River of Souls (23 page)

‘He’s highly ritualised and likely to be a functional psychotic. Our man’s shown strong self-control so far, only allowing himself to attack at night, planning meticulously. He’s obsessed by the Shelley family and clearly a risk taker, gambling with exposure by abandoning the bodies in public places. I think he may have a delusional interest in the Thames. His rituals use ancient sacrificial objects at historic killing sites. The objects he’s tying to the bodies seem almost as important to him as the violence.’

The CO gave a grave nod. ‘He’s having a ball, in other words.’

She peered out of the window at the heavy sky, as though we’d ceased to exist.

30

The man wishes he could return to the warehouse to finish his task. But one more tide must rinse the victim’s soul before the river claims it. He’s sitting in a busy café, sifting through newspapers borrowed from a rack by the counter. Most of the headlines are lurid enough to make him wince. The tabloids are calling him the Riverside Killer, pedalling theories about his ruined childhood and the nature of his sadism. All nonsense, of course. It makes him wish he could phone the news desks and explain the simple truth. He has no choice in the matter. He has to kill the ones who know the secret, and the river instructs him, its clear voice forcing him to act against his will. There’s no pride or glory, just the elation of the moment, quickly followed by remorse. Yet he can’t ignore the thrill of reading about himself. Even if their speculations are wrong, the world is taking notice and the attention is dazzling. He reminds himself to stay focused on the river’s mission. Everything else is flattery and glitter.

The papers will carry on fabricating their lies, it won’t change his duty. He can’t afford to let anything slow him down. The secrets have to be erased, and without a steady supply of victims, the river’s currents would grow sluggish, water pooling in the shallows, refusing to flow. He gazes down at the
Telegraph
until a young girl approaches his table, her skin pale and translucent. She points at one of the newspapers in the pile beside him.

‘Could I borrow this, please?’ Her voice is almost as pure as the river’s.

‘With pleasure.’

The man hands her the newspaper with a flourish and she offers a gentle smile in return. He watches her avidly as she turns away, wishing again that he could select his own victims.

31

‘Sorry I moaned so much last time,’ Lola apologised when she picked up the phone.

‘I wasn’t expecting a comedy show.’

‘Come round and help me finish this huge chocolate cake. I promise not to cry.’

‘I can’t. I’m going out for dinner. But call if anything happens, won’t you?’

‘Thanks for being on standby. Who’s the hot date?’

‘The historian. It’s his last chance to prove he’s keen.’

‘Of course he’s bloody keen.’

‘Maybe he’s just lonely and sex-starved.’

‘Jesus, Al,’ she groaned. ‘You’ll die alone, surrounded by cats.’

‘No I won’t. I’ll wait till your kids grow up and leave home, then move in with you.’

It took me ages to choose an outfit. Hunting through my wardrobe was a welcome distraction, but it proved that I needed to go shopping. There were a few lacklustre suits, and a floaty skirt from Ghost that would disintegrate with the first drop of rain. I chose a Liberty’s black cashmere dress, which had cost a small fortune, but had been a good investment, because the fabric still felt gorgeous. I made an effort with my hair too, fiddling with my straightening tongs until it hung to my shoulder without a single kink. Then all that was required was a pair of boots and a dash of red lipstick. The hall mirror showed a gaunt-faced blonde, bright lips making me paler than ever, but the taxi had already arrived and it was too late for adjustments. If Jake was genuinely interested, it would take more than garish war paint to scare him away.

We’d agreed to meet at the Prospect of Whitby. I’d considered suggesting a different venue, but didn’t want to stop visiting just because it featured in my nightmares. The bar staff were busy serving a throng of punters. There was no sign of Jake amongst the crowd, so I made my way to the beer garden. Lanterns glowed on the newly reopened terrace, a few couples watching the lights pulse on Butler’s Wharf. I peered down at the expanse of silt glistening on the riverbank, and caught a whiff of brine mixed with the pungency of ripe fruit. Hundreds of years ago crowds would have gathered here to watch condemned men being pushed from the jetty. Their necks would have broken instantly, bodies twitching as the Thames lapped at their feet. But why had the killer ended Amala’s life here? She was a confirmed Christian and an upholder of the law. Maybe he believed she was guilty by association. Years ago she had worked for the Shelleys, and I felt certain that both the minister and Jude were still hiding information, despite the danger they faced. My determination to peel back their layers of secrecy grew stronger every day.

When Jake tapped me on the shoulder I almost jumped out of my skin. He was out of breath, hair glistening with rain. ‘Sorry, Alice, my meeting overran.’ He took a step backwards and scanned me from head to toe. ‘God, you look glamorous.’

‘You mean I normally look a total mess?’

He laughed. ‘You’re impossible to compliment. Come on, let’s go somewhere else, this place is heaving.’

We ended up in a curry house on Wapping High Street, which suited me perfectly. Candles glowed on each table, and the waiters performed their duties in dignified silence. They provided us with bottles of Tiger beer, dishes of sag aloo and lamb madras. Jake watched me heaping pilau rice onto my plate. The seriousness of his expression was still there, but his air of distraction had vanished, and he was even more handsome than I remembered. His cropped hair revealed his strong bone structure and soulful eyes. For the time being his looks were enough to wipe Burns from my mind.

‘What made you become a historian?’ I asked.

‘I wanted to be the next Indiana Jones.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I was an evangelist for archaeology. I thought all human secrets lay underground.’

‘Does the present day bore you?’

‘Not at all. But there’s something incredible about finding pieces of Aztec treasure in the middle of a desert. The past can be addictive.’

