by Amy Cross
"That's a lot to cover in a day," she replies. "Remember, you've only got me for twenty-four hours. After that's up, you have to remove my ankle monitor and I'm out of here."
"Do you know where we can start?" I ask, before glancing over at the papers on the desk. "You haven't looked at those yet, have you?"
"I'll do it when you go to bed," she replies. "I don't usually sleep much anyway, and there's no point getting used to a proper bed for just one night. Don't worry. I guarantee I'll have come up with something by the time you get up. I don't mean to thump my own chest too much, but I'm good at this kind of thing. I know how the streets work."
"Maybe," I mutter, finishing my glass of wine before getting to my feet and heading over to the door. "Back in a moment. Don't steal anything."
"Nah," she replies, "I'll wait 'til you're in bed before I start nicking stuff."
Sighing, I make my way to the kitchen and grab another bottle of wine from the sideboard. This is definitely not how I expected tonight to go down, and I know that a second glass of wine would be a mistake. At the same time, I'm still on edge after all the crap with Daniel Gregory, and while I don't like going out drinking with people in bars, sometimes I just need a glass of wine or two at home.
"Hey!" Ophelia calls through from the front room. "I think you're gonna want to come and see this!"
"Hang on!" I reply, struggling to get the second bottle open. I know I shouldn't be drinking, but sometimes it calms my nerves. I pour myself a fresh glass, before putting the cork back into the bottle.
"Seriously!" she shouts. "You need to see this!"
"Fine," I mutter, hurrying back through and finding that she's got the TV on, with one of the news channels running some kind of live broadcast from the center of the city. "What's -"
"It's another one," she says, with a broad grin. She takes her first sip of wine as she leans forward, apparently engrossed by the scene.
Stepping closer, I realize that she's right. We both watch in stunned silence as the reporter explains that a body was found by a member of the public this evening, with its guts having been ripped out. Whereas the previous deaths were all secretive and occurred in the shadows, this time the killer seems to have changed his method completely, opting for something that practically screams for attention.
"This is big," Ophelia says, staring at the screen. "This is, like, huge." She turns to me. "People have to start giving a crap now!"
Before I can say anything, my mobile phone starts ringing. I hurry through to the hallway and fish through my pockets for a moment, before eventually finding it and seeing that Tim is trying to get hold of me.
"I've just seen the news," I tell him as I answer. "It's -"
"It's the same killer," he replies, shouting against the wind, "but there's something different this time, Laura!"
"What?" I ask, as Ophelia hurries through and starts putting her shoes on.
"The victim wasn't some bum on the street," he continues. "The dead guy's a visiting musician who's well known around the world. This is high-profile, Laura. It's serious."
"I'm on my way," I reply, cutting the call off before turning to Ophelia. "You have to stay here."
"No way," she says as she starts sorting through the various coats on the rail. "Can I borrow one of these? Mine are in the wash."
"You can't just come with me to a murder scene," I tell her. "Believe it or not, there are still a few rules that I'd rather not break."
"It's the same killer," she replies, already slipping into one of my mother's old coats, "and you still need my perspective. Like it or not, if you're investigating a murder down in that part of town, you need to be able to see things from the homeless point of view." She opens the door and steps outside, before turning back to me. "Unless you've got any other homeless friends," she adds, "you've got no choice. You have to take me."
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sitting alone in the dark room, he clenches his fist and then begins to open it again.
The pain is intense. It's as if a million tiny razor-blades have been packed into the gaps between his knuckles. At one point, with his fingers half-extended, he has to pause for a moment. He's starting to sweat, and the urge to cry out is too great; closing his eyes, he raises his head toward the ceiling and waits a moment, trying to find the strength to continue. The pain has eased a little now; it's throbbing but stable, even though he knows it'll be back with a vengeance as soon as he completes the job. Finally, he opens his hand all the way, grunting as the pain returns. Sharp and dull, deep and sore, it's a kind of pain that seems to have many faces, and the worst part is that he knows he will never, ever be able to defeat it.
He's in its jaws now, and eventually it will kill him.
Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a small leather case and opens it. There are photos inside, some of them more than a hundred years old, showing various ancestors. His father, his grandfather, his great-grandfather and more besides. He stares at their faces for a moment before closing the case and putting it back in his pocket.
He listens to the silence for a moment. Not that it really is silence: in the distance, there are the myriad sounds of a city that can never truly rest. In fact, the old man is starting to wonder if he's ever had a moment of true silence in his entire life. Born and raised near the river, he has spent almost all of his sixty-five years within the bounds of London, apart from a two-week trip up north when he was younger and a spell inside. He supposes, then, that by virtue of never having left the city, he has never truly experienced silence. Even when he was in the womb, there must have been the beating of his mother's heart. There's a part of him that wants to set out right now and find somewhere totally silent, but he knows that opportunity has long since passed him by. His life has been set, and it's far too late for him to start making changes now.
He pauses. Somewhere nearby, the baby cries, but he ignores it.
In the dim light, he can just about make out the sight of his left hand, its fingers extended and ready.
"Again," he tells himself.
