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Authors: Kate Rhodes

BOOK: Crossbones Yard
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It was after eleven by the time I got back to the clinic. Hari’s door was open and he beckoned me in, his beatific smile spreading across his face. There was a heaped plate of pastries beside his phone.
‘Alice, just in time for a snack.’
I chose an apple turnover, sticky with sugar and cinnamon. ‘Do you actually do any exercise, Hari?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘So you’re completely cerebral. A mind without a body. Total disconnection.’
‘Pretty much.’ Hari’s smile widened. ‘Tejo makes me walk the dog occasionally, but that’s as far as it goes.’
‘How is Tejo?’
‘Furious with me, as a matter of fact.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ In the five years I worked with Tejo, she never once lost her cool, even when the registrars were doing their best to put us in our place.
‘She wants you to come to dinner. Apparently I’ve been remiss.’
‘Ready and willing,’ I smiled, and stood up to go. ‘I’d cross deserts for one of your meals.’
Hari rubbed his hands together. ‘Good, we’ll fix a date.’
‘See you later.’
He called me back just as I was stepping into the corridor. ‘Your policeman friend rang. I wrote down the message
somewhere.’ He hunted through a heap of coloured paper beside his phone.
‘Burns?’
‘That’s the one. He wants to book some of your time.’
I gave a cautious nod. ‘That’s okay.’
‘You’re sure you want to?’
‘I haven’t got a choice on this one.’
‘Of course you do.’ Hari waved his hand nonchalantly. ‘Just like I choose not to play tennis. You’re allowed to turn things down, Alice.’
I returned his smile. ‘Not this time. I’ve already committed myself.’
The afternoon contained three out-patient appointments: an elderly woman struggling with depression; a middle-aged man recovering from a stress-induced breakdown; and a teenaged boy suffering from acute social phobia. He spent the whole session humming to himself and hiding behind his fringe. After he left I ran down to Ruskin Ward to check on Laura Wallis, but she had visitors. Two girls were sitting on the edge of her bed, making her laugh. It was a shock to see how tiny she appeared by comparison. Her friends looked like amazons, easily twice her size. But at least Laura seemed relieved that she hadn’t been forgotten, and she already looked stronger than when she was admitted, with a glimmer of pink in her cheeks.
It was beginning to sleet by the time I was ready to leave. My Outlook account was still full to capacity: two hundred and thirty-nine questions waiting to be answered. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine two hundred and thirty-nine people queuing along the corridor, waiting for me to fix their lives. The thought made me queasy. It was too cold to walk home so I slipped back into my running gear. My T-shirt felt unpleasantly clammy, so I raced down the stairs even faster than
normal to warm myself up. As usual the stairwell was empty. God knows what would happen if I ever encountered someone during my descent. It would be like colliding at full speed off-piste. I skirted through crowds of people going home late, faces grimed by the cold city air. Sleet landed on my face, wetting my lips and blurring my vision. My running top was drenched in seconds, but already I was warm enough not to care, the river slipping past to my left, disappearing between buildings, as if it was imaginary.
Will’s van was nowhere to be seen. I ripped off my running gear and draped my bathrobe across the towel rail to get it warm. My plan was to step straight into the shower, rinse the day away, then lounge around, doing absolutely nothing. A note from Lola was waiting for me on the kitchen table. ‘Celebration!!! Meet me at Vinopolis at nine. Do not be late.’ One of her auditions must have come up trumps. I screwed up the pale green envelope she had scribbled on and curled up on the sofa, determined not to let anything get in the way of my quiet night at home.
I must have dozed for a while, because the next time I looked at my watch it was half past eight, and a pang of guilt hit me. Lola had been so good with Will. Somehow she had made him see life differently, just by taking an interest. It was an effort, but I finally forced myself up off the sofa. The mirror in my bedroom reflected a woman who needed to take better care of herself, washed out, with damp hair in need of styling. It was too much effort to replace the make-up I had washed off, so I pulled on a pair of jeans, biker boots and black V-neck and headed for the door.
The square was completely deserted. Fortunately no one was mad enough to venture out into the cold except me. No crazed psychopaths were waiting to explain the meaning of pain, before hacking me to bits. I jumped on my bike and
pedalled at full speed along Tooley Street, cursing Lola without moving my lips.
Vinopolis was heaving. Couples were huddled over tables just large enough for a bottle of wine, a candle and a dish of tapas. A waiter shepherded me through the packed cellar, while my eyes got used to the dark. He sat me in a corner to wait for Lola, but by ten past nine there was still no sign of her. Another waiter deposited a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc on my table, with a plate of tapas. I surveyed the dishes of haricot beans in tomato sauce, cubes of Spanish omelette, and white anchovies swimming in oil.
‘I didn’t order this.’