‘You still feel that way, don’t you?’

‘Sometimes, but I’m not as bad as Hugh. He’s abandoned modernity completely.’ He tried to look grave. ‘What’s your opinion of my condition, Dr Quentin?’

‘Incurable, I’m afraid.’

‘Diagnose me anyway.’ His eyes lingered on my mouth. ‘I’m prepared for the worst.’

‘You’re a perfectionist, so highly driven that your passion for your subject borders on obsession.’

‘Wrong on all counts, Doctor. That’s not the root of my insomnia.’

He refused to explain, but the teasing went on all evening, his upbeat mood putting me at ease. I was determined to stay sober, so I drew the limit at two beers. I was still curious to know why he seemed so relaxed.

‘You’ve had good news, haven’t you?’

He grinned. ‘The Archaeology Trust is funding our excavation; all those muddy weekends finally paid off.’

‘Congratulations! You must be thrilled.’

‘Relieved, more than anything. Now no one gets fired.’ I felt his hand touch mine under the table, then his fingers skimming the bare skin of my thigh. ‘Come home with me, Alice. And this time promise not to run away.’

I studied him again. ‘I could. But promises often get broken, don’t they?’

Going back to Jake’s flat was an easy decision. He was good company, and I had professional questions to ask, but the main reason was pure self-interest. The only thought in my mind as we climbed the steps was the pleasure of watching him undress.

‘Another beer?’ he asked when we got inside.

‘Just water, please.’

I stood in his lounge surveying the walls, while he dug around in his fridge. There was a pin-board I hadn’t noticed before. It held a tide table, a calendar with several dates crossed out, and a large-scale map of the Thames, with sections of the river marked in different-coloured inks. I shivered as Jake dropped a kiss on the back of my neck.

‘Why do I get the feeling you’re investigating me, Alice?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, it’s the river I’m interested in. What are these marks for?’

His finger trailed across the map. ‘Sacred sites. The Romans built a bridge where London Bridge stands now, for sacrifices. And Vauxhall was important in the Bronze Age. The place was more significant than Stonehenge.’

‘How come?’

‘It’s where the Thames is most powerful. Two underground rivers, the Tyburn and the Effra, merge with it at Vauxhall Cross. Hundreds of objects have been dredged up there – gold jewellery, silver talismans and coins. There’s a display in the Museum of London.’

‘So Vauxhall’s the most historically important location on the river?’

‘Definitely.’

I stared at the map again, trying to make sense of the fact that human lives had been sacrificed at all three of the recent murder sites. Jake’s arms were closing round my waist.

‘Tell me about the amateurs you see on the foreshore. What kind of people are they?’ I asked.

‘Dog walkers, history buffs with guidebooks, the odd loon waving a metal detector. Why?’

‘The killer knows his history, that’s all.’

‘Come on, it’s midnight. It’s time to switch off.’

He pulled me down beside him on the settee and my mind emptied when he kissed me. I liked the fact that he was greedy about taking what he wanted, because it allowed me to make demands too. At some point we travelled from the sofa to his bed. I woke at three a.m., face down on the divan, the light bulb burning overhead, its fierce brightness piercing the surface of my dreams. When I stumbled along his hall to the bathroom the cabinet door hung ajar and I couldn’t resist peeking inside. This time it was empty, apart from toothpaste and shaving foam. The transformation was intriguing – either Jake’s female visitor had reclaimed her beauty kit or he’d wiped out all trace of her existence.

The mystery had banished sleep completely, so I went back to the living room and gazed at the objects on his shelves. There was a row of half-burned candles, a bottle of tequila with a bright red skull grinning from the label, and some postcards of Cancún Bay. I studied them closely. I’d always wanted to dive there, in the world’s bluest ocean, but Jake’s phone distracted me. Its buzz was shrill and insistent. I reached out to turn it off in case it woke him, but a woman’s image appeared when I hit the button, and my heart lurched inside my chest. It was a photograph of me, taken a year before when my hair was shorter. I stared down at myself then closed my eyes. After the shock cleared I looked again. The girl wasn’t me after all, but she looked so similar that an identity parade would have been pointless. Her light green eyes matched mine, and her mid-blonde hair held the same wave that refused to straighten.

Panic cancelled out my intention to stay the night. I was in such a hurry to escape that the phone clattered to the floor as I stumbled into my clothes. Jake was moving around in his room, his voice calling as I rushed outside. The sky was a light-polluted brown, no stars in sight. The river’s odour held the memory of every substance it had been forced to swallow: wine, spices, rotting meat. I’d always loved its earthiness, but now it was making my stomach churn. I was sick of complications, and too shocked to care where Jake Fielding had found a picture of a woman who looked like my identical twin.

32

It’s almost six a.m. when the man forces himself out of bed. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he begins to shave. His appearance is the same as ever, only the river’s voice marking him out from the crowd. He thinks of the methods he used in the early days to try and silence it. Turning up the radio, or watching TV, but the water’s instructions always filled the room. Today it’s little more than a whisper, words slipping through his mind like a brook’s babble. The thought of what lies ahead fills him with disgust. He’s close to tears as he stands under the shower. Sometimes he wonders how long he can continue doing as he’s told.

He studies his tide table carefully, then selects the items he needs from the kitchen: a butcher’s knife and a smaller one with a sharp blade. He drops them into his satchel beside a towel to wipe his hands. He’s about to leave when the phone rings in his bedroom, but he knows he mustn’t answer. Nothing must distract him until his task is done.