Slowly, he starts closing his fingers into a fist again. The pain isn't too bad this time, since his arthritis always feels much worse when he's extending the fingers. Once he has the fist prepared, he stares at it for a moment, preparing for the pain that he knows is about to come. He takes a long, deep breath as he tries to find the strength to do this again. Regular exercise is the only thing that keeps the condition from getting worse, or at least that's what he tells himself. Deep down, he knows he's probably wrong, that it's getting worse anyway and that he should go to see a doctor. He doesn't trust doctors, however, so he self-medicates based on nothing more than guesses and superstition. Finally, he begins to open the fist again, and he lets out a gasp of pain in the process. It's worse than last time.
Nearby, on a rickety old table, a pair of large metal hooks wait for their next job.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Laura
"Mark Galloway," Tim says, crouching next to the dead body that has been left crumpled against the chain-link fence. "Twenty-four years old, originally from Harrogate but lately of this parish. Don't get too impressed by my powers of deduction, though. His wallet was still in his trousers. Looks like he arrived in town about a week ago. Probably thought he'd find riches on the streets of London. Instead..." He uses the tip of a scalpel to carefully move the fabric of the corpse's shirt aside, revealing a gaping ripped wound in the belly.
I take a step closer and peer down at the body. The meat is still glistening and there's some kind of clear liquid draining slowly from the victim's chest cavity. The entire scene is lit by a series of bright lights stationed all around us on tripods, filling every shadow and making the corpse look almost unreal. It's late, well past midnight, and dark waters of the Thames are lapping the shore just a few meters away.
"Time of death?" I ask, forcing myself not to look away.
"I'd say around midnight," he replies. "Could have been a little la
ter, but certainly no earlier. We got the call at half twelve, and I imagine that was only a few minutes after the guy was killed. Look at this." He indicates a particularly knotty section of broken flesh and bone, a little further toward the top of the victim's belly. "The injury is characteristic with a very quick movement, as if the tip of the hook was driven into the chest and then forced down to the belly. There's noticeably more damage to the ribs this time, which I can only assume means that the killer was in a hurry. This isn't surgical, and the end result is clearly more important to this guy than the method."
"I'm not surprised," I reply, glancing over at the small crowd of onlookers that has gathered just fifty meters away, straining to get a better look despite the row of police officers standing in their way. "Even at midnight, there should have been people around, so he would have had to be quick. Still, someone must have heard something."
"Not necessarily," Tim continues. "Sure, it's a busy spot, but you know what it's like. Sometimes you get these unexpected lulls, and maybe that's when the killer chose to strike. If a train happened to be going over the bridge at the same time, it would've drowned out the screams, if there were any, and the whole thing could well have been over in ten, twenty seconds."
"So you're saying it's possible to kill and gut a man in the middle of London without getting noticed?" I ask, unable to hide my skepticism.
He uses the tip of the scalpel to move a flap of loose skin aside. "This isn't someone who works methodically, Laura. It's a smash-and-grab kind of killing, except he doesn't grab anything. The intestines on this one are still in place."
"Bang goes the trophy theory," I reply. "It's almost as if this guy just enjoys killing for the sake of killing."
"You think maybe that's all it is for him? A hobby?"
"There has to be more to it," I continue. "No-one goes out and kills someone without a reason, even if it's just something they keep locked in their head. It might seem random to us, but there's a pattern here somewhere, even if it's not screaming at us right now."
"There's no sign of a struggle. No sexual trauma. It's possible the guy was too doped-up to really put up much of a fight. Maybe that's why he was targeted. With all the new legal highs on the market these days, you don't have to look too far to find some poor catatonic bastard on the streets. The killer obviously wants a bit of a struggle."
"I need a full autopsy," I tell him. "Toxicology -"
"I know, I know. The works, just like with the other ones. I'll put a rush on it." Getting to his feet, he wanders over to his medical case, which is propped on top of a nearby bulwark. "So what's this guy doing out here in the middle of the night? It's not clear whether he was homeless. There are certain physiological signs that usually indicate a prolonged presence on the streets. Things like malnutrition, indications of drug use, even parasitic infestations, but this guy doesn't have anything like that. Then again, if he was relatively new to the city, those might not have manifested yet."
Stepping closer to the body, I lean down and look at the dead man's face. His eyes are closed and his chin is resting against his chest, almost as if he's only sleeping.
"His clothes don't look too shabby," I point out after a moment.
"That's another reason why I think he's fairly new to life on the streets," Tim replies. "Look at his shoes."
Glancing down at the corpse's feet, I immediately see what he means; the shoes look pretty new, so it's clear that this isn't someone who's been shuffling about for too long.
"He comes to London," I say after a moment, "thinking he'll make it big, and finally he ends up on the streets. Maybe he lasts one or two nights at most, and then he wanders into the wrong place and this happens to him."
"It's almost like he wasn't one of them," Tim mutters.
"One of who?" I ask, turning to him.
"The homeless. It's more like he was still normal."
