River of Souls (38 page)

‘Your soul’s reflected in the water,’ the man says.

‘Yeah? Take off this fucking blindfold so I can take a look.’

‘It’s like a force field.’

The detective gives a dull laugh. ‘Lapsed Catholic, mate. Eternal souls stopped working for me. What does mine look like?’

‘A cloud of light. White, yellow and gold.’

‘Sounds like Guy Fawkes Night. Why don’t you finish your story?’

The man hesitates. ‘I learned a secret. I knew it was my duty to safeguard it.’

‘And that’s when you heard the river talking?’

‘Whispering first, then begging for souls.’

‘Is that why you took Jude?’

‘There was no choice. The river wanted her, like it wants you.’

‘Why do you hate the Shelley family so much?’

‘I don’t hate them. The secret concerns them, but I feel no ill-will.’

Burns twisted towards him. ‘It must be getting light by now. Let me go before someone sees us.’

‘There’s no need. If the police come, I’ll slit your throat.’

‘Christ, you really are a freak. It’s ironic really – I’ve just met the girl of my dreams. That’s another reason to free me.’

‘Perfect women are an illusion.’

‘Not her. She’s as real as they come.’

The man falls silent as the water reaches his chest. The current is so strong he must return to the shore or risk being swept away. Soon the river will claim its new victim and his crimes will be erased. The waters will sing his name again, lulling him to sleep. He leaves the detective tied to the scaffold, dragging himself along the metal pole to dry land, as dawn bleaches the sky. He plans to return to watch his final victim die.

59

Rain pounded my windscreen, the wipers struggling to clear it. I knew it was a wild goose chase, but anything was better than sitting still. Angie had sent out teams to search the killer’s regular stamping ground, the riverside from Wapping to Canary Wharf, while I drove west down Lambeth Palace Road, trying to suppress my panic.

Jake had seemed so certain about the next kill site that I’d picked Vauxhall Cross to search for Burns. I parked at Peninsula Heights and grabbed my torch from the glove compartment, knowing that Burns might be locked in a flooded basement somewhere or chained to a buoy in the middle of the river. But as soon as I reached the path, the torch was unnecessary. Tower blocks filled the skyline either side of the bridge, light gleaming from landings and stairwells, as if the residents never slept. At three a.m. I was completely alone, apart from a few tramps sound asleep under an archway.

If he’d dragged Burns down to the riverside, surely he would have been spotted by the flat dwellers above? Frustration was suffocating me as I gazed at the muddy shore and the fast-encroaching river. Burns could be anywhere except this shiny postmodern landscape. The killer preferred dank cellars crawling with rats. I yanked my phone from my pocket to call Angie but there was no reply. She was probably combing another stretch of riverbank with the same sense of hopelessness.

There was no point in going home to agonise. So I carried on walking, not caring that I was near the spot where Shane Weldon had thrown his unsuspecting victim into the river. I was so full of adrenalin that any attacker who dared approach me would get hurled in himself. I carried on pacing through the driving rain until Ben Altman’s futurist apartment block appeared. The buildings west of Vauxhall Bridge were even uglier than the ones to the east. The towers looked like ziggurats, built to exactly the same design. Thousands of occupants must be saddled with colossal mortgages just like Altman, pinned to their day jobs forever like butterflies behind sheets of glass.

My eyes scanned the riverbank as I turned back, but there was nothing to see except abandoned bicycle wheels, carrier bags and crushed beer cans. The river had spat out all of the rubbish it had been force-fed during the day. I trotted back towards Vauxhall Bridge, determined to keep looking all night, even though Jake’s prediction had turned out to be wrong. The best option was to drive to Wapping to join the police search teams. I studied the river again, my eyes lingering on the bridge itself. It was being repaired, ironwork covered in scaffold, life-sized statues adorning the arches. It was only when I drew closer that I saw something at the base of one of the pillars, ten yards out from shore, between the barges at anchor, and raindrops jittering like shotgun pellets.

My heart gave a quick somersault as I grabbed my phone and left a garbled message for Angie. I didn’t hesitate before running down the steps to the muddy expanse below. My eyes had grown used to the artificial light on the walkway, but when my vision cleared I saw him. Up to his neck in water, blindfolded, his face whitened by moonlight. He had stopped moving now, and there was no way to tell whether he was alive. The killer had followed his pattern, abandoning him to the river.

The water was still rising as I called emergency services, knowing that Burns could go under at any minute. I dropped the torch on the shore and fumbled in my pocket. All I found was my car keys and the Swiss army knife Will had given me years ago, but I had to try. Currents snatched at me, eager to pull me under. I hauled myself along the iron bars of the scaffold, but the moment my feet lost contact with the ground I was in trouble. The water felt icy and had a mind of its own, tugging hard at my clothes. It took all my strength just to cover a few metres. It grew easier when I realised that Burns was still alive, fighting to keep his face above water. The sight of him battling gave me a new rush of strength. I thrashed on as fast as I could, pausing to cling to the scaffold and catch my breath. From a few metres away I saw that he was injured, blood oozing from a head wound, his skin unnaturally pale.

‘I’m here, Don. Are you okay?’ I pulled off his blindfold.

‘Best day of my life,’ he muttered, teeth chattering. ‘You took your fucking time.’

‘Keep your head up, that’s it. Are you injured?’

‘Broken arm, blurred vision. He wanted to give the river my soul.’ He gave a dull laugh. ‘He tied something round my neck.’

When I tugged at the string, a sharp piece of metal glinted in my hand. It was a long arrowhead, sharp enough to wound. I stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans.

