River of Souls (39 page)

Relief surged through me. ‘How is he?’

‘Calmer. He’s been with friends in Brighton.’

‘Tell him he’s a godfather. Lola and her daughter are doing fine.’

There were eighteen messages on my phone, including one from my mother. I considered calling her, then thought better of it. Her frosty disapproval could wait for another day. With luck her assistant was learning to utter more than the odd monosyllable.

After two lattes, orange juice and a mountain of toast, my brain was functional again. The facts about Moorcroft were falling into place. He’d come across as a man so rigidly in control that no flicker of emotion ever reached the surface, and his repression must have contributed to the violence. His job had provided the perfect setting for a history obsessive. It allowed him to watch the Thames rolling past Westminster, his office filled with records of the past: volumes of Hansard detailing every bill since Parliament began. And the diaries he kept provided an archive of Timothy Shelley’s career. I gazed out at the pedestrians walking north towards the City, umbrellas shielding their faces. But what had made Moorcroft kill? He had targeted two different types of victim: people Shelley loved, and those who knew about his secret affair. What had triggered such monstrous violence? My curiosity had returned with full force, even though exhaustion was threatening to topple me. More than anything, I was eager to know whether he was dead or alive.

Angie sounded tired but upbeat when I called. Tania had regained consciousness and her family was with her. Burns was in hospital too, having his broken arm set. The most surprising news was that Giles Moorcroft had been fished from the river alive, the wound on his neck so shallow that he’d only required a handful of stitches. Knowing he was at the station filled me with mixed emotions. Part of me felt relieved that I hadn’t caused his death, but there would have been poetic justice if the river had claimed him. Although I’d never believed in capital punishment, the prison system would be saddled with a dangerous psychotic for the rest of his life.

I bundled myself into a taxi back to my flat. Cool air greeted me, scented by the roses I’d bought days before to cheer myself up. I couldn’t face taking a bath before dropping into bed. The prospect of more water touching my skin seemed unbearable. My last thought was a pulse of relief that Burns was safe, then sleep closed over my head immediately, with no dreams to interrupt it.

My head still felt muzzy when I came round late that afternoon, but I knew exactly what I needed to do, so I forced myself under the shower, then dressed in a hurry and raced out of the flat.

Angie looked like an irate pixie when I tapped on her office door, her voice a shrill squawk. ‘Why are you here? You should be resting.’

‘I want to speak to Moorcroft.’

‘No way on God’s earth. A bloke from the FPU’s assessing him tomorrow, the appointment’s booked.’

‘Cancel it. I’ll see him now.’

‘Burns would never authorise it.’

‘He’s not here, is he?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘He might as well be. The super’s told him to take a week off, but he keeps phoning for updates.’

‘This is my one chance to talk to Moorcroft before the system swallows him. I need to understand why he did it.’

‘You never switch off, do you? You’re worse than the boss.’

‘Please, Angie, just twenty minutes.’

She put up a strong protest, reminding me that it couldn’t be a formal interview because I’d serve as a witness for the prosecution. It took serious persuasion to convince her that the meeting could be classified as a risk assessment, not a psychological interview.

Moorcroft came willingly to meet me. He was handcuffed, and kitted out in clothes from lost property, a shapeless navy blue jumper and outsized jeans. He looked like a different person from the slick civil servant I’d met at the House of Commons. Only his expression was the same, haughty and distracted, as if he was privy to national secrets. It was impossible to be objective; my head kept filling with images of the madness in his face when he’d tried to drown me. He looked relaxed as he sat opposite me and Angie, his gaze hovering inches above our heads.

‘What can you see, Mr Moorcroft?’

‘Your spirits,’ he said calmly. ‘Yours was clean yesterday, Dr Quentin, but now it’s filthy.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Our souls reflect our deeds. You should know that. You’re a psychologist, aren’t you?’

‘People with neurological problems sometimes see a haze around objects and faces, called an aura. It affects migraine patients too. You’ll need a brain scan.’

‘An X-ray won’t change anything.’ He threw me a look of disgust. ‘It’s a spiritual gift no one else shares.’

‘Can you explain why you carried out your attacks?’

He looked unconcerned. ‘The river made the decisions, leaving me free to carry out my work to the best of my ability.’

‘Which you did very successfully, by all accounts. Mr Shelley was stunned to hear about your arrest. Even now he can’t believe it.’

His boss’s name made him flinch. ‘What did he say?’

‘You’ve got strong feelings for him, haven’t you? I can see why. You’ve known him a long time.’

‘He’s the finest politician of his age. No one should criticise him.’ His face stiffened with conviction.

‘You wanted to protect him?’

‘I could see Mr Shelley was in danger. We’re all vulnerable in matters of the heart, but the people closest to him weren’t trustworthy. Those who knew his secret could have ruined his career.’

‘What was it that concerned you?’

A look of disgust crossed Moorcroft’s face. ‘Julian Speller seduced him. I heard every word through the door: the promises and assignations. I even had to book their hotels. When it ended the first time, Speller used to phone up and beg to see him. It started again in May.’

‘Is that why you killed him?’

‘Speller would have sold his story. The minister is the best statesman the House has seen, but that man could have broken him. The river begged for his soul. When I heard the minister arguing with his wife about the police reopening Jude’s case, it was my duty to protect his reputation.’

‘That doesn’t explain why you attacked Jude right at the start.’