I open my mouth to correct him, but finally I realize there's no point. Sure, this Mark Galloway guy seems to have been right on the cusp between two worlds, and I'm pretty sure we'll be able to get in touch with his family; nevertheless, Tim's right when he suggests that the victim has none of the usual iconography of homelessness. If I'd seen him sitting on a bench somewhere when he was alive, I might not have guessed that he was sleeping rough.
"He must have been new," Tim adds. "It doesn't take long for life on the streets to have an effect."
"There are plenty of reasons why someone might be out here at that time," I say after a moment. "Some of them legitimate, some of them not, but I don't think it matters too much. This was an opportunistic kill. Mark Galloway was out here for something, and the killer just happened to have a chance to get hold of him. He's been going after homeless people because they're easy to find, convenient... This isn't so different really, but it shows that he's not getting some kind of weird kick from killing people who are visibly destitute. He doesn't care who he kills, just that someone ends up dead, and it's as if each time is slightly different..."
"You're getting all that from a quick glance, are you?"
"Not quite. On the drive over, I was talking to -"
I pause as I realize that maybe I should be a little more discreet. Given recent events, I already seem to have become something of a talking point back at the station, and I'm fully aware that my decision to seek help from Ophelia is likely to have ruffled more feathers. Turning and heading over to Tim, I watch as a group of technicians make their way over to the body and prepare to move it from the scene. People in the crowd have started taking photos now, and the flashes of their cameras are lighting up the scene like bright white explosions.
"Talking to who?" Tim asks after a moment as he cleans the tip of the scalpel.
"No-one," I reply, looking over at the crowd as I realize that I've lost sight of Ophelia. She has to be around somewhere, and I specifically told her not to wander off. She knows that I can track her with the ankle monitor, and I'm pretty sure she's too smart to try anything stupid. Unfortunately, she also has a tendency to go off and pursue her own ideas. I'm certain she'll come wandering back to me soon, but I still wish she'd at least tell me where she's going first.
"You're not still palling around with that homeless kid are you?" he asks with a faint smile. "Word travels, Laura. I heard you booked her out for a day. Trying to get yourself a new partner, yeah? I hope you've got some flea-spray -"
"She doesn't have fleas," I reply firmly, still scanning the crowd in the hope of spotting her. "She's actually a good springboard for ideas. It helps talking to someone who's got a bit of imagination. Anyway, she sees things differently."
"Huh," he mutters. "Maybe we should all have a little homeless person following us around."
I look back over at the body, which is being carefully loaded onto a stretcher. It's clear that this Mark Galloway guy wasn't targeted deliberately; he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he paid for it with his life. The victim could have been any one of the hundreds of people who fill the city streets each night, but it's hard not to think that the killer has been a little more daring this time. Instead of picking off one of the bums who live in the shadows, he's gone for someone who seems a little more normal.
"What are you thinking?" Tim asks after a moment.
I pause for a moment, still trying to work out where Ophelia has gone.
"I'm thinking it's going to be much harder to keep this case quiet," I mutter, as the covered body is carried past me and members of the crowd continue to take photos, "and I'm thinking the killer might have finally made a mistake."
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Ophelia
"Alright, Katie."
No reply. The big bundle of coats and rags barely even moves, but I know she's in there somewhere. I guess she's settled in for the night and doesn't want to waste any heat or energy by talking to me. Usually, I'd respect that choice and leave her alone, but tonight's a little different. Crouching in front of her, I try to spot a
hint of flesh under all the fabric, although eventually I realize that she's cocooned herself in their pretty damn tight.
"It's me," I add. "It's Ophelia. I just need to ask you about something."
From deep within the pile of coats, there's a faint mumbling sound. I can't make out what she's saying, but I imagine it's some variation of Fuck off.
"I'll give you two quid," I say, taking some coins out of my pocket and jangling them. "Come on, Katie. Two quid, and all you have to do is open an air-hole so I can hear your answers to a few questions."
There's a pause, and then finally the pile of coats seems to rearrange itself slightly. I wait patiently, and after a moment a small, thin hand emerges and takes the coins.
"Spend it wisely," I say with a faint smile. "There's been another murder, down by the bridge. I don't know when, but it must have been in the last couple of hours. Have you been sat here all that time?"
I wait for an answer.
"Katie -"
"Yes!" she says suddenly, sounding extremely annoyed.
"Fine," I mutter. "So did you see or hear anything?"
"Why do you wanna know?"
"You know what I'm like," I continue, keen not to admit that I'm hanging around with a police officer. "I stick my nose in everywhere." I pause for a moment. "So did you see anything, Katie?"
"No."
Glancing along the path and across the small patch of grass, I pause before turning back to her.
"There was a late show at the cinema," I continue eventually. "It was a double-bill of old French films, which means the crowd would've been mainly a bunch of posh people. When the film ended, they'd have been milling about a bit, maybe talking about getting a drink or just heading straight over the bridge, or maybe heading to the station. Either way, there'd be a lot of 'em since the screening was sold out, so I figure the killer wouldn't go that way when he was done, so he'd have to have come this way. He'd pretty much have to come right past you, and I know this spot doesn't usually get much traffic, so I just need to know if anyone walked past in the past two hours."
