The Evil Beneath Page 8
Cheryl then rattled on about a woman called Nancy, who worked in one of the houses by the river. She seemed to have got side-tracked into a Dickensian theme. I was starting to feel desperate. I stared at her, expectantly, my hopes pinned on some final revelation.
‘I’d say this was mid to late nineteenth century,’ she concluded, opening her eyes. The room felt remarkably quiet all of a sudden. There was nothing else. She handed me the etching and apologised, saying her mind was blank and she wasn’t picking up anything else. ‘It’s like that sometimes,’ she said.
‘You don’t know which bridge it is?’ I bleated.
She shook her head.
Dead end.
My stomach hit the floor. I reached for the door handle.
‘My last patient finishes in an hour. Have a coffee in the place across the road and I’ll find you,’ she said. It was a request not a suggestion.
I had nowhere else to be. If there was any inkling it might be worth my while, I had to hang around.
She joined me as I was starting my third cappuccino.
‘I’m sorry about the etching,’ she said. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to come up with answers to order.’
‘Sorry I put you on the spot. It was all I could think of.’
I hoped DCI Madison had had more luck with his ‘experts’.
She smiled. ‘It came to me later, when I was with the next person. It happens like that sometimes.’
‘You got it? The bridge?’ I froze, sending the froth dribbling down my cup.
‘It’s Battersea Bridge.’
‘You sure?’ I grabbed my phone.
Cheryl didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes.’
I got up and took her hand. ‘Thank you so much. It really might be a matter of life and death.’ I was about to move away, when Cheryl blocked my path.
‘What I said about your brother the other week. The fire. I know I’m right. It wasn’t an accident. You might need to think about that.’
‘Yes, yes, I will,’ I said, pushing past her, punching in the number.
The phone rang and rang until finally I heard DCI Madison’s familiar voice.
‘You didn’t get my message?’ he said.
‘No. Not yet. I’ve just —’
‘We’ve found another one…a woman’s body…’ I was unable to suppress a sob. ‘I’ll speak to you later,’ he said. ‘Got to go.’
‘Just one thing. Where was it?’
‘Battersea Bridge,’ he said. ‘Jogger found her about two hours ago. The Blue-badge guy phoned through about half an hour ago. He’d identified the right bridge from your etching, but it was already too late. Listen, I’ll call you later.’
I slipped the phone back into my bag and cried all the way home.
‘Thanks for coming in again,’ said DCI Madison. We were back in his office at Shepherds Bush the morning after the third victim had been found. I was starting to feel like I worked there. He introduced me: ‘This is DI Roxland - you’ve spoken before I believe.’
I remembered DI Roxland only too well from various patronising encounters over the phone. He had a damp hand and his face was too shiny. It made him look the sort to do train-spotting in his spare time. He was at that age where it had become necessary to keep ear, eyebrow and nasal hair at bay, but sadly such gentility had passed him by.
There was a tap on the door and a man was ushered in.
‘Juliet, this is Derek Moorcroft. He’s our bridge man.’ DCI Madison invited him to sit. The man looked jet-lagged, even though he’d only driven over from Oxford. ‘Thanks for coming,’ said the DCI, addressing both of us. ‘I know this is extremely unpleasant.’
Derek Moorcroft was going seriously bald and his screwed up eyes had a permanent look of someone having just got out of bed. He had the kind of face you would instantly forget, even if you’d been trapped for an hour in a lift with him.
‘I’ll help in any way I can,’ he said. His voice was unexpectedly high-pitched, as if he’d been practising for a Punch and Judy show.
DCI Madison sat back. ‘I know it’s rather unorthodox getting civilians to help out in this way, but we’re trying to make the most of our resources.’
Derek seemed more interested in the plate of biscuits on the DCI’s desk than on what he was saying.
‘As you know, Juliet, Mr Moorcroft was able to identify the bridge from the picture you were sent in the email.’ DCI Madison rolled a pencil on the desk. ‘But, sadly, due to technical difficulties with his computer, we didn’t get to know about it in time. We haven’t identified the woman yet.’
