River of Souls (32 page)

45

I tried to visualise where Tania was being held as I exited Westminster Tube station. It was two p.m., and she had been missing over twelve hours. She could be in the water already, screaming for help. Until now I’d been certain that the abductions were linked directly to Timothy Shelley, someone so near his inner circle that Jude had recognised his voice. But now he was attacking anyone who stood in his way. It still seemed possible that Guy was disturbed enough to target his adoptive father. He had been missing three days, without a single sighting. But there might yet be an unhinged history fanatic out there who believed that Shelley had wronged him in some way and was attacking anyone in his sphere. The minister had already shown that he had no intention of opening up about professional or personal matters. My only option now was to prise secrets from his allies.

I came to a halt beside Big Ben, the huge clock tower casting its shadow across the road. A gang of Italian tourists had blocked the pavement, oblivious to the weather, cameras clicking in time with the downpour.

The receptionist eyed me with suspicion when I reached the House of Commons. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘I think Mr Moorcroft will see me without one.’

‘Normally you have to book weeks in advance.’ She inspected my ID card then disappeared behind her counter, returning a few minutes later. ‘You’re lucky. He’s got twenty minutes free.’

Giles Moorcroft looked exactly as I remembered. His features were pale and forgettable, and he wore the same discreetly expensive suit, dark hair greying at the temples. His expression was as calm and unreadable as ever.

‘I’m afraid Mr Shelley’s not here. Didn’t the receptionist explain?’

‘It’s you I came to see, Mr Moorcroft. Can we talk privately?’

He gave me a curious look then led me away. Disraeli’s portrait gazed down with a baleful stare when we reached his office, and I wondered how Moorcroft had been occupying his time while his boss was away.

‘You realise I’m not at liberty to share private information.’ His refined, old-fashioned speech made him sound Victorian.

‘I’m not asking for state secrets, but you’re in the best position to know if anyone’s been harassing the minister.’

Moorcroft’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I’ve worked for Mr Shelley for many years, first at his constituency office, then as his diary secretary. Nothing untoward has happened in that time.’ His stare was icy, as if he was prepared to safeguard his employer’s reputation at any cost.

I glanced at the leather-bound volumes on the shelf behind him. ‘Are those Mr Shelley’s diaries?’

He nodded. ‘I’ve kept them all since he’s been in post.’

‘Every one?’

‘Of course, they’re an important archive. It’s a requirement of my job.’

It fascinated me that Moorcroft seemed to believe he was working for a political genius. I wondered how many letters and emails he had salted away for posterity in case Shelley ever graduated to Number Ten.

‘Could I take a look?’

‘Not without the minister’s permission.’

I took a sharp breath. ‘People close to your boss are being killed, Mr Moorcroft. He may be vulnerable too. I’d like you to think hard about anyone who disliked him. Did you ever hear raised voices coming from his office?’

His gaze shifted to the window. He studied the river intently, as though it might jog his memory. ‘I’m not sure how much to disclose.’

‘Another policewoman went missing last night; you could help us find her.’

Moorcroft’s eyes blinked rapidly with concern. ‘Mr Shelley’s son is sometimes very agitated. Guy made quite a scene here last month. I don’t know what the argument was about, but he was shouting at his father. He had to be driven home.’

‘Did Mr Shelley argue with anyone else?’

‘I don’t think so.’ His gaze slid to the floor.

‘Please, Mr Moorcroft.’

He gave an evasive shrug. ‘There was friction between him and Julian Speller.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘Professional differences, I think. They worked closely on the ethical employment bill, but weren’t always in accord. Speller was an exceptionally brilliant adviser. He saw himself as indispensable, which irritated the minister at times.’

‘And you heard them arguing?’

‘Frequently.’ His lips shut tight, as if he had no intention of yielding another word.

I held his gaze. ‘If you show me Mr Shelley’s appointment diaries, I promise not to tell him.’

‘That could get me sacked,’ Moorcroft bridled, but in the end he handed over the diaries from the last eighteen months.

His phone rang constantly as I flicked through the pages, and I heard Moorcroft advising journalists that Mr Shelley wasn’t available for interviews in a firm tone of voice. I concentrated on pages relating to the months before Jude was attacked. The entries proved that Shelley’s career had reached a new high. His days often included lunches at Downing Street, press briefings and trips abroad. There had been a flurry of meetings with Julian Speller, often after late sittings in the house. It seemed odd that such a close working relationship had been so conflict-ridden.

Things changed dramatically after Jude got hurt. Shelley’s appointments were cancelled for a fortnight, days gradually refilling when he returned to work. Shelley seemed to work incredibly long hours, starting before seven and continuing late into the evening, relying on a small group of advisers. I spent over an hour studying the pages detailing the time and purpose of every appointment, hoping that a name would spring out at me. When I glanced up again, Moorcroft seemed oblivious to my presence. His fingers were balanced on his keyboard, but he was staring blankly out of the window, lost in his thoughts. Maybe he was concerned about the future. Despite his efficiency, his fortunes rose or fell with the minister’s.

‘Do you work the same hours as Mr Shelley?’ I asked.

‘Fortunately not. I wouldn’t have the stamina for a political career.’

‘Mr Moorcroft, are you certain there’s nothing else? Your information could help keep the minister safe.’

He looked regretful. ‘I’ve already been indiscreet. There’s really nothing more I can say.’

