by Amy Cross
"What I did?" I shout, turning to her before realizing that I need to keep my voice down. "Excuse me?" I continue, walking over to her. "You saw what I did? What about what you did? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"I knew the security camera'd clear you," she replies with a faint smile. "Good job you put that chocolate back, though. That I wasn't sure about, but in the end I had faith in you."
I open my mouth to argue with her, but no words come out. I don't know how she knew, but for a moment I feel as if I want to take her straight back to the police station and toss her back in a cell.
"You're pretty good at lifting," she continues. "You must have some experience. Most people are really obvious, but you were quick and subtle. Ever been caught?"
I shake my head, too flustered to say anything.
"You should probably stop, though," she adds, stepping around me and walking over to the car. "It's a downward spiral once you start doing stuff like that. You'd be surprised how fast even the most ordinary life can fall apart once the cracks really start to show. Anyway, you can afford stuff, right?" She stops by the car and turns to me. "I get it when people steal 'cause they're hungry, but why do you do it?"
"We should get going," I reply, hoping to just ignore the question as I open the car door and climb inside. "We need to get down to the river before it starts getting dark. I'm afraid there isn't time to turn this into a social event, so you'll have to eat on the way."
As she gets into the passenger seat, I'm careful to avoid direct eye contact. My heart is still racing and I'm not even sure I should drive in this state, but I figure I can't let Ophelia see my weakness. I force a faint smile as I start the engine, but I'm painfully aware that she's staring at me from the passenger seat. I should never have given her something to hold over me like this, but I just need to keep my cool and focus on the job at hand. Ophelia and I aren't friends. She's just a witness who needs to be taken to a crime scene, nothing more and nothing less. One thing's for certain, though: I'm never, ever going to take anything from a shop again. Those days are over.
Chapter Two
Ophelia
She's sulking. It's kinda cute.
On the way from the police station to the shop, she kept trying to make conversation. Now that we've heading to the river, she's completely silent, as if she's embarrassed. I have no idea why she was going to steal those chocolate bars, but suddenly I find her much more interesting than before. Maybe I'm prejudiced, but I had her pegged as this completely normal person. There's nothing about her that seems out of place at all, and I never would have guessed that she had any kind of dark side. Now, however, it's totally clear that there's something bubbling away under that veneer of nothingness.
As I eat my sandwich, I turn to glance out the window, figuring that I've stared at Laura enough for now. The city streets flash past, and it's strange to see them from this angle. I almost feel as if I'm in a different city, and after a moment I realize that I've barely even noticed the homeless people who've tucked themselves into various doorways, almost as if they're trying to hide. When I'm out there, I always wonder how 'normal' people can just walk past us, but now it's easy to see just how completely we fade into the background.
"Not long now," Laura says awkwardly, clearly trying to make me think that she's not embarrassed.
I turn back to look at her. Maybe I'm crazy, but I feel as if there's a hint of something behind her eyes, a kind of pain or sadness, and I want to learn more about her. Unfortunately, for that to happen, I'm going to have to give her something in return, which means cooperating with her and maybe answering a few questions. I was planning to run at the first opportunity, but now I figure I might as well stick with her for a few hours. I love puzzles, and she's a puzzle.
Chapter Three
Laura
"This is it," she says as we reach the space beneath the bridge. "This is where I live. My home."
It's been a few minutes since we left the car, and although Ophelia's finally started to talk, she still hasn't opened up very much. I've already learned to keep quiet and let her lead the way, since specific questions seem to make her clam up. I'm not entirely certain that she's telling me the whole truth, since it's seems impossible that someone could actually use the word 'home' to describe a bare patch of concrete, but I figure that at least she's showing me something. I just need to be careful about the questions I ask.
"That's Gabby," she continues, pointing at an old woman sitting slumped by the wall, "and over there, that's Lofty. Max is usually here in the evenings, but it's a bit early for him, and sometimes there's this black guy who doesn't really say much. I don't know his name."
"But you know the others?" I reply, keenly aware that the various homeless people nearby seem to be eying me with suspicion.
"More or less," she says. "I know them as well as they know me, which isn't..."
Her voice trails off, and I decide not to push her too much as she leads me across the empty space.
"Hey, Gabby," she says as we pass the old woman.
There's a faint grumble from the old woman, which I guess counts as a greeting.
"Sometimes," Ophelia continues, "about twice a year, someone from the council comes and tries to get us all to move on. I don't really know why they bother, because we just come back the next day. There's this underpass in Chelsea where they actually sprayed bleach everywhere to try to get people to leave, but that just put off the regular people who were trying to use it. Anyway, at least when we're here, they know roughly that we won't be bothering people anywhere else." She stops as we reach a corner over by the far wall. "This is my spot," she adds. "Most people know not to set up here."
"I need to ask you something," I reply, figuring that I have to get to the point. "There have been some murders -"
"I know."
"You know?"
She turns to me.
"Of course I know," she continues. "I keep track of things. People, places... I noticed when a few people went missing. First there was a guy called Lucifer a few weeks ago. That wasn't his real name, but I don't know anything else about him. Then Liz vanished a bit later, and now Gary's gone missing."
"Hang on," I reply, pulling out my notebook and writing the names down. "Liz Read was her full name, right?"
She shrugs.
"And Gary," I continue. "Do you know his surname?"
She shakes her head.
"Do you know what any of them were doing before they went missing?" I continue. "Had any of them started spending time with anyone suspicious? Were they involved with drugs? Anything that ties them together?"
"Lucifer wasn't into drugs," she replies. "He was a longer. Liz took drugs when she could. Gary never touched them." She pauses. "The only thing that connects them all is that they were based on the south side of the river, kind of between here and Battersea." She glances over her shoulder for a moment, almost as if she's worried about being overheard. "As far as I know, none of them really knew each other, so I don't think there's much chance that they were mixed up in the same thing. I think they were chosen randomly."
"You do, huh?" I reply, unable to hide a faint smile. It's clear that Ophelia has been keeping tabs on things, and I'm impressed by the fact that in some respects, she seems to be slightly ahead of me. "So you've been noticing things?" I continue. "People going missing?"
She nods.
"Have other people been noticing?" I ask. "Do you think it's worth talking to some of these other people?"
"No," she mutters. "I don't think most people pay attention."
"But you do."
She smiles faintly.
"Why didn't you go to the police?"
She stares at me for a moment.
"Believe it or not," I continue, "we actually care."
"You care enough to pretend to care," she replies. "Not anything more than that." She pauses. "I've seen him."
"Seen who?"
"The man who's doing it."
I wa
it for her to continue.
"It was a couple of nights ago," she says. "I've been keeping track of things, of where and when people disappeared, and I thought I could maybe predict where it'd happen again. So I went along the river a bit, up toward the art gallery. At first I didn't find him, but then..." She pauses. "What he does, is he drops money as he walks past you. He thinks we're all so desperate, we'll grab it and follow him, but then when he gets us to where there's no-one else about, that's when he gets you."
"Gets you?"
"That hook," she continues. "He's got a friend and they work together. This other guy grabbed me from behind, and the first guy was gonna cut me with the hook, but I managed to get away. I didn't mean to grab the hook off him, but it just kinda happened while I was pushing him away. I don't know if they chased me, but I ran like hell. I'm good at running. When I run from someone, they can never catch up."
"What did this guy look like?" I ask, turning to another page in my notebook.
"The guy with the hook was tall," she replies. "I couldn't see him, 'cause it was dark, but he had a dark, kinda painful-sounding voice. I didn't see the other guy at all."
"You need to show me the exact spot where this happened," I reply.
"It's getting late. It'll be dark soon."
"I still need to see."
She nods wearily.
"Back up a moment," I continue. "You said you predicted where he'd be..."
"Yeah."
"How?"
"It was just a guess, really," she replies. "I've been working it out in my notebook. I didn't get it quite right. I was off by about two hundred meters, which is quite a lot. I had a good idea, though, and I didn't do too bad. I'll be better next time." She pauses. "He does it on Thursdays, but not every Thursday, and sometimes he does it on Fridays instead, but there's definitely, like, some kind of pattern."
"So when's he due again?"
"Thursday," she says calmly. "Aren't you listening?" She pauses again. "So did you find any bodies in the past twenty-four hours?"
"We found a male in the gardens at Victoria Embankment," I tell her. "His injuries are consistent with this killer."
"That'll be Gary, then," she replies. "Short dark hair and a tattoo of an anchor on his arm?"
"I..." Pausing, I realizing she already knows the answer. "Yes. That's him."
"So what does he do to them?" she asks, showing barely a flicker of emotion in her eyes. "I know he uses the hook, but I've not been able to find out what he actually does."
"He inserts it under their jaw, through the top of their neck, and then out through their mouth," I reply, "and then once he's incapacitated them, he uses it to rip their bellies open and pull out their guts."
"Like a fish," she replies quickly.
I nod.
"It'd be easier to do that if he had two hooks," she points out. "That's be better than putting one in the mouth and then having to take it out before doing the belly."
"It would," I reply, making a note, "but -"
"What does he do with the guts after he pulls them out?" she asks.
"He leaves them. We usually find them nearby."
"Does he take anything at all?"
"No."
She pauses. "He's not just doing it for kicks," she says after a moment. "He's got a reason."
"I know, but I what?"
"If he doesn't take anything," she continues, "maybe he leaves something?"
"I don't think so."
She stares at me for a moment. "Then there's something you're missing. He's definitely doing this for a reason."
"Maybe he -"
"I'll be back in a minute," she says, suddenly turning and walking away.
"Where are we going?" I ask as I follow her.
"We're not going anywhere," she replies, turning and blocking my way. "I need to go and talk to someone. I'll be back in a minute or two, but you need to stay right here, where I can find you. Okay?"
"Sure," I say, figuring that there's no point fighting her. "Just don't be too long. Technically I'm not supposed to let you out of my sight."
"Good luck with that," she says, turning once again and making her way across the open space.
I watch as she reaches one of the other homeless people and starts talking to him. To be fair to her, she's opened up more than I expected, although none of her information really seems to link together. She clearly has a kind of scatter-shot view of the world, but I can't deny that she's alert, or that she notices things. I wish it wasn't the case, but she remains my only lead at the moment, and for that reason alone I have to keep hold of her. Besides, I still want to find out a little more about how she ended up on the streets, and even though I know I'm probably on a hiding to nothing, I'm starting to think that maybe I can help her get out of this mess.
Chapter Four
Ophelia
"Alright," I say as I stop next to Lofty. "What are you doing down here?"
"Not a lot," he replies, leaning past me to get a better look at Laura. "Who's that? Don't tell me you've got a friend, Ophelia."
Turning, I watch for a moment as Laura paces about, clearly completely out of her depth. It's kind of funny to see someone like her in a place like this; she looks so normal and vanilla, I can't help thinking that at any moment she might have a meltdown and run away. Then again, she's kind of already had one meltdown already this evening.
"She's a cop," I say, turning back to Lofty. "I'm helping her with something. If you've got a problem with that, I don't care, it's my business."
He narrows his eyes as he continues to watch her.
"You seen Josephine around?" I ask.
"Not today," he replies. "What are you doing helping a cop? You hate cops."
"I hate them as a general group," I tell him. "Individually, a few of them are okay."
"No," he continues, "that's bullshit. They're all complete assholes. If one seems to be nice, it's only because she wants something from you." He pauses, before a grin spreads across his face. "Can I go and scare her?"
"Have you noticed anything weird lately?" I ask. "The other night, when I bumped into you near the art place, did you see anything that seemed strange?"
"Yeah," he replies, "I saw you, Ophelia. You're pretty strange."
"There was a guy," I continue. "I bumped into him a few minutes after I met you, and he..." I pause for a moment as I try to decide how much to tell him. "Two guys, actually. They were up to something, but I didn't get a proper look at their faces. Did you see them?"
"I don't look at people's faces much," he replies, conspicuously keeping his eyes fixed on Laura. "She looks really fucking boring. Like, totally middle-class and dull. She's even wearing fucking pastel colors, like she's trying to blend in with the concrete. Kinda got a nice face, but it's people like her that really piss me off. She's so stiff and arch, like she feels dirty just being down here."
"You don't know her," I tell him.
"Don't need to," he sniffs. "I can see it all from here. I'm a student of human nature."
"So you haven't seen anything suspicious?" I continue, trying to get him to focus. After a moment, I reach out and grab his jaw, before turning his face toward me. "Can you try to pay attention for a fucking moment?" I ask. "You were right there the other night, almost on top of what happened. Did you seriously not see or hear anything?"
"Not a peep," he says with a smile.
"Great," I mutter, letting go of him. "That's the problem with people. Everyone's so completely unobservant."
"You think we should all be like you?" he asks. "Writing everything down in a little notebook so we can study it all later? Keeping tabs on everything?"
"It might help," I point out.
"I don't stick my beak in other people's business," he continues. "That's something my Dad used to tell me, even before he got sent down. He always said that a man's doings are for him to worry about and no-one else. Cops, wives, friends... No-one's got a right to start poking about in what anyone els
e is doing, not unless it directly affects them." He pauses. "Of course, he got locked up for a spot of wheeling and dealing in the import-export business, so I guess he had good reason to be pissed off about people poking their noses in, but you get the idea. If you start asking questions, you're gonna piss people off. Including me."
"Greg's dead," I reply.
"Do you mean dead in his soul, like he's always been, or actually dead this time?"
"Actually dead."
"Alright," he says, not seeming particularly upset. "Do you know who's getting his stuff?"
I shake my head.
"Cool. Do you know where he stashed it?"
"No idea," I reply. "I think he was murdered by the same people who murdered Liz Read a while back. Someone's killing people all along the south bank."
"You've been hanging out with cops for too long," he says with a smile. "You're starting to sound like one of 'em." He pauses. "Why would anyone even bother killing people round here? It's not worth the fucking effort, and it's not like we've got anything worth nicking, is it?"
"There are other reasons why people kill," I point out. Figuring that he's not likely to be much use, I glance back over at Laura and see to my surprise that she's talking to Gabby, who appears to have peeled herself off the pavement for the first time in weeks and hauled her lumbering frame over to the wall. I can't help but smile as I see the startled look on Laura's face.
"You're talking a lot more than normal," Lofty says suddenly.
I turn to him.
"Something's changed about you," he continues. "Is it that cop? Has she got under your skin?"
"Nothing's changed," I tell him. "I'm just trying to find stuff out."
"Nah," he replies, "something's definitely different. You've got this look in your eyes, like you actually give a shit. You wanna be careful. The cop doesn't actually care about you, