Park to her flat in Blackheath, but today she was lingering.
‘Let’s get a taxi, Mum. I can catch the train home.’
She protested, but I could tell she was relieved. The short walk across the market square seemed to tire her, and when we reached Wemyss Road she took forever to climb the stairs to her maisonette in the small Victorian building. It looked shabbier than when she’d first bought it. She’d been overjoyed to find a self-contained apartment with its own entrance and stairway, but her front door was crying out for a fresh coat of paint. Her shaking was even more pronounced when we reached the landing.