River of Souls (14 page)

‘No need to come in, darling. Go and get ready for your date.’

‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time.’

When she finally opened the front door, I took a sharp intake of breath. Her apartment had always been immaculate, the kitchen sterile as an operating theatre, but today it looked like a bombsite. Dirty dishes and takeaway cartons were piled in the sink, a stack of ironing sat on the kitchen table, bags of rubbish waiting to be taken down to the bins.

I put a mug of tea beside her armchair. ‘We should find you a home help, Mum.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just a little slower than before.’

‘A few hours a week would make all the difference.’

‘You can’t bully me. I’m not one of your patients, Alice.’ Her grey eyes had turned glacial.

I retreated to the kitchen and spent the next hour cleaning and carting rubbish bags outside. When the time came to leave, my mother stood by the window, doing a good impersonation of herself before her illness arrived. She was so thin as I embraced her that she felt insubstantial in my arms.

My thoughts refused to stay still on the train back to London Bridge. Mum had always been invincible; even my father’s violence had failed to slow her down. It seemed unfair that poor health had ambushed her at the age of sixty-three, after living so cautiously. I’d never seen her smoke a cigarette or take one drink too many.

The housing estates of Lewisham and Catford streamed past the train’s window, a hinterland of grey concrete, stretching to infinity.

17

Nerves got the better of me as I walked along the river path. Dates had been so thin on the ground that even a casual meeting felt like a major event. I ignored the knot tightening inside my ribcage and reminded myself that Burns deserved no loyalty whatsoever. I could flirt with anyone who crossed my path. When I passed the Royal London, I remembered Jude Shelley, struggling to breathe, her unblinking eye gazing down from her window. The main reason for today’s meeting was to discover the origins of her attacker’s calling cards so I could understand his motives.

Jake Fielding was standing in the middle of London Bridge when I arrived at five o’clock, sheltering under a large umbrella, too busy studying the river’s surface to notice me. He was so distracted that he looked startled when I tapped his shoulder.

‘There you are.’ His gaze drifted across my face.

‘You’re in a dream world, aren’t you, Dr Fielding?’

‘Jake, please.’ His face relaxed slightly. ‘It’s work, I’m afraid. The Archaeology Trust has promised us funds to excavate here if we can find more evidence of a Roman sacrificial site. Three archaeologists will be out of work if we don’t raise the cash.’

‘And that’s why you’re working weekends?’

‘Hugh’s running the project, but I’ve spent every spare minute here for months. Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

As we walked along Lower Thames Street, it struck me that only a year ago Jude had been abducted from the same stretch of pavement, while the river churned at low tide. Even at half strength the currents had been strong enough to haul her body to the opposite bank in moments.

‘I hope you can handle wading through a sea of mud,’ Jake said.

‘It can’t be worse than Glastonbury.’

‘Believe me, it is.’

I followed him down the wooden steps at Grant’s Key Wharf, each tread slick with dark green algae, the river’s stench rising to greet me. It smelled of decay and port wine, mixed with an undertone of cinnamon; a reminder that the city had once been the spice trading capital of the world. A dozen people clad in waterproofs were gazing earnestly at the ground. Some of them were attacking the mud with trowels and small shovels.

‘We’ve been here since low tide,’ Jake commented.

‘It looks like they’re beachcombing.’

‘That’s pretty much correct. The tides carry objects down from Lambeth and Battersea, but we’re planning an underwater excavation by the bridge’s foundations.’

‘What do you expect to find?’

‘This stretch of the river was sacred for centuries. The Romans made offerings to the river gods. There are all sorts of relics buried in the silt: glass, silver, gold. We’ve only discovered a fraction.’

A thickset man of around fifty with a short grey crew cut made his way over; his face was so angular it looked like it had been chipped from a block of granite. He glowered down at me. ‘Found a new volunteer, Jake?’

‘This is Alice Quentin, she wanted to speak to you,’ Jake said, turning to me. ‘Meet Hugh Lister, the man in charge.’

There was something intimidating about Lister’s body language, and his handshake nearly wrenched my arm from its socket. His skin was carved with such deep lines it looked as if he’d spent years in the tropics.

‘It’s good to meet you, Dr Lister. I understand you know all there is to know about the Thames.’

‘Hardly, it’s still full of secrets.’ His voice was a refined growl, which sounded vaguely familiar, although I couldn’t place it. ‘I hope you’ll stay a while and help us search.’

‘I’ve got some pieces I’m hoping you can identify. Would you mind looking at some photos?’

He frowned at me. ‘Pictures are no use. Bring them to the department and I’ll do my best.’ It was obvious he had no time to waste on chatting to strangers, striding back to the point where he’d been foraging. Lister struck me as a typical historian, short on social skills and unperturbed about his scruffy image, dressed in an outsized cagoule and mud-spattered jeans.

When I turned round Jake was yards away, leaning down to inspect something he’d unearthed. All I could see was the city’s profligacy: torn carrier bags, beer cans, punctured bicycle tyres. Gradually details started to emerge. I picked up a coin and studied its tarnished surface carefully. When I straightened up a man in his early twenties was giving me a polite smile, dark brown eyes fixed on my face. He was a head taller than me, his cheeks pock-marked by acne scars, skull haloed by short blond curls.

‘You’re new, aren’t you? I’m Mark Edmunds, one of Hugh’s PhD students.’ His voice was at odds with his appearance, a mellow baritone that seemed to belong to an older man.

