River of Souls (4 page)

‘She’s your mum. It’s her job to look on the bright side.’

A spluttering sound issued from her oxygen machine. ‘The bright side stops working after nine operations in a year.’

‘I can imagine.’ The nurse’s warning echoed as I gazed down at my pad. ‘Heather says you’re remembering things about the attack. Did the memories come back suddenly?’

‘Not really. It’s been gradual, over the past few months.’

It didn’t surprise me that her recovered memory process had been fragmentary. Victims of violence often kept their experiences buried for decades. ‘Do you feel able to talk about it?’

‘Of course, but what’s the point? The police didn’t find him. You won’t catch him all by yourself.’ Something bitter-edged lurked behind her words. It sounded like she was determined not to raise her hopes.

‘I shouldn’t brag, but I’m pretty good at my job, and you’ll be helping me. Criminals are often brought to justice years after the fact. You remember that from your law studies, don’t you?’

‘We both know the chances of him being convicted are thousands to one.’

‘But that’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘More than anything.’

‘So we’re agreed. If you tell me what you remember, we’ve got nothing to lose.’

She sucked in a long breath before answering. ‘It’s hazy, but I know he carried me from the car to the river.’ She took an aerosol from her bedside cabinet and lifted the brim of her hat by a fraction before spraying something on her face. ‘He tied a mask over my eyes until he cut me. I don’t remember that part, thank God, but I heard him crying. He said the river was waiting for my soul. Then he threw me in.’

‘Do you remember anything else?’

‘His voice was muffled, but I think I’d heard it before.’

‘It was someone you know?’

‘Maybe it was just his accent that was familiar. West London, like mine.’

‘Did you see him clearly at any point?’

‘Only for a moment. When I try to picture him, there’s nothing there.’ Her voice faded to a whisper, revealing her exhaustion.

‘That’s enough for today. I promised your mum not to tire you, but I’d like to talk again. Would that be okay?’

‘I’m not sure.’ There was a long pause before she spoke again. ‘You’re afraid to look at me, aren’t you?’

‘Not at all, but the nurse said it upsets you when people stare.’

‘How will you find him, if you can’t even face what he did?’ The anger in her voice came out of the blue.

‘I’d like to see you.’ My heart raced as I put down my notebook. ‘Working together’s going to be easier if we can talk openly.’

In a series of quick movements she flicked on a bedside light then pulled off her hat. I gazed back steadily, trying not to reveal my shock. A waterfall of gorgeous chestnut hair spilled across her shoulders, but everything else was ruined. The photos hadn’t prepared me for the extent of her injuries. There was a broad scar across her throat, an oxygen tube feeding into her trachea. Her face was a patchwork of skin grafts, nothing inside her right eye socket except shadows, a livid gash where her lips should have been. But the most disturbing thing was her remaining eye. It explained why she’d used the aerosol. The eyelid had been torn away, leaving her unable to blink, so it would need hydration every few minutes. But it was the one feature she could control. She stared back at me, judging my reactions. I held her gaze for a long breath before speaking again.

‘I’ll do everything I can to find who hurt you, Jude, but it won’t be easy. I’d like to try a technique called memory recovery to help you remember your attacker. It’s a type of hypnosis.’

‘Ask me any questions you like.’ The light flicked off again. ‘But I don’t believe it’ll change anything.’

When I looked up again, her veneer of bravery was cracking apart. Her eye carried on staring at me, unable to close, while air sighed from the ventilator.

5

I stood by the landing window to steady myself. The Custom House dominated the opposite shore, large and prosperous from extorting ships’ taxes for eight centuries. Rain spattered the glass, but it no longer mattered that the summer was a washout, or that Burns didn’t care about me. Compared to Jude Shelley’s suffering, I was the luckiest woman alive.

I was about to leave when a familiar figure marched across the landing carrying a bouquet of yellow roses. Timothy Shelley wore the standard politician’s uniform: a dark suit, white shirt and blue silk tie, deliberately inoffensive. He looked younger than his TV persona as Minister of State for Employment, closer to forty than fifty. I’d seen him on the news countless times, justifying why the jobless totals kept on rising. He had the perfect face to break bad news, features bland and permanently fixed in a half-smile, mid-brown hair swept back from his face. He was accompanied by a small entourage. Walking behind him was a taller man, wearing the same type of expensive clothes, about the same age. At a glance he could have been a politician too, but his expression was less certain, as if he was used to taking instructions. Two bodyguards loitered at the top of the stairs, one of them murmuring into his radio. I stepped into the minister’s path as he approached his daughter’s room.

‘Mr Shelley, my name’s Alice Quentin. I’ve just visited Jude. I wonder if we could talk?’

His smile widened by a centimetre. ‘My wife said you might be here. Would you mind waiting until I’ve seen my daughter?’

‘Of course not.’

He turned to his companion. ‘Giles, could you ask the Home Office to delay my meeting?’

‘I’ll call them now, Minister.’

The man gave his boss a measured smile before retreating at a brisk pace. He spoke to the bodyguards then babbled softly into his mobile phone.

Shelley seemed to be operating in a slower gear than his assistant, unwilling to be hurried. After twenty minutes he emerged from Jude’s room, a little paler than before, which made me wonder if her suffering struck him afresh whenever he visited.

‘Why don’t we find ourselves some coffee, Dr Quentin?’