Derek bowed his head.
‘Not your fault, Mr Moorcroft.’
‘Call me Derek.’
‘If this is going to carry on, God forbid,’ said DCI Madison, ‘we need to make sure we’re in a much better position than we were before.’
‘That’s if the killer uses another bridge as his place of discovery,’ I said.
‘That is the assumption. That’s been the pattern, so far - although, obviously we need to be open to the idea that the killer’s methods might change.’
‘Can’t you set up cameras on all the bridges or get your officers to keep watch?’ said Derek, blithely.
I had to turn a sharp intake of breath into a cough. Honestly. Even I knew police resources wouldn’t stretch to one bridge, let alone thirty of them. DCI Madison put him straight.
‘Are the women…killed beforehand and left under the bridges or are they attacked where they’re found?’ I asked.
‘The post-mortems show that the three victims we’ve found so far were killed somewhere else, then taken down to the water. There is no internal evidence of any water intake prior to death and there’s no evidence of a struggle at the scene. The boots of the women show no mud or shale, although obviously running water plays havoc with evidence. All of the spots can be easily viewed from the bridge or road, so it’s unlikely the killer would risk being caught during the attack. He’d want to get the body into the water as quickly and silently as possible.’
There was silence, except for the sound of Derek crunching on a butter-crinkle.
‘Hammersmith, Richmond, Battersea - is there any link between those particular bridges?’ I asked. All the questions keeping me awake at night were pouring out all at once.
DCI Madison raised his eyebrows in Derek’s direction.
‘I’ve had your report and I can’t see any obvious links, but I haven’t had much time..’ He dunked his biscuit. ‘Richmond Bridge was opened in 1777. The other two were opened at the end of the nineteenth century. There are two hundred and fourteen bridges in total, over the full length of the Thames, which is tidal, of course, as far as Teddington and there are forty-five locks on the non-tidal…’ Half of his biscuit broke away and disappeared into his coffee.
Derek was clearly on a roll and I hoped the DCI would rein him in.
‘That’s very useful, Derek,’ he said. ‘If you could get down in writing anything that links these bridges for us… that would be a great help.’
Nicely done.
DI Roxland spoke for the first time. ‘We need to keep the media at bay with all this,’ he said. He glanced at Derek and I in turn. ‘If the press approach you about any of this - it’s strictly “no comment” - you got it?’ Roxland gave me a weak smile which brought a bubble of spittle with it. I decided to leave my last biscuit.
The DCI turned to me. ‘Anything new and get it straight over to Derek…as well as telling us, of course. You’ve got my personal number.’
I nodded. Derek’s sleepy eyes came to life. He couldn’t have had this much interest in his work for a long time.
‘Time is a big factor. We need to try to identify the right bridge before the killer gets there.’
‘What if the killer sends the messages after the murders have already taken place?’ I asked.
‘So far, it’s been the other way around. We’re pinning everything on the fact that the killer will use the same routine.’
‘What about the email? Did you trace it?’ I asked.
‘Kensington library,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Over a hundred computers available to the public there. He used a stolen library card, like we thought, and he didn’t log on to any other sites. We’re looking at CCTV footage to see what we can find…but to be honest, it doesn’t look good. Too many people around.’
‘And no one saw anything untoward near the bridges - no cars parked in the early hours near the water?’ I said.
‘No - nothing. We’re looking into the possibility that the bodies were driven down to the water, then put in a boat and carried on along the river to the bridges.’
‘A boat?’ I said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. So obvious.’
‘It might be the way the bodies are transported, without being seen - and placed in position, without leaving evidence on the bank. We’re looking for a vehicle that has a boat-rack or a trailer. We’re trawling through the CCTV footage on that, too.’
DCI Madison got to his feet. ‘Okay - that’s all for now.’ As he opened the door to guide Derek and DI Roxland out, he raised his arm to indicate I should stay where I was.