‘I’m just visiting, but I envy you. This feels like a glorified treasure hunt.’

‘There hasn’t been much glory today, but you’re spot on. We’re just overgrown kids mucking about on the riverbank. Most archaeologists would go mad if you stuck them behind a desk.’ His gentle smile reappeared. ‘Have you found anything yet?’

‘Just this.’ I held out the coin in the flat of my hand.

He gave a soft laugh. ‘No need to alert the British Museum. That’s a shilling, less than fifty years old.’

‘Now I’m disappointed.’

‘Don’t be, it takes time to find buried treasure. Give me a shout if I can help.’ He raised a hand in farewell, then returned to the tideline.

I thought about the exchange as I carried on studying the ground. Something about Mark Edmunds’s diffidence made him seem vulnerable. Maybe all history departments were populated with benign oddballs, escaping the rigors of the modern world. A few minutes later I spotted something else, bone white, protruding from the silt. As I rubbed the mud away a clay pipe revealed itself. When I straightened up Jake was watching me, blank-faced, as though he’d seen a ghost. He seemed to recover himself in the time it took to stride across the mud and take the object from my hand.

‘Nice find; it’s eighteenth century. We don’t often see them in mint condition.’

‘Beginner’s luck,’ I replied.

I watched him wrap the pipe in foam, trying to forget his intense stare. The historians were stretched out across the riverbank, most of them working in pairs or small groups, but Hugh Lister seemed determined on solitude. He bristled when I asked him what he’d found, yet he’d collected far more than anyone else – buckles, pipes, and a smoky piece of glass which he assured me was sixth century. The rain was worsening. Even with my hood up, moisture trickled down my backbone. I was about to make my excuses when I heard Jake exclaiming under his breath as he rinsed dirt from a piece of clay.

‘As if by magic. Look at this, Alice.’ He held out a shard of earthenware, embossed with a sprite-like face.

‘That’s part of a bellarmine, isn’t it?’

‘The tide probably carried it upstream from Execution Dock.’

I looked at the face’s malevolent grin and shivered. Jake was studying it in fascination and I got the sense that he could have carried on scouring the riverbank until dawn.

‘You look cold. Why don’t we go for a drink?’ His hand glanced across mine as he turned away.

Hugh Lister and the rest of the group carried on with their search, but we ended up in a crowded pub on Tooley Street. The barmaid bustled over to serve Jake, wearing a flirtatious smile. I observed him while she poured brandy into shot glasses. His fine bones and deep set blue eyes were compelling; the kind of classic good looks that photograph well from any angle. A jolt of panic passed through my chest as I searched for a table. The best course of action would be to ask my questions then run before life got complicated. The drinks Jake placed on our table were full to the brim.

‘You got doubles?’

‘A single hardly wets the glass.’

‘Then I should eat something before I fall over.’

He was watching me again. ‘I can’t imagine you drunk. You’re too composed.’

‘Not true. I can dance on the tables with the best of them.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘You like to dance?’

‘Six years of ballet as a kid, but I wasn’t much good. Anyway, there are some things I need to ask.’

‘Not now. Sunday’s meant to be a day of rest.’ His fingers skimmed across my wrist, the sudden physical contact unsettling me. ‘It’s too late for professional questions.’

Normally I avoid personal details, but Jake seemed comfortable talking about himself. His passion for archaeology had taken him around the world; he’d worked on excavations in Brazil, Peru and Egypt before becoming an academic.

‘Lucky you. All I’ve done is backpack across Europe, and a few trips to the US.’

He smiled. ‘They work us pretty hard out there. I was researching with Hugh last year, diving in the Mexican Gulf. His specialism’s marine archaeology, but he knows a hell of a lot about rivers. His latest book’s about the Thames estuary.’

‘He seemed in his element today.’

‘That’s the trouble. The guy’s a bona-fide obsessive; he never switches off. His PhD student’s nearly as bad.’

‘Mark Edmunds?’

He nodded. ‘Most nights we have to eject him from the library.’

‘I liked him, he was very welcoming.’ I checked my watch. ‘It’s time I went home.’

‘Not yet. You haven’t told me about your job.’

‘What do you want to know? I combine hospital work with forensic psychology. Right now I’m helping the Met on two murder cases, the ones where the bodies ended up in the Thames.’

He did a double take. ‘The priest and the policewoman. I saw it on the news.’

‘That’s why I asked for help. The bellarmine I showed you was found at one of the crime scenes. Judging by what I saw today, I’m guessing that all the objects came from the river.’

‘You think a serial killer’s been hunting by the Thames?’ His eyes widened. ‘You should read Hugh’s book. I’ve got a copy at my flat, why don’t you collect it?’

‘I really ought to go.’

He gave me a quizzical look. ‘Because you’re seeing someone else?’

I hesitated. ‘Not any more.’

‘But you’ve still got feelings for him.’

‘What are you, a mind reader?’

He laughed. ‘It’s just a book, Alice. No strings attached.’

The booze must have affected me, his insistence making my head swim. Burns’s face appeared briefly, then vanished as I fastened my coat.

Jake’s apartment was less than half a mile from mine. We strolled back along the river, my head muzzy with brandy. The boardwalk was so slick that I almost fell, but he steadied me, and his arm circled my waist as we walked in silence. It had been a long time since I’d strolled arm in arm with a man, and it felt intoxicating. Part of me longed for the simplicity of waking up with the same boyfriend every day, even though the intimacy would smother me within weeks.