He seemed oblivious to the followers trailing behind while we walked downstairs, as though being chaperoned had become second nature. He talked more freely as the machine dispensed cappuccino into white china cups. By the time we found a table, he’d described the excellent care his daughter was receiving, and his sympathy for all families hit by tragedy. Each statement was so perfectly honed, he could have been reciting from an autocue. Maybe I judged him harshly, but I got the sense that he
was trying so hard to sound sincere that his words rang hollow. His style was the opposite of his wife’s wide-eyed openness.

‘Was it your decision to press for the case to be reopened?’ I asked.

‘Quite the opposite. I was concerned about the impact on Jude. Maybe I’m overprotective, but we’ve always been very close. I hate the idea of her hopes being dashed, and there’s no point in upsetting Guy. Let’s be honest, Dr Quentin, we both know that the chances of my daughter’s attacker being found are slim. But my wife can be very black and white about things.’

A flicker of genuine emotion showed for the first time, every muscle in his face tensing with displeasure. He and Heather had obviously fought tooth and nail about the family’s dirty linen being dragged back into the public eye. He seemed to have no faith whatsoever in my ability to solve the crime, but I didn’t doubt the sincerity of his desire to protect his daughter. Maybe the potential impact on his family’s privacy concerned him too. If it became common knowledge that the case had been reopened, their ordeal would be replayed in the national media.

‘You’re in a very visible position, Mr Shelley. Can you think of anyone who might bear a grudge towards you, or your family?’

‘Contrary to popular opinion, the Westminster village is a relaxed place to work. I don’t have any serious enemies.’ His response came a beat too late, but it made me realise how slick he was. Like Blair or Clinton, he could have lied through his teeth in front of a hundred cameras without batting an eye.

‘But you must have had suspicions about who attacked Jude?’

‘I’m afraid not. I wasn’t keen on her boyfriend at the time. He seemed jealous of her other friends, but the police accepted his alibi. The young man in question only visited her here a few times.’ His smile dimmed by a few kilowatts. ‘Love was obviously skin deep in his case.’

‘Can you remember much about the night your daughter got hurt?’

He gave a shallow sigh. ‘It’s all rather blurred, but I travelled to Brighton with a member of my campaign team. Traffic delayed us, so we stopped for a meal. I don’t recall what time we reached the hotel, but I stayed up till after midnight with a colleague planning my speech.’

The minister’s aide bore down on us. ‘We need to leave soon, sir.’

‘Give me one more minute please, Giles.’ The man hovered close by, wearing a tense expression, as though his boss’s punctuality was a matter of national importance. Shelley rose to his feet slowly, his parting smile a dazzle of bleached white teeth. ‘My wife and I appreciate your help, Dr Quentin.’

‘One more question, Mr Shelley. Did you hear about the body discovered by Westminster Pier yesterday morning?’

The question made him wince. ‘My wife and I were friends of Father Kelvin’s. We worship at St Mary’s; he christened Jude when she was three months old. The police want to talk to us about it this evening.’

Shelley strode away with his staff in hot pursuit. His well-honed public image was too polished to reveal personal feelings, but the parallels between the attacks must have dawned on him too. His family priest had suffered a vicious assault, carried out in the same style as his daughter’s, on the date her case reopened. The only difference was that the attack on Father Owen had proved fatal. I made a mental note to contact the senior investigating officer on the Owen case and set up a meeting as soon as possible.

My head was still buzzing as I hurried along Borough High Street to meet Lola. She was waiting for me at her favourite Turkish café on Park Street. My stress reduced the moment I saw her. She had charmed a waiter into parting with his best table, and she was wearing a mile-wide grin, auburn ringlets cascading across her shoulders. I leant down to give her a hug.

‘You look fabulous, Lo.’

‘That’s a blatant lie. I’m big as a walrus.’

‘Believe me, you look perfect.’

Lola’s green eyes flickered. ‘Are you okay? You seem out of sorts.’

‘You’re imagining things. What have you been up to?’

‘Painting the spare room yellow. I’m hedging my bets.’

Lola had opted for a laid-back approach to pregnancy. She was planning a home birth and had chosen not to know the baby’s sex, which was driving her boyfriend crazy. Neal was thirteen years younger, but he liked life to be perfectly controlled. Suddenly she reached across the table and grabbed my wrist.

‘You’re still going to be my birthing partner, aren’t you?’

‘Of course. But Neal’ll change his mind on the big day.’

‘You’re joking; one drop of blood and he keels over. Now tell me what’s up.’

I considered lying, but Lola’s bullshit detector was unbeatable. ‘One small thing, one big.’

‘Give me the small one first.’

‘I’ve fallen for a married man.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘There’s a universal cure. Have loads of casual sex until you’ve shagged him out of your system.’ Her lewd expression made me laugh.

‘It’s that easy?’

‘Trust me, it works. What’s the other problem?’

‘I’ve been asked to profile an attacker who mutilated someone’s face. She’s got the worst injuries I’ve ever seen.’

‘Learn to say no occasionally, darling. That might help.’

‘Thanks, Lo. You’re an endless well of sympathy.’

Lola ploughed her way through a mound of falafel, hummus and pita bread. It was a relief to see her eat a square meal for once. During her years as a dancer, she’d existed on Marlboro Lights, vodka and green salads. It still impressed me hugely that she’d given up booze and fags the instant she became pregnant.

‘Have you heard from Will?’ I asked.

‘Last week. He’s moving back to London, isn’t he?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ It still rankled that my brother always phoned Lola instead of me when there was news to report. In the years when he’d lived rough, I’d been dependent on her for information. Even though his bipolar disorder had stabilised, she was still his first port of call.