He smiled at me. ‘You didn’t have to, someone ordered for you.’
Lola must have arrived before me and gone to the bar, but I couldn’t see her anywhere. Apart from the candles guttering on each table the place was completely unlit. It felt like a dungeon, rather than a wine cellar. No windows, crammed with people, and it was a long way to the exit. My chest started to tighten, so I tried the tapas to distract myself. The anchovies delivered a heavy shot of salt and brine, followed by the garlicky sweetness of the beans.
Suddenly a spotlight flicked on in front of me. A tall woman in a long black dress stepped on to a small platform, a microphone hovering by her mouth. I rubbed my eyes. Lola was wearing a slash of crimson lipstick. I reeled backwards in my seat. To my knowledge she had never sung anywhere, except in the bath. A piano picked out a few lazy notes and she spoke seductively to her audience, as if she had been a chanteuse all her life.
‘Why don’t we forget it’s winter out there, if we can?’
She launched into a slow, smoky version of ‘Summertime’, and a ripple of applause went round the room. As usual Lola
had pulled it off. That’s what I admired about her: if life as an actress didn’t work out, she became a dancer, and if that failed, she taught herself to sing. Clusters of men gazed at her adoringly, while she smouldered through another torch song.
And that’s when I spotted Sean. He was sitting at a table on the far side of the room, his back to the bare brick wall, deep in conversation with a pretty, dark-haired girl. Her head was tipped back, laughing as if he was the funniest man alive. Her hand was resting on his forearm. Maybe she needed to remind herself that such a dreamboat was flesh and blood. I looked for the nearest exit while Lola sang one of my favourite Nina Simone ballads. There’s no explaining why I was so upset. Maybe I’d been keeping him in reserve without realising. I glanced in his direction again. By now they were holding hands. No doubt he wouldn’t waste any time getting her back to his flat, demonstrating his bedside manner. Or maybe he already had. He was still ridiculously handsome, like all those actors in
ER
, who look like they spend every waking moment in the gym.
He glanced up and saw me watching him. He jerked upright in his seat and dropped the girl’s hand like a hot coal. I forced myself to give Lola my undivided attention for the next ten minutes. As soon as there was a break between songs I escaped. The winter air cleared my head immediately, freezing my self-pity in its tracks.
‘Alice, wait.’ Sean appeared just as I was unchaining my bike from the railings.
‘Go back,’ I smiled. ‘Don’t let me spoil your evening.’
‘It’s not how it looks. She asked me to come along, to cheer me up, that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘It’s true.’ He frowned at me, his hand resting on the saddle
of my bike. ‘It’s you who keeps me awake every fucking night. You don’t know what you’ve done to me. Most of the time I can’t think about anything else.’
‘Look, Sean. It’s great that you’ve found someone. Now, can I have my bike back please?’
‘The least you can do is let me have my say.’
I dug my freezing hands deeper into my pockets. ‘Go on then.’
‘Sooner or later, it’ll catch up with you.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The way you use people.’ His face contorted with anger. ‘Before long someone won’t accept being thrown away like a piece of trash, without an explanation.’ He was standing over me, shaking either from cold or rage. Then he stepped backwards suddenly. Maybe he was frightened of what he might do. By now he looked confused, as if he couldn’t decide whether to kiss me, or punch me in the mouth.
Neither option attracted me, so it was a relief to race away into the cold when he finally let me go. I felt guilty all the way home, because he had a point. Why let myself get dragged into relationships if I couldn’t deliver? I kept trying, but the outcome stayed the same.
Back at the flat I sent Will a text, congratulating him on going to his therapist, but there was no answer. I checked again before crawling into bed, but his van was still nowhere to be seen. God knows where he had gone. He was capable of pulling up the drawbridge for months, if he chose to.
The Monica Ali novel that had been sitting on my bedside table for weeks didn’t tempt me. I switched off the light, but the image of Sean’s face distorted with anger kept appearing in my mind. Eventually I fell asleep, but something woke me just after three o’clock. The sound was unmistakable, coming through the thin wall. Giggling, and then a few minutes later
a man’s low moan, bedsprings squeaking. Lola had brought someone back, to celebrate her triumphant career change. There was no choice but to stare at the ceiling and listen to them enjoying themselves, gritting my teeth.
Tomorrow I would have to stop at Boots on my way to work and invest in a packet of super-strength earplugs.
Fortunately Lola and her new man were taking a break from their sexual marathon when the alarm went off the next morning. The constant battering of the headboard against the wall had finally stopped. I stood by the fridge and drank a glass of icy, full-fat milk. There’s something about milk that always improves my mood. Maybe it’s the clean white innocence of it. Or memories of primary school, when the future never extended past break-time and no decisions had to be made. I fried two eggs in a pool of melted butter then sandwiched them between slices of rye bread, crisp with caraway seeds.