Moorcroft gave a tense smile when I said goodbye. The diaries had given me new insight into the feverish pace of Shelley’s lifestyle, with his assistant ensuring that he reached each destination properly briefed. I’d also learned that his relationship with his son was even more strained than I’d realised, and his most frequent adviser had been Julian Speller, despite Ben Altman’s claim that his boyfriend hated his job. Part of Shelley’s grief could have stemmed from knowing that Speller had been pivotal to his career. He seemed to have depended on the younger, more brilliant man to help him make decisions.

It was early afternoon when I reached the FPU, and the first person I saw was Christine Jenkins. She was standing in the reception area, her arms tightly folded.

‘I’ve been waiting for you, Alice. Join me in the meeting room, please.’ For once the CO’s sang-froid appeared to be slipping. Her expression was agitated when we reached the empty room, closing the door firmly behind us. ‘I’m afraid things have escalated.’

‘In what way?’

‘The seniors want a change of personnel.’

I gaped at her. ‘You’re sacking me?’

She drew in a long breath. ‘You were appointed to look at Jude Shelley’s case. We both know that Whitehall wanted to silence her mother’s complaints, but the fall-out’s been worse than they expected. Three murders and now this latest abduction.’ Her voice tailed away.

‘That’s precisely why you should keep me on the case.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘No one could have worked harder than you; I know you haven’t taken a day off since this started, and your profile report’s very comprehensive. I’m in a difficult position. They want a profiler with an international reputation like David Alderman.’

‘David retired two years ago. He’d take weeks to get up to speed.’ I tried to rationalise why I was fighting. This was my chance to withdraw from the case gracefully and forget about the horrific attacks, but logic had fallen by the wayside. ‘I’ve got in-depth knowledge of the killer’s approach, and I gave Jude Shelley my word that I’d track him down. It took a long time to win her trust.’

‘I’m sorry, it’s out of my hands. I can get you one more week, then they’ll insist on replacing you if there’s been no progress. For what it’s worth, I think they’re making a mistake.’

She gave me a tense smile then left me alone. The conversation had made me so angry that I kicked the wall hard, leaving scuffmarks on the magnolia paint. I’d ruined my peace of mind for the sake of the case, yet my only thanks was the threat of being sacked, which would hurt my professional reputation. It took several deep breaths before I was calm enough to call Burns. There was a dull roar of traffic in the background when he answered. It sounded like he was beside Niagara Falls, torrents of water thundering past.

‘Where are you, Don?’

‘Hammersmith Bridge. We’ve found Guy Shelley’s car, but he won’t be driving it any time soon.’

‘How come?’

‘The tyres have been nicked, windows smashed too. It’s making Hancock’s job a nightmare.’

‘It’s been there a while?’

Burns’s voice sounded grim. ‘Long enough for someone to strip it to the chassis.’

‘Have his parents been told?’

‘Not yet. That’s my next job.’

‘Let me do it; I’ll go there now. Is there any more news?’

‘Mark Edmunds has hardly left his flat since we saw him. We’ve checked all Guy’s art-school contacts, but so far there’s no sign of him. Tania’s car was picked up by street cameras heading west around midnight on the night she was taken, then it slipped off the radar. He used her own car to abduct her.’

When I put the phone down, images rushed through my head: Tania struggling to fight off her attacker, then anxiety spreading across Heather Shelley’s face. She was bound to fear the worst. Her son’s car had been found in pieces beside the river. No doubt her fighting spirit would hold her together, but Guy had been missing for three days and she’d seen the depth of his suffering. We both knew that stress could have overtaken him. It was possible that he’d waited until nightfall, then dived from the embankment into the racing tide.

46

Security was still high outside the Shelley residence when I arrived at seven p.m. Two burly guards stood either side of the door and a squad car was parked outside, but most of the journalists had dispersed. Tania’s disappearance must have sent them scurrying back to St Pancras Way in search of a hotter story, the last remaining photographers snapping at me, despite my lack of celebrity. Eventually the door opened by a foot and I squeezed through, expecting to see Heather’s anxious face. But the cabinet minister stood there, swaying gently from left to right. The smell on his breath was easy to identify – the peaty odour of undiluted whisky.

‘You again, Alice.’

Drunkenness had finally placed us on first-name terms. He no longer looked like a slick MP as he led me into his living room. He could have been any middle-aged dad after an exhausting day, hair falling in lank waves, dressed in ill-fitting jeans and an old grey sweatshirt.

‘Is Mrs Shelley at home?’

‘She’s at Guy’s flat. One of us should be there when he comes back.’ His words were slurred and a bottle of Laphroaig sat on the drinks table beside an empty glass. The sight triggered my sympathy for the first time. If he was upset enough about his son to drown his sorrows, he must be capable of human emotions after all.

‘Guy’s car has been found vandalised by the river in Hammersmith, Mr Shelley, but we’ve had no sightings of him. I think it’s time to explain the difficulties in your family before anyone else gets hurt.’

He let his body slump into an armchair. ‘If this gets out, it’ll hurt Heather and the kids.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t promise to keep it confidential.’

The stink of booze hit me again. ‘We’ve been in trouble since we adopted Guy. I even considered calling the Adoption Agency to tell them we couldn’t cope. The tantrums were unbelievable; he used to hurl himself round the room, literally bouncing off the walls. I know my wife told you about him hitting his sister, but that’s the least of it. Last month I found Heather on the kitchen floor. He’d punched her to the ground.’