When he returned I knew the atmosphere had changed.
‘There’s something else,’ he said.
I didn’t like his ominous tone. I wasn’t sure I could handle any more bad news.
‘We found an embroidered handkerchief on the second girl - Aysha’s body. In one of her pockets.’ I was surprised. Aysha didn’t look the kind of girl to carry tissues, never mind an old-fashioned handkerchief. He pulled a plastic evidence bag from a drawer and placed it on the desk. ‘It had some initials stitched onto it.’
He slid it towards me and I held it up.
I gasped. ‘J.L.G.,’ I said in a whisper. ‘This is mine. Mum’s been buying them as a Christmas stocking filler ever since I was about six years old.’
‘We thought it might be. Especially after you identified your clothes on the first woman.’
I shoved it back to him. I didn’t want it to be mine. It was contaminated and involved in something ghastly.
‘The L is for your middle name?’
‘Lucy,’ I said, grimly.
‘We were wondering where she might have got it from.’
‘Yes, so am I.’
‘Could she have taken it when you saw her at Fairways Clinic, when you had your appointment with her before the termination?’
I blew out a gusty breath. ‘I’ll have to think about that.’
‘Or, maybe she found it on the floor?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ I got the picture, I just couldn’t remember whether I’d had a handkerchief with me. Another idea crossed my mind. ‘Maybe she didn’t take it at all. Maybe the killer just bought one with those initials.’
‘We did wonder about that. We found no match with the DNA samples you gave us.’
It was hardly a cause for celebration. The hanky was still another ghastly link between me and these despicable murders.
‘By the way, we’re going to be tracing all your emails and calls from now on.’
‘You’re tapping my phone?’
‘Not me personally, but yes, the police will be monitoring all your communications from now on.’ He looked sheepish.
‘Big Brother…’ A wave of nausea gripped my stomach and I rubbed my belly. This ordeal wasn’t going away any time soon.
‘I know…I’m sorry, but it’s necessary.’
He got up from his chair and for a moment he looked like he was going to give me a hug. ‘Listen, probably shouldn’t ask this, but are you free tomorrow tonight?’
‘Tomorrow night? To look at more evidence?’
‘No. Not exactly.’ DCI Madison rubbed his nose. ‘I was thinking of something…off-duty…my way of saying thanks, I suppose.’
He’d caught me entirely off guard, but suddenly my chest felt warm, as if a hot-water bottle had found its way inside my jacket.
‘Oh. Is that protocol?’
‘Not strictly, but you’re giving us such a lot of your time and…’
‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ I said, before he could change his mind. ‘Is Derek coming?’ I tried to hide a smile.
He grinned, his hands in his pockets. ‘Er, no. I forgot to ask.’
‘Right, then.’ I stood fiddling with the buckle on my bag, feeling like a school girl.
‘Is dinner, okay?’ he said, toying with some papers on the desk.
‘Perfect. One thing, though. I can’t go for dinner with you and keep calling you Detective Chief Inspector Madison.’
‘No, you can’t.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Brad - Bradley Madison.’
Great name. That would do nicely.
‘Pleased to meet you, Brad - I’m Juliet.’
The smile stayed on my face until I’d left the police station. Until I remembered how I’d come to meet DCI Madison in the first place. No matter how distracted I might be by his banter and good looks, it was something evil that had brought us together. Something evil that was going to be lurking in the shadows behind us every step of the way.
Chapter Ten
Lynn Jessop had started sessions a few weeks ago. I was surprised when she told me she was forty-nine; the deep furrows in her forehead made her look ten years older. Her hair was drab and thin and her chin stood out from her face like a half-opened drawer. She must have been around five feet seven, with a broad frame, but years of suffering or low self-worth had bowed her shoulders, making her look like she was in a permanent state of apologising for herself.
