Making no headway into Leanna’s state of mind with a direct approach, Helen had instead busied herself with some background reading. Her findings disturbed her.
She’d checked out Leanna’s story about her father and brother being killed in a car crash. The story was true as far as it went. What Leanna had omitted to mention was that the inquest into their deaths had returned an open verdict, with the coroner being unable to rule out the possibility that their car had been deliberately tampered with. Nobody had been accused of any misdemeanour, but with Leanna being the sole beneficiary, the deaths seemed remarkably convenient.
By pulling some strings she had also managed to uncover the original unpublished material Professor Norman Wiseman had submitted to the International Journal of Virology, Epidemiology and Communicable Diseases. The paper was entitled Horizontal Gene Transfer in Multicellular Organisms: A Small Case Study. It was hardly a blockbuster title, and the Professor had seemingly gone out of his way to play down his claims. He had couched everything in the ultra-cautious language of an academic who knew that he was playing with fire.
But if his experiments were to be believed, he had uncovered something previously thought to be impossible – a means of transferring genetic material from one living creature to another. The mechanism was already known to occur in bacteria and other single-celled organisms, but Wiseman claimed to have observed it in higher animals. If verified, that would potentially be enough to win a Nobel Prize in Medicine, but Wiseman had gone further. The animals he had studied were none other than human beings. Even more alarming, the genes that he claimed to be transferable via this new pathway could supposedly endow the recipient with super-human strength, agility, sensory perception, and other qualities that were frankly impossible to believe. No wonder he had been ridiculed by his colleagues. No wonder the word werewolf had appeared in newspaper articles.
And yet the professor had been highly respected in his field before his fall from grace. He had described his experiments in minute detail in the paper, and at face value his work looked like a careful piece of scientific study. Helen frowned at some of the ethical issues with the way he had conducted his experiments, but Wiseman should never have been treated the way he had. At the very least, an attempt to replicate his results should have been made by the scientific community. But of course the paper had never been published in the scientific journal. Only a misleading and sensationalized account of Wiseman’s claims had appeared in the popular newspapers.
The paper had three authors listed in addition to Professor Wiseman – Leanna Lloyd, and two other post-grads, Adam Knight and Samuel Smalling. Helen had made enquiries about Adam and Samuel. Both students had returned to London, and had also switched their research into the genetics of infectious diseases, just like Leanna.
The conclusion was inescapable. Whatever the truth or otherwise of Professor Wiseman’s theory, all three students clearly believed in it, despite what Leanna had said about wanting a fresh start. And together they were secretly studying it for some unknown purpose.
Whatever that purpose was, they were working at it with zeal. Leanna could be found in the lab all hours of the day and night, and what she claimed to be doing bore little resemblance to what she was actually doing. She was embarked on some secret research project of her own, and had gone to great lengths to conceal it from Helen. A less attentive supervisor might not have noticed. But not much slipped past Helen Eastgate.
Helen had always thought of herself as a deeply rational person, naturally sceptical and hard to convince. Show me the evidence, she was fond of saying. Stubborn, her colleagues called her. But science was built on empirical evidence, and she could hardly push aside the weight of evidence that was steadily accumulating before her. She picked up her copy of the morning’s newspaper from her desk. The front-page headline read, Three Killed in New Beast Attack. The horrific incident had taken place at a railway station the previous evening. The uncanny similarities between the Beast attacks and the description of the disease symptoms so meticulously documented by Professor Wiseman were impossible to ignore.
Much as she wanted to dismiss the notion as ridiculous, she could no longer turn aside from the simple explanation that matched all the available data: there was a werewolf in London, and its name was Leanna Lloyd.
Chapter Forty-One
Camberwell Cemetery & Crematorium, South London, waning moon
A funeral was a tragedy at any time of year, but just before Christmas it seemed doubly so. PC Liz Bailey stood at the back of the crematorium doing her best not to cry. If necessary she would try to cover it up as her cold, or flu, or whatever the damned thing was. She’d been feeling rundown ever since that night on the Common, the night she’d first heard the news of Dave Morgan’s death. Her eyes had been inflamed and stinging even before the service started, but she wouldn’t have missed this funeral even if she’d had to be carried in on her own death bed.
‘You really should go and see a doctor,’ PC Dean Arnold told her as she blew hard into her handkerchief. ‘That cold’s getting worse by the day.’
‘Doctors can’t cure colds,’ whispered Liz. ‘Antibiotics don’t work against viruses.’
‘Well, just go home and lie down for a few days,’ insisted Dean. ‘Stay in bed with a hot water bottle. I don’t want to catch it, whatever you’ve got.’
‘Thanks for your sympathy,’ said Liz. ‘Just for a moment there, I thought you cared.’ She rubbed her upper arm where the madman on the Common had scratched her with his fingernails. The wound wasn’t deep, but it had flared up red and angry. She had plastered it with antiseptic cream and taken some aspirins, and it wasn’t bothering her so much now. The cold, or flu, was the real nuisance. That had started at the same time, worst luck. Her arms ached, and she’d developed a sore throat and a runny nose. A kind of milky film had appeared over her eyes. She’d got herself an extra-large box of honey-and-lemon lozenges to suck, and they were helping a bit.