‘You can keep it for a souvenir.’ I clung to the pillar and scanned the water’s surface, but there was no sign of anyone. ‘Hold still, I’m going to free your wrists.’

Burns’s pain seemed to be defeating him, his head bowing. I clutched the scaffold as I dived into the blackness to stop the water wrenching me away. I slashed at the ropes round his wrists with my small knife, surfacing for air. The emergency services had to arrive soon, but there was still no sign of them. Eventually the rope gave way, his hands fighting free of the water. At least now he could use his good arm to haul himself a few inches above the surface, but I could see his energy fading.

‘Your feet are tied too?’

‘Don’t try it. The currents are too strong, you’ll be swept away.’

‘Shut up, you idiot.’

I kissed him hard on the mouth then dived again, fighting through six feet of oily blackness. When I came up, my first reaction was relief. As I rubbed the water from my eyes, I saw two squad cars pulling up on the north shore, but they were no use, distanced by fifty metres of racing tide. I dived once more, but the next time I surfaced, a different face was staring at me. A sharp pain shot through my arm. The man gazing at me was Giles Moorcroft, his grip on my shoulder agonising as he dragged me towards him.

‘No,’ I spluttered. ‘The police are here, you can’t.’

‘Your soul’s perfect,’ he whispered. ‘Spotless.’

I could see Burns lunging at him from the corner of my eye. If he lost his grip on the iron bar, he’d drown, ankles lashed to the fretwork, his broken arm useless to fight the currents. My mouth filled with liquid that I fought not to swallow, the water bitter with poisons. Moorcroft was yanking me under. I took a lungful of air then lashed out with the knife in my bunched fist. The blackness was so complete that I was afraid of striking Burns, but there was no choice. I was close to passing out and it took everything I had to kick my way back to the surface. The river spat me out by the scaffold and I grabbed hold to stop myself being swept away. That’s when I realised that I’d dropped the knife. Moorcroft was thrashing towards Burns and there was no time to think before I pulled the arrowhead from my pocket. I coiled my arm back and slashed at his neck. He gave a dull whimper as he spun round, blood pulsing from the wound. His gaze cast down, as if he could read the river’s secrets.

‘I did what you asked,’ he whispered. ‘Please don’t take me.’

Moorcroft’s arms flailed wildly as the river bore him away. The tide moved so fast he was dragged ten metres upstream before I could blink. Then I was too busy fighting to keep Burns’s head above water. His eyes kept closing, shock or the river’s chill defeating him.

Relief came in the form of a police rescue boat. Two patrolmen dived down to cut the ropes from Burns’s ankles, then I was lying on the hard deck of the boat, taking ragged breaths like a fish newly landed. By the time they hauled Burns over the side, I was sitting up with a blanket round my shoulders. They propped him beside me, and I clutched his hand. His arm was a mess, wrist bowing in the wrong direction, but the pain didn’t seem to bother him. There was a dazed grin on his face.

‘I saw them, Alice.’

‘What?’

‘The souls. Lights and faces under the water, beautiful.’

‘You’re delirious. Take some deep breaths.’

‘Was it them kissing me, or you?’

‘Me, you fool.’

‘Even better.’ Burns’s head lolled back as he passed out, and one of the men pressed an oxygen mask over his face, but he needn’t have bothered. His eyes burned fiercely as he came round. ‘Get that fucking thing off me. I can breathe fine, it’s my arm that’s broken.’

Shock or the river’s poisons were making me nauseous. The boat was travelling east at top speed as I hung my head over the side. And that’s when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I was shocked that it still worked after a prolonged soaking. A woman’s quiet voice was dulled by the roar of the boat’s engine, and then I heard it. She was crying her heart out at the end of the line.

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s me.’

‘Lola, are you okay?’

‘It’s started, Al. I’m so scared. Can you come?’

I took a deep breath. ‘Of course, sweetheart. I’m on my way.’

The boat’s prow cut swathes of water from the river’s surface like strips of tickertape as I gripped the rail. I’d never been more desperate to reach dry land.

60

When I arrived at Morocco Street, Neal was crouched beside the bed, with Lola clutching his arm, preventing him from bolting. She was in the middle of a contraction, clearly trying not to scream.

‘You’re soaked. Where’ve you been?’

‘Stuck in a downpour, sweetheart. How’re you doing?’

‘It’s fucking agony,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘If men did this, the human race would be extinct.’

Lola gave Neal a withering look, but she was heroic during her labour, getting by on gas, air, and the midwife’s constant encouragement. Her daughter Neve made her entrance at nine a.m. precisely, as though she intended to be punctual for the rest of her life. I’d witnessed plenty of births during my time at med school, but it’s different when the mother is someone you love. Lola and Neal were weepy and elated, but Neve took it all in her stride. She lay on her mother’s chest, taking minute breaths, observing the world through unfocused blue eyes. Her fingers were fine as tendrils, no longer than my thumbnail, wisps of coppery hair curling at the nape of her neck.

‘She’s a redhead,’ I said.

‘Damn right,’ Lola purred.

It was the wrong moment to sit there admiring my goddaughter. Lola and Neal needed time alone to celebrate her arrival, so I kissed all three of them goodbye. My clothes had dried against my skin, but my jacket was still damp, so I left it behind.

A roar of traffic greeted me outside, the rush hour in mid-swing. By now I was swaying with exhaustion. It felt like days since I’d slept or eaten a meal, so I ducked into a café on Tower Bridge Road. My phone was still on silent, but I felt it buzzing in my pocket, Nina’s name lighting the screen.

‘Will’s home, Alice. He came back this morning.’