River of Souls (20 page)

‘Tell me how the police work’s going,’ he said.

‘Slowly. The Shelley family wanted a forensic psychologist to re-examine their daughter’s case, that’s why the Met recruited me.’

‘So you’re a one-woman hit squad.’ He sounded amused. ‘Have you found anything new?’

‘Only that more attacks are being carried out. Someone’s tying objects from the river to the victim’s bodies; it’s got to be the same man.’

‘Is it definitely a male killer?’

‘Probably. Ninety per cent of violent attacks are carried out by men.’

His gaze flickered with curiosity. ‘What was the MP’s daughter studying?’

‘Human rights law.’

‘Sounds like your culprit’s not keen on morality.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘A human rights lawyer, a priest and a policewoman. He’s gunning for do-gooders, isn’t he?’

It was an interesting point. All three victims had been defenders of strict moral codes. Maybe the killer harboured a dislike for all legalities, seeing himself as a maverick, following his own belief system. I made a mental note to consider the idea later.

‘Jude was studying at King’s, two floors below you. Her tutor was Paul Ramirez. Do you know him?’

His smile vanished. ‘Not personally.’

‘But you’ve heard his name.’

‘There was an investigation last year. A couple of students made a complaint.’

‘Sexual harassment?’

‘There was a lot of hearsay, but it can’t have been serious. He didn’t lose his job.’

I studied his face. ‘I’d still like to know how the killer’s finding his treasure trove.’

‘From the riverbank, probably. Amateurs sometimes forage down there, but he’d need to spend days searching. It took me months to find an intact bellarmine. Or he could be buying the pieces through auction houses that sell to museums.’

‘Can you tell me their names?’

‘I’ll write them down for you.’ He trailed his index finger slowly across my collarbone. ‘Don’t you ever switch off?’

When I looked at him again, his eyes had slipped out of focus. It was a trait I often saw in patients with conditions like attention deficit disorder; there was something disturbing about the emptiness of his stare.

‘You’re drifting, Jake.’

‘Sorry.’ He rubbed his temple. ‘That keeps happening. I’m fine one minute, then I’m in another time zone. Tiredness, probably.’

‘It might help to sleep in the dark. You’d get more rest.’

His smile broadened. ‘That way I’d miss things.’

‘I’d better go home. Big day tomorrow.’

‘I’d rather you stayed.’

‘I can’t tonight.’

A flash of anger crossed his face, but he quickly hid it. ‘Then I’ll walk you home.’

‘There’s no need. I’ll get a taxi.’

I kissed him lightly on the cheek then rose to my feet. I couldn’t understand why my thoughts were racing. Plenty of things about him appealed to me, but those odd moments when his attention lapsed were off-putting. After my experience with Burns, I needed someone whose focus was on me alone.

My phone had been on silent all evening and three messages had arrived when I got home. My instinct was to ignore them, but duty overrode tiredness. If it was Lola telling me her waters had broken, I’d never forgive myself. There was a rambling diatribe from Burns, then a greeting from Will, followed by something that terrified me. When I listened again, my mother said my name twice in a breathless whimper, before the line cut out. I closed my eyes and tried to keep calm. Her flat was an hour away – far too long, if her illness had taken a sudden turn for the worse. My hands shook as I rang her neighbour, Mary. The elderly woman sounded shocked, but agreed to ring Mum’s doorbell and use her spare key if she failed to answer.

‘Call an ambulance if she needs one,’ I said. ‘Don’t wait for me.’

The drive to Blackheath was a test of nerve. I wanted to speed through Elephant and Castle, but the roads were clogged with taxis and night buses. By Lewisham my patience had evaporated. One thought kept repeating itself: I should have visited her more, instead of running from the past. It was too late for childhood anger, and it was shameful that I’d left her alone. Speed cameras flashed as I raced through Blackheath Village, but I’d stopped caring how many points I racked up.

My mother’s neighbour met me by the entrance. Mary was older than Mum, but pink-cheeked and robust by comparison, dressed in no-nonsense slacks and a crisp cotton blouse.

‘She wouldn’t let me call 999. I haven’t moved her in case something’s broken.’ Mary looked embarrassed, as though she’d failed in her duty, so I thanked her profusely.

Mum was lying at the foot of the stairs, curled on her side, covered by a blanket. I clicked into safety mode as I crouched beside her, remembering the basics from medical school.

‘Try and move your hands. That’s it, now wiggle your feet. Where does it hurt?’

‘Nowhere. I shouldn’t have called you, I only fell a couple of steps.’

‘Don’t be daft, Mum. We’re going to A&E to get you checked over.’

She explained that she’d been coming down to put the rubbish out. Her speech was clear at first, but I could see she was fading. It was a struggle to help her into the car. She was limping heavily, so weakened by shock that I almost had to carry her. It concerned me that she said nothing during the ten-minute drive to Greenwich District Hospital, keeping her eyes closed. If she’d had even an atom of any strength, she would have protested bitterly. When I checked the mirror she was huddled under her blanket, face pale as alabaster.

A junior doctor examined her in the corridor because the triage bays were busy. It sounded like the building was full of drunks, howling for pain relief. Maybe it was a blessing that Mum was too dazed to notice.

‘No broken bones, thankfully, but I don’t like the look of that bump on your head,’ the doctor told her. ‘We’ll take an X-ray, then keep you overnight.’

‘There’s no need.’ The quake in my mother’s voice had grown even stronger.

‘People always say that.’ The doctor gave a gentle smile. ‘But concussion can be nasty. If you’re well tomorrow, you can go straight home.’