It was a difficult case: she was the mother of a teenage boy who was being bullied at school. The boy was coming home bruised, but didn’t want to involve the teachers. There appeared to be no father on the scene and Lynn was feeling powerless to stop her son being picked on. In some ways, I wondered if counselling was going to make much difference. Proper intervention at the school seemed the obvious solution; the offenders needed to be identified; the teachers needed to nip it in the bud, but the boy didn’t want to tell anyone and Lynn was abiding by her son’s wishes for the time being.
‘Do you know what it’s like to wake up every day knowing your son is being traumatised and not be able to do anything about it?’ said Lynn. She was pulling strands of hair from behind her ear as she rocked backwards and forwards. It occurred to me she might be self-harming.
‘It must be awful for you. Not being able to do anything about it.’ Tread carefully, I thought. Build trust.
‘I’ve been following him to school - he’s thirteen and refuses to let me walk with him - but nothing’s happened to him on those days.’
‘When do you think the bullying is taking place?’
‘He won’t talk about it. He comes home with cuts and bruises. Or his rucksack is scorched or soaking wet. Every week there’s something - but I can’t be there all the time to watch over him.’ Lynn buried her face in an already wet tissue.
‘No, of course, you can’t. Have you reported it to the school?’
‘He won’t let me tell the school. I told the police, but they won’t do anything.’
‘What would you like to do?’
‘Go to the headmistress and find out who is doing this. Make the teachers put a stop to it. Get the boys punished.’ She sat back, looking exhausted.
I managed to check the clock as I took a sip of water. Only twenty minutes had gone. How was it that time could race past like a Bugatti one moment and then crawl by like a bicycle with a flat tyre, the next?
Lynn looked how I felt: wrung out with worry and lack of sleep. I found myself being distracted by images of the bodies again; daytime replays of the nightmares I’d been trying to forget. I realised Lynn was speaking.
‘…don’t you think?’
‘Sorry, Lynn, I missed that last bit.’ Damn. Un
professional.
Lynn looked at the floor.
‘Now, not even you are listening.’ There was a quiver of anger in her voice.
‘Lynn? Does it hurt when you pull on your hair like that? I’ve noticed…’
Lynn looked at the small clump of grey hair tangled around her fingers, as if she had no idea how it had got there.
‘I didn’t realise…’ She wiped her hands on her skirt sending the clump on to the carpet.
‘This is difficult to ask, Lynn, but have you been hurting yourself at all?’
Silence. Enough time for me to realise I’d pushed too hard, too soon.
‘I think I’d better go, now.’
Lynn stood up, her bag clutched over her stomach. I stood too. ‘We still have time left…’ I said. Lynn ignored me and opened the door, leaving it open as she went to the stairs.
I heard the front door snap shut and sat down. I kicked off my shoes, pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them. Maybe my therapist was right. Maybe there was too much going on in my own life for me to be able to offer emotional support for my clients; I certainly wasn’t doing enough for Lynn.
The restaurant was dimly lit and crowded and I hovered inside the door, scanning the tables for Brad. A hand fell on my shoulder from behind and I jumped.
‘Sorry…’ said Brad, ‘shouldn’t have done that…’
‘Probably not,’ I said, turning around. He was wearing low-rise jeans, an open-necked shirt and a zip-up brown leather jacket. Very Starsky, I thought, although, personally, I’d always preferred Hutch. The waiter showed us to a table in the corner by the window.
‘Hope this is okay…by the river…’ he said, as he shuffled his chair forward.
I looked out over the stretch of thick black water, sprinkled with lights that rocked and dipped with the flow of the river. Behind me was Tower Bridge, lit up like a golden gate to a fairy-tale castle. As I took in the view, it sent me straight to another time. Luke’s sixteenth birthday - he’d wanted us all to go to London to celebrate. We’d done the usual tourist spots - living in Norwich, it was hardly our first time - but the memory that sticks most wasn’t the glittering crown jewels or the changing of the guards. It was the moment when Tower Bridge started to open and I saw Luke’s face. Never have I seen such rapture sweep across someone’s features. I wish I’d had a photograph of that moment, although it would never have matched the quality of the one inside my head.