The local free newspaper told me about a community I had never noticed before: jumble sales in church halls, a campaign for speed bumps on Tooley Street, a new art gallery opening on China Wharf. The flats all around mine must be a hive of activity. People were getting together, opening businesses, improving things.
A naked man stepped into the hallway as I finished my breakfast. He turned towards me just as I was admiring his rangy, tennis player’s physique.
‘Looking for the bathroom?’ I asked.
‘Please.’ His smile was completely relaxed. Maybe he didn’t bother with clothes, nudity was his normal state.
‘Last door on the left.’
He gave a polite wave then sauntered along the hall like he had all the time in the world. Lola emerged a second later, wearing a man’s shirt and a brilliant smile.
‘Pleasant evening?’ I asked.
She fell into the chair opposite and let her blissed-out body language tell the story.
‘As good as that?’
‘Better.’ Her eyes were even more sleepy and cat-like than normal. Any second now she would begin to purr.
‘Go on then. What’s his name and where did you find him?’
‘Lars. He runs the bar at Vinopolis.’
‘And let me guess. He’s Danish, right?’
‘Swedish.’
I nodded. ‘That explains why he’s so comfortable in the buff.’
‘All that rolling around in the snow, beating yourself with twigs,’ Lola giggled.
‘Coffee?’
‘Go on then, and do one for Lars please, darling.’
I filled the kettle. ‘Your singing was amazing last night, by the way.’
‘How do you know?’ she pouted. ‘You buggered off halfway through my set.’
‘Sorry. There was an old flame I needed to escape from. You were great though, I had no idea you could sing.’
Lolagrinned. ‘I was just doing my Bette Midlerimpersonation.’
Out of the corner of my eye Lars was strolling back into the spare room. Ash-blond, tall and perfectly formed.
‘Did you see much of Will yesterday?’ I asked.
‘Not really.’ Lola gazed out of the window, looking for his van. ‘He went for his reiki session.’
‘What exactly is reiki?’
‘They rest their hands on your pressure points, gets rid of your stress.’
‘I bet. Rub someone’s forehead for half an hour and hey presto, you’re forty quid richer. That would lower my stress levels too.’
‘Don’t knock it, Al,’ Lola tutted. ‘You should go with him, or you’ll explode one day, like that fat bloke in
La Grande Bouffe
.’
She smiled cheerily, picked up the mugs of coffee, then dashed back into the spare room.
 
It was still dark when I set off for my run, frost sparkling on the road, as if someone had dusted it with glitter. My good intentions about distance and speed were soon abandoned, because my breakfast was doing cartwheels in my stomach. Halfway across Tower Bridge I stopped to take in the view. The river widened downstream as it flowed past Wapping, slate grey, sequinned with reflections from car headlights, half a dozen tugs cutting its surface to ribbons. I slowed down again a few minutes later to admire the harbour master’s house in St Katharine’s Dock. It’s my favourite building in the whole of London, bay windows on both floors with uninterrupted river views. I wanted to break in and curl up on a window seat, watch the sun rise over the city’s wharves and spires. By Wapping Wall my pace was improving, and I could taste the salty pungency of the river at high tide. Lights were beginning to come on in the windows of flats at Limehouse Basin. Thank God I didn’t live there. The lock was awash with litter, empty fag packets and dozens of lager cans drifting by the gates.
It was a relief to get back on to the river path, Canary Wharf floating ahead of me, tower blocks glowing like a financier’s version of Las Vegas. Every building was branded with the name of a different bank, picked out in coloured lights. Will never convinced me of his reasons for becoming a trader. It seemed to involve juggling huge numbers for clients he never met. Maybe he wanted to build a wall of money so impenetrable, he would never feel a draught again.
A pair of joggers ran towards me. Each man gave me the same smile, slightly embarrassed, as if we had been caught doing something that no one else would understand. Maybe they were right. Running before daybreak is a kind of masochism; part of your brain constantly asking why you’re not in bed, enjoying a lie-in, like a normal person. An old man tottered towards me, leaning heavily on his stick. Maybe it was the only thing left in his world that he could still rely on.
The mirrored buildings of Canary Wharf began to turn pink. I wanted to run until they were within touching distance, but there was no time, so I stopped by the railings and counted the churches on the opposite bank. They were hiding behind the wharves, only their needle-sharp spires giving them away.
I jogged back more leisurely, enjoying the clean-slate sensation a long run always gives, tension evaporating through my pores. It made me wonder how I’d let things get so out of proportion. By Tanner Street, everything was solved. Who cared if Sean was in love with someone else? Lola was welcome to spend the next six months shagging her boyfriend at high volume, and sooner or later all my brother’s problems would be fixed.
Will’s van was back in my parking space in Providence Square, which seemed like a good omen. My brain was still in hazy post-exercise mode. I tapped on the passenger door and tried to peer inside, but the faded blue curtains were firmly closed. There was no sound at all when I pressed my ear to the glass. Yesterday must have exhausted him. After so long without anyone touching him, it would have felt strange to be comforted.
Crossing the square towards the flats, I glanced back, expecting to see him, bleary-eyed at the window, cursing whoever had interrupted his dreams. A heap of black rubbish
bags was lying on the pavement a few metres from the van. They would be the first thing Will saw when he drew back his curtains. I went back to clear them away, but the black shape turned out to be a roll of polythene. When I tugged one end it unwound itself. I covered my mouth with the back of my hand, but it was too late to shield myself from the stench of urine and excrement. The pavement reeled up to greet me. The blood soon rushed back to my brain, my vision gradually clearing. Then I made myself look again.
The naked body was skeletal, older than the girl at Crossbones Yard. I recognised the scar on her abdomen as an appendectomy, faded to a thin silver line. But all the other scars were fresh, a network of livid crosses covering her body. Only her face had been spared. She must have been beautiful once − a delicate snub nose, heart-shaped face, fine black eyebrows. Her mouth gaped, as if she had been in the middle of laughing. But her last seconds must have been terrifying, gasping for air like a fish out of water, lungs collapsing in her chest. Soon she would be lying beside the Crossbones girl, in the freezer at Guy’s, comparing wounds.
A wave of nausea hit me and I took a step backwards. It dawned on me that the killer had dumped the body just a few feet behind Will’s van. I ran to the driver’s window and pounded on the glass with both fists. When I tugged at the handle, the door swung open, and my heart turned over in my chest. Maybe he was still safe and he had just forgotten to lock it. I knelt on the driver’s seat and forced myself to look into the dark interior of the van. His bed was empty and there was no sign that he had been disturbed. In fact there was evidence that he was trying to turn over a new leaf. He had thrown away the heaps of newspapers, folded his clothes into piles, pairs of shoes lined up under his bunk. He must be safe somewhere, keeping warm.
I pulled the black plastic sheet back across the woman’s body. My wrist touched her ice-cold face. She must have been dumped there in the middle of the night, left on the pavement to freeze. Calling the police on my mobile only took a few minutes, but by now people were flooding out of the flats. Mothers in cashmere jackets and kitten heels were piling their children into the Audis and BMWs that lined the square. They stared at me as I stood guard. Ruffians like me blocking the pavement in our cheap running gear were responsible for lowering the tone.
Burns was the first to arrive, in his grubby blue Mondeo. He squeezed out from behind the steering wheel then struggled across the square. By the time he reached me he was panting for breath. His face was colourless, apart from the dark red veins floating against the whites of his eyes.
‘Here we go again, Alice.’
‘Sorry, Don. I seem to be making a habit of this.’
‘Are you okay?’ He shunted his thick glasses back on to the bridge of his nose to take a better look at me.
‘I’m not sure. I think so.’
I checked my hands. Even though it was freezing they weren’t shaking. My mind had emptied itself, and the outline of the woman’s body in her plastic shroud didn’t scare me at all. There was no reaction, just a gap where my thoughts should have been.
‘Let’s take a look at her.’ Burns leaned down and peered at the woman’s face.
She stared straight past him, trying to catch my eye. A siren grew louder until it screamed to a halt a few metres away. He carried on studying the woman’s face intently. ‘Poor wee thing,’ he muttered, crossing himself as he stood up. His Scots roots obviously came to the fore under pressure.
Suddenly the square was humming with activity. An ambulance had arrived, two police vans and a squad car.
Someone had blocked the road with a line of cones. A hand touched the small of my back. When I turned round it was Alvarez, overstepping the boundaries as usual, managing to look handsome, unkempt and angry, all at the same time. His mouth was set in an immovable line, as if every human experience demanded the same neutrality.
‘You don’t look too good,’ he said quietly. ‘Want to sit down?’
My shoulders were beginning to shake, so there was no point in protesting. He guided me to a bench beside the entrance to my block.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ I told him. ‘I got up early, went for a run, and there she was. Wrapped up like a birthday present for me to find.’
‘You don’t know that,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’ve just been unlucky.’
‘Nobody’s that unlucky twice.’
My fingers were doing an uncontrollable St Vitus’s dance in my lap. Alvarez rested his hand over mine and I didn’t have the strength to pull away. It gave me the chance to study his wedding ring − a thick, square-edged chunk of white gold, with no markings, apart from the nicks and scratches that come with time. He must have worn it for years, but for some reason his wife didn’t even cross my mind. Anyone looking at us at that moment would have thought we were a couple, trying to hold our marriage together. A big, solidly built man, and his little blonde wife, doing her best not to cry.

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