Authors: Kate Rhodes
Crossbones Yard (4 page)
I didn’t know how to reply, so I dropped my gaze and started to head for the door.
‘You’re not getting away that easily.’
For the first time, I noticed something odd in his expression, the clench-jawed determination of obsessives, or maybe he was just a bad loser. He stood in front of me, and for a minute I thought he might not let me go.
‘Change your mind, Alice. This is crazy.’
‘I need to leave, Sean. You’re blocking my way.’
A muscle flickered in his cheek. ‘I could keep you here, if I wanted to.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘This is what you always do.’ An ugly sneer spread across his face. ‘First you say no, then you say yes, like I’m not worthy of you.’
‘That’s not true.’ I pulled in a deep breath. ‘It’s over, Sean. I’m sorry, but it is.’
The finality in my tone forced him to snap back into reality. He dropped his gaze and stepped to one side. On the doorstep he bundled a carrier bag into my hands, which contained everything I had left at his flat.
It was a huge relief to get outside. My breathing felt easy and relaxed for the first time in months. I stood on the pavement and peered into the bag. There wasn’t much to show for three months’ worth of visits: a silver bracelet with a broken clasp, a packet of contraceptive pills, a white camisole and a birthday card from Sean promising to take me to Paris. I dropped the bag in the nearest rubbish bin and jumped on my bike.
The ride home took less than ten minutes, but for some reason it exhausted me. All I wanted to do was stumble through the door and into the bath, but when I reached my floor I heard a noise. The light on the landing wasn’t working, and someone was hovering by my front door. I held my breath and got ready to sprint back down the stairs.
‘Al, is that you?’
It was Lola. I would have known her voice anywhere. It hadn’t changed since we were at school, still husky and excitable, like she’d spent a weekend in bed with the most attractive man in the world. I gave her a hug then helped her wheel an enormous red suitcase into the hall. The backpack she was carrying was bursting at the seams.
‘God, Lola. What’s happened?’
‘I’ll give you the whole tragic saga when we’ve drunk these.’ She thrust two bottles of wine into my hands. It was the same pattern as always. Months went by, then Lola would arrive out of the blue bearing gifts, and things carried on just as they always had. Two glasses of Beaujolais later, she was still haranguing her landlord.
‘Scum of the bloody earth.’ She twisted a long auburn curl around her finger. ‘One month in arrears, and what does he say?’
‘I can guess.’
‘Be nice to me, and we’ll skip the rent. Like a fucking pantomime villain.’ She shook her head in disgust. ‘All he needed was a black cloak and a fake moustache.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘Nothing, I was too busy running away. God knows, I wish he’d been shaggable, then I could have stayed in my lovely flat.’ Lola was revelling in the drama, freckles scattered across
the bridge of her nose, hands buried in her gorgeous hair. ‘And I’ve been to loads of auditions this month. Not a single call back.’
the bridge of her nose, hands buried in her gorgeous hair. ‘And I’ve been to loads of auditions this month. Not a single call back.’
‘You can have the spare room as long as you like,’ I said.
Her pale green eyes lit up. ‘Can I? Just till I find somewhere.’
‘Of course. But you know that Will’s in and out, almost every day.’
Lola’s expression softened. ‘How’s he doing?’
‘Not brilliant.’
‘Still in his van?’
I nodded. ‘I keep hoping he’ll move in, but it never happens.’
‘I’d love to see him,’ she beamed. ‘It’ll be like the old days.’
‘No, it won’t, Lola.’ I caught her hand and forced her to look me in the eye. ‘You need to understand. Will’s different these days, he can be scary.’
‘Scary?’ She looked disbelieving. ‘In what way?’
‘Jittery, bouncing off the walls most of the time. You really don’t want to be around if he loses it.’
Lola shook her head in disbelief. ‘Do you remember when we went to Crete? Girls queued up to dance with him. He was always the golden boy. I can’t get my head round it.’
‘I can. It’s been like this for eight years.’
‘Jeez. Is it that long?’ Something in my expression must have warned her to change the topic. ‘So, tell me, how are things with the surgeon?’
‘Gone the way of all things.’
‘You’re kidding. He sounded like the most eligible man in London.’
‘He was,’ I smiled ruefully.
‘So what was it this time?’ Lola glanced at me. ‘Or are you just sticking to your policy of ditching them the second they get keen?’
‘I don’t know.’ I took a swig of wine. ‘Maybe I’m just an evil man-hating bitch.’
‘Nah,’ she laughed. ‘You want my theory?’
‘Go on, Dr Tremaine, psychoanalyse me.’
‘You work too hard. And you only go out with serious, professional men.’ She waved her empty wine glass in the air. ‘You need more fun.’
‘That’s your diagnosis, is it?’
‘More parties. I prescribe dancing and more alcohol.’ She filled both of our glasses to the brim. ‘Did I tell you about the director?’ She launched into an elaborate story about an American film director who kept bombarding her with phone calls since she had done a screen test for him. ‘Dinner, weekends away, photo shoots, you name it. He won’t give me a part in his fucking film though.’
‘You’ll have to stop being irresistible, Lo.’
‘Impossible, darling.’ Lola’s grin widened. ‘It’s in my DNA.’
She entertained me for the rest of the evening with a string of anecdotes, complete with foreign accents and a huge cast of characters. By the time I checked my watch it was 2 a.m. and we’d polished off both bottles of wine.
‘That’s enough fun for me tonight,’ I smiled. ‘Bedtime.’
‘Can you wake me? I’ve got an audition in Hammersmith at ten.’
‘Great. What’s the part?’
‘Ophelia’s maid.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Still, beggars can’t be choosers.’
Lola wouldn’t wake up in the morning. She was out for the count, curled up in the middle of the bed like an exotic cat. She had already colonised the spare room. A rainbow of high heels lined the walls, and a bright green leather jacket was draped across the chair. I set the alarm clock for eight and
left it beside her pillow. My head was still throbbing from last night’s booze, so I knocked back a breakfast of Nurofen and orange juice, then dragged my bike downstairs to the street.
left it beside her pillow. My head was still throbbing from last night’s booze, so I knocked back a breakfast of Nurofen and orange juice, then dragged my bike downstairs to the street.
I took a different route into Guy’s that morning, crossing the quadrangle of Georgian buildings, through the centre of the old hospital site. I was cursing DCI Burns for making me do something so horrible it was bound to linger with me all day. The mortuary was hidden behind Pathology, blinds lowered, keeping itself to itself. I ran my pass card through the reader and let myself in. There are two mortuaries at Guy’s. The first is for people who die under normal circumstances. Their bodies are kept cool, between 2°C and 4°C for a week or two, before being taken away for burial or cremation. The second is the cold room, where the temperature stays below freezing point, between -15°C and -25°C. Bodies spend months or even years there, while forensic work is done, or the unidentified wait to be claimed. Roman Catholics would describe it as a particularly chilly version of limbo.
I let myself into the cold room, scanning the wall for yesterday’s date, then forced myself to pull out the drawer. Dead bodies unsettle me. It was one of the reasons why I chose psychology over general practice. I didn’t fancy being called out in the middle of the night to comfort relatives and rubberstamp death certificates.
Taking a deep breath, I unzipped the silver body bag, releasing a cloud of freezing condensation and the bitter smell of formaldehyde. The girl looked about seventeen, maybe even younger. Her face was completely unlined, brown roots growing through her bottle-blonde hair. She was so thin I could count every rib. It didn’t take a degree in pathology to see how she had died. Her throat had been cut, the wound so deep that her severed windpipe and larynx were exposed. I stared at the grey rubber floor of the mortuary for a second, fighting to
hang on to my chemical breakfast. Hundreds of small, deep crosses had been carved into her skin, across her breasts and torso, the insides of her thighs. Hopefully the cuts had been made after she died. I looked at her hand and remembered how small it had seemed, lying on the pavement. The ends of her fingers were bloody, fingernails torn, as if she had spent days trying to claw her way through a brick wall. A tattooed butterfly hovered on the girl’s shoulder, simple as a child’s drawing, with a tiny pink heart at the centre of each wing.
hang on to my chemical breakfast. Hundreds of small, deep crosses had been carved into her skin, across her breasts and torso, the insides of her thighs. Hopefully the cuts had been made after she died. I looked at her hand and remembered how small it had seemed, lying on the pavement. The ends of her fingers were bloody, fingernails torn, as if she had spent days trying to claw her way through a brick wall. A tattooed butterfly hovered on the girl’s shoulder, simple as a child’s drawing, with a tiny pink heart at the centre of each wing.
After a minute I let the drawer slide back into place. A mortuary assistant had written ‘Crossbones Girl’ on her label. There was nothing I could do for her. For the time being she would have to stay in the freezer by herself, nursing her wounds.
The rest of my morning was quiet: a team meeting, phone calls, an hour to catch up on case notes. But the afternoon was busier. Eleven out-patients attended my anger management group. It was easy to tell who wanted to be there, and who had no choice, because their social worker or probation officer insisted. We went through the usual steps: confide in people before the problem escalates, monitor your breathing, count to ten, walk away. One middle-aged man jumped to his feet halfway through the first exercise, his face brick-red.
‘Fucking bollocks, the lot of it,’ he spluttered. ‘I don’t need this shit.’
He slammed the door so hard on his way out that the doorframe shook. I glanced around at the group’s startled faces. All of them were so used to yelling at people or using their fists, they had forgotten how it felt to be on the receiving end.