By now her strength was returning and my mother spent the next hour complaining bitterly about being detained against her will. It was after midnight when I helped her into a bed on a general ward, the bruise on her forehead darkening from pink to crimson.

‘Call me tomorrow, Mum. I’ll come and collect you.’

‘No, darling. You’ll be at work.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Give me a ring as soon as you get the X-ray result.’

When I kissed her cheek she accepted the embrace for once, rather than flinching, and I had to blink back a tear. She seemed to be shrinking right in front of my eyes.

25

The flat is exactly as the man left it when he returns in the middle of the night. The front door is still latched open and the victim lies motionless, weakened by a long and pointless struggle. The man pulls a torch from his pocket rather than turning on the lights. The scene fills him with disgust. Blood has spilled across the floor because the victim has tried to work his hands free, showing a pathetic cowardice. The man releases a savage kick, silencing his whimpers. Now his task is easy. The victim is a dead weight as he drags him downstairs and piles his body into the boot of the car, his spirit glimmering in the dark.

It doesn’t take long to reach the abandoned warehouse, the river crooning his name. Its music caresses him in the darkness, as though he’s standing in a concert hall with an orchestra playing for him alone. But he can’t let himself be distracted. He drags his half-conscious victim down to the basement and there’s a muffled protest as the man ties him to the metal brackets. He considers listing the terrible deeds that will cost him his life, but no courtesy is required. His only duty is to sacrifice him to the river.

The man runs his torch across the ground, rats fleeing from the light, through a welter of deep puddles. The room smells of tar and saturated brick, the metallic odour of the river’s sediment. Soon water will trickle through the glassless window, then the flow will become a torrent, and the victim will understand his fate.

For safety’s sake the man drags a concrete block back over the hatch, so the victim couldn’t escape even if he broke free. In twelve hours’ time the river will receive its next sacrifice.

26

Seeing my mother so frail had left my head reeling: she’d been indomitable during my childhood, always smiling and presentable, no matter how bad things got. The thing that shook me most was how little I knew about her needs. Our relationship had been too fragile to ask about the care she wanted when she grew old. She’d reached that stage in a few short months, instead of decades. My worries simmered quietly while I ate breakfast the next day. Normally I shielded Will from family crises, but this one was too big to handle alone. At eight thirty I set off across Tower Bridge, the river brown as shoe leather, a flood of commuters gushing towards the City.

Will looked shocked to see me tapping on the window of the
Bonne Chance
, his smile slow to appear. I felt like hurling myself into his arms, but displays of emotion always made him panic so I kept my arms stiffly at my sides.

‘Come on in, I’m just making coffee. Nina’s still in bed.’

‘Sorry to drop by so early. Aren’t you at the juice bar today?’

‘I’m on late shifts, two till ten.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Good,’ he said, nodding vigorously. ‘The people are from all over: Estonia, Brazil, Poland. Soon I’ll be fluent in five languages.’ My brother threw himself down on the bench opposite. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘It’s Mum. She’s been ill for a while with Parkinson’s and last night she had a fall. It’s probably nothing serious but the hospital kept her in overnight.’

‘Parkinson’s? Why didn’t you tell me?’ My brother gazed at me in stunned silence. The last time he’d seen Mum had been a year before, when they’d had a huge row. I’d never understood how their relationship functioned; he seemed to blame her for our road-crash childhood, even though Dad was the violent one. Maybe he resented her remoteness. She had stayed away when his life fell apart, as if bipolar disorder was a malady you should be able to snap out of overnight.

‘I didn’t know how to handle it,’ I admitted. ‘To be honest, I still don’t.’

‘That’s not like you. You’re always in control.’

‘This time I haven’t got a clue.’

His expression calmed suddenly. ‘Tell me where she is, I’ll go and see her.’

‘Are you sure?’ The prospect of visiting Mum normally sent him running for the hills.

‘Positive. Leave it with me.’

He seemed like a different man when he fetched the coffee. Normally he moved slowly, like he was wading through water, but now his gestures were swifter and more decisive. It made me wonder how long he’d been waiting to become my big brother again. He wrote down the hospital’s address and the name of the ward, then shooed me off the boat so he could take charge. I had no time to worry about the fireworks that would explode when the pair of them clapped eyes on each other. There was a briefing at the police station that I had to attend.

Media interest had risen dramatically since last time. Press vans were double-parked across the yellow lines on St Pancras Way, oblivious to the threat of parking fines, several dozen journalists clustered on the steps. The story’s appeal was obvious: a cabinet minister’s daughter, a priest and a copper all thrown faceless into the river by a savage killer. But experience had made me wary of press involvement. It always slowed investigations down and raised levels of panic. The hacks’ morose expressions revealed that there had been no new information, so I put my head down and raced for the entrance.

The incident room was rammed by the time I arrived. Burns gave a quick nod of greeting and I noticed that he looked calmer, as though Amala’s death had finally sunk in, or maybe he was just relieved that no more attacks had been reported. His grave expression made the room fall silent when he rose to his feet.

‘This is turning into the biggest manhunt London’s seen for years. The killer’s MO seems simple. He damages people’s faces then drops their bodies into the Thames. Except it’s not that easy. The uniting factor between all the victims seems to be the Shelley family. First Jude was attacked, then their priest, then the children’s former nanny. But we still don’t know why they’re being targeted. The other thing we need to keep in mind is how dangerous the killer is. This guy gets a kick out of mutilating his victim’s faces then letting them drown.’ Burns swung round to face me. ‘Alice, can you tell us any more about his profile?’