‘I owe you an apology, actually,’ said Dean sheepishly. ‘You were right about that headmaster. I should have had more faith in you.’
‘Wow,’ said Liz. ‘I’ve never heard you apologize to anyone before.’
‘Yeah, well. You were right. I was wrong. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay. How could anyone have guessed it? A cannibalistic headmaster. It’s not surprising you told me it was a ridiculous idea.’
‘I could have been more open-minded. A bit more sensitive.’
‘Sensitive? But then you wouldn’t be the Dean Arnold we all know and love.’
‘S’pose.’
The night after the headmaster had been arrested, Liz had lain awake tormenting herself. If she’d followed up on her hunch, the headmaster might had been arrested sooner. Then he wouldn’t have been able to kill that schoolgirl. And yet, what could Liz have done differently? She’d had no real evidence. On the contrary, she’d seen the Romanian man eating his victim on the Common with her own eyes. How could she possibly have known that more than one serial killer was at work?
She wiped her eyes with the last remaining clean corner of her handkerchief. The milkiness that covered them came away, leaving a pale, creamy stain on the cloth.
Police officers were supposed to be tough, but there was no shortage of tears here today, even on the cheeks of the biggest and strongest men. She’d had no idea that Dave Morgan had been so popular. Hundreds of mourners had come to the funeral, most of them from the force, and the Police Commissioner himself had put in an appearance, in full uniform. He stood up now and walked to the front of the room to stand on a podium next to the coffin.
‘Police Constable David Morgan was a brave man,’ began the Commissioner, speaking in the resonant baritone voice that had surely been a key factor in his appointment. ‘He believed in a fair and just world, a world where ordinary people may live out their lives in safety.’
The Commissioner paused to make sure that he had the full attention of his audience. Ther
e was no question that he did. ‘Our civilization is built on principles of fairness, equality and justice. It protects the weak and the vulnerable against the strong, and ensures that the law applies equally to all, whatever their background, be they young or old, rich or poor, and whatever their race, religion, or gender.
‘We cannot and must not take these principles for granted. What we in this country now regard as fundamental human rights were in former times merely dreams and aspirations. Now our liberty and our security are enshrined in law.
‘Such a world cannot come about by accident. Each one of us must work each day toward creating the kind of society we wish to live in. Those of us who are strong must do more, and risk more, and sometimes sacrifice more than others to achieve this goal. Society demands that some among us put themselves in danger in order to keep others safe. Dave Morgan was one of those willing to do that, and everyone here today will acknowledge their debt to Dave. What some might call heroism, Dave thought of as duty. He died in the line of that duty, giving his life willingly in the service of those he sought to protect. As such, he serves as an example to us all.’
The Commissioner paused, moving his gaze around all those present, many of them known to him personally, Liz guessed. Finally, he returned his attention to the family on the front row.
‘My sincere condolences go to Dave Morgan’s widow, Claire, and their two daughters.’ He nodded toward the grieving women dressed in black, Claire hugging her two sobbing teenage girls close, torn between their need to express their grief and a desire to retain their dignity.
‘I would also like to thank Dave’s partner, Police Constable Liz Bailey. Liz was on duty with Dave Morgan the night he was attacked, and did her best to protect him and keep him from harm. I would like to thank Liz, and commend her for her bravery and selflessness.’
Liz felt her face and neck turning beetroot. This should have been all about Dave, not her. And if Liz had been truly brave and fearless, Dave would never have been bitten. She stared down at her feet, feeling eyes turning toward her.
Dean stood implacably by her side, and she suddenly felt very glad of his solid bulk and unflinching bullet head next to her. The big man stood silently, staring straight ahead. Yet another everyday hero, thought Liz grimly. This room was full of them and she hoped she would never have to attend any more funerals like this.
The Police Commissioner returned to his seat, and the congregation began a hymn. Liz fought back her tears and tried to sing, but it was no good. She had never been a singer or a crier, but now the tears flowed freely and she sobbed loudly as those around sang Abide With Me.
‘He didn’t mention the Beast,’ said Dean after the service had ended. ‘I thought he would say something about it at the funeral.’
The Beast was front page news following the slaughter at the railway station the previous evening, filling acres of newspaper columns and enjoying wall-to-wall TV news coverage. The Police Commissioner had come under intense pressure to ‘do something’ about the Beast, but so far he had not commented officially. Liz wondered if he was waiting until after the funeral before making an announcement.
‘This funeral was Dave’s time,’ Liz said to Dean. ‘It was about him and his family, not some wild animal.’ The Police Commissioner had been right to focus on Dave. It had been a time to grieve with dignity, a quiet moment amid the mayhem.
The mayhem resumed as soon as they left the church. Photographers lined the street outside hoping to catch the mourners as they filed away. Questions were shouted, and microphones thrust forward. Liz turned away and drew up the collar of her coat to hide her face as cameras flashed. Dave Morgan’s death was just a news story to them. Dave would get his five minutes of fame, and then the journalists would move on to something else. But there would always be a quiet space in Liz’s heart for her fallen friend and colleague.