‘Christ, it’s not pretty, is it?’ one of the women muttered. She looked surprised, as if she had glimpsed herself unexpectedly in a mirror, without make-up.
At five o’clock I cycled south, following the rush-hour traffic out of the city to neighbourhoods where you could still afford to buy, the drivers kidding themselves that Wandsworth was almost as desirable as Hampstead. I arrived at Southwark Police Station to find DCI Burns wedged so tightly between the wall and his desk it was a wonder he could still breathe. He motioned for me to sit opposite him on a battered plastic chair.
‘Not looking her best, is she?’ Burns peered at me. ‘I wanted you to see what we’re up against.’
‘Someone who isn’t crazy about women, that’s for sure.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Did the Bensons do that to all their victims? Cut their skin to shreds?’
‘Put it this way, the girls wouldn’t have won any beauty contests by the time we found them.’ Burns grimaced. ‘We haven’t identified this one yet, no one’s reported her missing. Looks like the poor kid was kept locked away somewhere for a week or two, with no food.’
‘And you’ve got some suspects?’
‘Cley’s still on my list. He’s only been back to his mother’s place once since he got out. We’re searching for him.’
I blinked at him. ‘There’s no way he could do something that elaborate. And how could it be him? You’re saying the girl was held somewhere for days before he was released.’
‘I never said he was acting on his own.’ The phone on Burns’s desk jangled. ‘Ben, can you join us for a minute?’
‘Is that your deputy?’
Burns nodded. ‘He’s keen to get you involved. He looked you up on the Internet, says you’re the best around.’
The bad-tempered detective who had given me a lift home appeared in the doorway. He was wearing black trousers and a white shirt with the top button undone, grey tie loose around
his neck, as if he was afraid it might strangle him. He looked different by daylight. His black hair and pale skin made him look exotic, Middle Eastern maybe, starved of sunshine for much too long. There was still no indication that he knew how to smile.
his neck, as if he was afraid it might strangle him. He looked different by daylight. His black hair and pale skin made him look exotic, Middle Eastern maybe, starved of sunshine for much too long. There was still no indication that he knew how to smile.
‘You two have met, haven’t you?’ Burns asked.
‘But I didn’t get your name.’
‘DS Alvarez,’ he snapped. He wasn’t acting like he had asked for my help on the case. Meeting me again seemed to be a spectacular waste of his time. His broad shoulders were tense with stored energy.
‘Can you give us an update, Ben?’
‘What do you want to know?’ Alvarez lowered himself reluctantly onto the chair beside me. ‘With respect, boss, this isn’t the best time. We’ve got dozens of interviews to do. We just need to get on with it.’
‘You’ll get back to it soon enough.’ Burns drew in a deep breath. ‘And you said yourself, Alice can help us build a better profile.’
Alvarez sighed. ‘It’s pretty close to the Southwark killings. The Bensons locked their victims away for weeks, raped them, then slit their throats and dumped them on waste ground. One was buried in the garden and others under the patio.’
‘But this girl wasn’t raped?’ I asked.
‘Apparently not.’
‘That’s the only difference?’
‘Looks like it,’ he nodded. ‘She was skin and bone by the time he killed her. Then he brought her to Crossbones and got into the site through a broken fence. He dragged her body over to the gate, so she’d be found.’
Burns caught my eye. ‘The thing is, Alice, Morris Cley was in and out of the Bensons’ hostel like a yo-yo. He never admitted anything, but maybe he heard all about how they
mutilated the victims’ bodies. No one else would have known.’
mutilated the victims’ bodies. No one else would have known.’
‘Apart from everyone on the original investigation,’ I commented.
‘So it’s one of us now, is it?’ Alvarez snarled.
‘Just thinking aloud. Information must get leaked sometimes.’
A muscle twitched in Alvarez’s jaw, as if he was struggling not to call me every name under the sun.
‘All right, Ben,’ Burns said abruptly. ‘We’d better let you get back to it.’ He sounded tense, like a teacher trying to prevent another fight breaking out in the playground.
Alvarez vanished without saying goodbye.
‘Don’t mind him,’ Burns muttered. ‘He’s been working like a dog since this kicked off.’
‘Not exactly the friendly type, is he?’
‘He’s had a hell of a year, poor sod. You’ll get used to him.’
I left Burns to deal with his deputy’s attitude problem and cycled home. Lola was there already, weeping into a cup of coffee. There was no need to ask whether or not she’d got the part. She was looking ridiculously glamorous, in a bright red silk top and short black skirt. When I told her that the only reason they couldn’t cast her was because she was too gorgeous and poor Ophelia would be upstaged, she began to brighten. After a few minutes she had rallied enough to go and wash her face.
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