A flicker of regret crossed his face. ‘She knew about her father’s affair. Once it ended I thought he was safe, but Amala visited her so often, Jude was bound to confide in her. The minister was vulnerable when the affair restarted. It was only a matter of time before Amala blabbed to her friends. The river confirmed my decision to silence her.’

‘But the attacks upset you. They made you feel ashamed. Is that why you waited a year after hurting Jude?’

‘Like I said, the river makes its own choices. The spirits are cleansed then returned to the sea. The minister told me once that he kept no secrets from his priest. That’s why I had to kill Father Owen.’

‘How did you find out about the history of the Thames?’

‘From books, of course, and night-time walks. It’s been my hobby for years. Stretches of the foreshore contain treasures no one else sees. The objects I found belong to the river and had to be returned.’ A beam settled on Moorcroft’s lips.

‘Do you take responsibility for your crimes?’

His gaze latched onto mine. ‘I had no choice. It was my duty to protect Mr Shelley.’

‘And it’s my duty to recommend a full psychiatric review before your trial. The guards will take you back to your cell, Mr Moorcroft.’

Angie pushed back her seat after the door closed, her expression dazed. ‘Mad as a bag of snakes,’ she muttered, as though his verdict was already sealed.

61

An unexpected phone call came the next morning. The calm voice belonged to Christine Jenkins. I pictured her standing by her window on Dacre Street, wearing a look of relief.

‘I hear your work led to the arrest of the riverside killer. Your methods were unconventional, but you deserve congratulations.’

‘Thanks, Christine. I’m still processing it all.’

‘I knew you were the right person for the job. That’s why I’m calling. I’d like to discuss a proposal with you.’

‘What kind of proposal?’

‘You’d be an ideal team leader. I’ll be advertising for a deputy soon; I’d like you to apply.’

‘But I’m going back to my consultancy.’

‘The FPU needs someone dynamic. Think about it, then call me. You’d be a strong candidate.’

She hung up before I could reply, leaving me speechless. The rational part of my brain knew it would be madness to work in a building filled with a strange collection of obsessives, but it would provide access to the most fascinating cases on offer. Thank God she hadn’t demanded an immediate decision. I was so stunned by all that had happened, I’d have agreed on impulse, then regretted it immediately.

Burns was waiting for me when I reached Butler’s Wharf that evening, newly released from hospital. He was sitting at a table in the galleria, broken arm propped beside him, staring into space.

‘A penny for them,’ I said.

‘Don’t waste your money. I’m an empty vessel.’

‘That’s fine. I’m not expecting scintillating conversation; you can just gaze at me in silent admiration.’

His lopsided smile unfolded. ‘I could try, but I’ve still got double vision.’

‘Didn’t the hospital want you for another day’s observation?’

He shrugged. ‘I can walk, talk and think. That’s enough, isn’t it?’

We ended up in a steak restaurant, sharing a bottle of prosecco, and even though we were both exhausted we talked until midnight. By tacit agreement we avoided the case completely and kept the conversation on terra firma. I found out secrets he’d never told me before. We talked about the countries we’d visited. He was twenty-five before he ever went abroad: a trip to Rome that almost blew his mind.

‘It was unbelievable. Beauty and decadence on every street corner.’

‘I’ve never been.’

‘You’re joking.’ Burns gaped at me. ‘Let’s go to City Airport now and get one-way tickets.’

I laughed at him. ‘The Crown Prosecution Service wouldn’t be thrilled. We haven’t given our statements yet.’

‘Speak for yourself. Angie grilled me all morning.’

‘You haven’t told me what happened to you last night.’

‘Why should I?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I haven’t got post-traumatic stress, Dr Quentin. I’m happy as Larry. This fizzy wine is mixing nicely with the codeine in my bloodstream.’

‘Did you hear I interviewed Moorcroft?’

He gave a slow nod. ‘What’s your verdict?’

‘He’ll need the full battery of neurology and psychopathy tests. But if he’s telling the truth, part of the problem could be physical, a slow-growing brain tumour perhaps. He’s got a disturbed visual field. It might explain why he’s hearing things too.’

He gaped at me. ‘A tumour can turn someone into a serial killer?’

‘Not on its own, but it could be a contributing factor. His problem’s more likely to be episodic psychosis.’

‘Which is what?’

‘The sufferer has lucid intervals, then periods of hallucination and hearing voices. It can be stress induced.’

He shook his head. ‘The bloke almost killed Jude, but carried on working as Shelley’s loyal foot soldier. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘I think it does. Moorcroft was fixated on his boss. He killed people who knew about Shelley’s affair with Julian Speller, believing he was protecting a gifted politician from losing his career. It gave him a mission when the rest of his life was empty. Angie says there’s nothing much in his flat apart from history books. The guy started studying the Thames and its tide patterns when he began hearing voices.’

‘At least Jude lived to hear that he’d been caught.’

I put down my glass. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Sorry, I thought you knew.’ He hesitated before speaking again. ‘She died this morning. Jamal Khan was with her. After he told her the killer had been caught, she stopped breathing.’

My eyes swam, even though I’d always known she was unlikely to survive. Maybe it was the fact that Moorcroft had finally stolen the life he’d ruined years before. Burns’s hand settled on my arm, and when I looked up again, the familiar jolt of attraction slammed into me even harder than before. His unblinking, no bullshit stare almost had me begging him to take me back to his hotel.