When Liz returned home that evening, she wasn’t surprised to see the face of the Police Commissioner again. This time he was on TV accompanying the Mayor of London. The two men were making a joint statement intended to reassure the public in response to the recent Beast killings.
The Mayor was just finishing his speech. ‘And so I would like to reassure the public that we are determined to do everything within our power to make the streets and public spaces of London safe again, and I will now pass you over to the Commissioner of Police to outline the operational details.’
The Commissioner stepped up to the podium, looking much as he had done that afternoon at the funeral. ‘Thank you, Mayor,’ he said. ‘Beginning today, I am pleased to announce the deployment of more armed police on the streets of London. Initially, five hundred specially-trained officers will begin patrolling key sites such as railway stations, public squares, parkland and other designated locations. A reserve force of an additional five hundred officers is available should it prove necessary.
‘This new elite force will be equipped with SIG 516 semi-automatic carbines, sniper rifles, and Glock nine-millimetre sidearms. They will be protected by Kevlar suits, reinforced helmets, and riot shields. The force will be mobile, with access to specially-adapted BMW F800 all-terrain motorcycles capable of reaching top speeds of one-hundred-and-twenty miles per hour. In addition, they will have access to rigid inflatable hull vessels and helicopters, enabling them to respond rapidly to incidents anywhere within the city.
‘The new force will be highly visible, with a key goal of providing reassurance to the public, and I would urge all citizens to support this initiative by calling the telephone number below with any information that may help us to do our job. Thank you.’
A phone number appeared in the lower part of the screen, and the scene switched to a video showing the new police officers, dressed in distinctive military-style uniforms, carbines in hand, black masks covering their faces. Liz shuddered slightly, whether from the sight of the armed police or from the fever that had still not abated, she couldn’t be sure.
After the Commissioner had finished speaking, reporters began calling questions. As well as questions about the Beast, Liz was sure she heard the word Ripper being shouted, but the Mayor and Commissioner left without answering any questions.
Liz shut the TV off. Her limbs felt as heavy as lead, and the scratch on her arm had flared up again, despite the ointment she’d been applying. Aspirin wasn’t really working, she had to admit. She felt like she wanted to lie down and sleep forever, but her alarm was set for six the next morning. As the Commissioner had said at the funeral, those who were strong must do more. Liz wondered how strong she really was, and how much more she still had to do.
Chapter Forty-Two
Greenfield Road, Brixton, South London, waning moon
What James had done at the train station was even worse than killing Father Mulcahy. He and Samuel had attacked dozens of commuters, maimed or killed them mercilessly. He had watched the aftermath of their butchery on the news afterwards: terrified people talking about how a beast had savaged their loved ones; victims lying in hospital beds, some with life-changing injuries, some already in the grip of anaphylactic shock from the infection he had given them. Several had died; more would die of their injuries. Some would change and become like him. A monster.
James knew he should feel guilt for what he’d done. Those people had been innocent. Not one of them had deserved to die. He and Samuel hadn’t even eaten all their meat. They had killed for the sake of killing itself.
He should feel guilt.
And yet …
All that savagery had seemed as natural as breathing. He couldn’t regret it.
Who could blame a predator for killing its prey?
Hurt and suffering afflicted the very core of the world. An earthquake had struck South America just the day before, leaving a hundred people dead in remote villages in the Andes. One reporter had said that many of the victims in one village had sought shelter in a church, only for the roof of the building to fall in on their heads. Where was the sense of it?
‘My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart,’ he began. He stopped. The words no longer rang true.
Everything he had done last night was wrong. He knew that. He had eaten human flesh and drunk human blood. But it had felt so right. Hadn’t Jesus himself commanded his followers to consume the bread of his body and the wine of his blood during the Eucharist?
James had been seeking meaning all of his life, and now, together with Samuel, he seemed to have found some at last. He wasn’t going to allow guilt to rob him of that.
He dropped to his knees and prayed again for guidance, but God remained silent.
Whatever.
James had found a new family. He no longer needed the family of the Christian Church.
Father Mulcahy had once told him that Hell was nothing more nor less than separation from God. If that were true, then James was in Hell right now. He’d had no idea it could feel so good.
Chapter Forty-Three
Queen’s Road, Harrow on the Hill, North London
‘Let me tell you about Jack the Ripper,’ said the man.
Melanie Margolis lay sprawled on the bed, her hands and feet bound tightly to the metal bed posts with ropes. She wasn’t averse to being tied up now and then, in fact she expected it in her line of work, sometimes even enjoyed it, but this was taking things too far. Much too far. Sarah had warned her that something like this might happen, but of course she never heeded warnings.
She tried to recall the details of what had happened. Details could be vital, especially in a life-or-death situation. But thinking was so hard. Her head throbbed like a train had run across it.
It had been a fancy restaurant, she remembered that. They usually were, but this one had been particularly expensive. The guy obviously liked to impress a girl by flashing his cash. And Melanie had always been a sucker for a good-looking man with money.
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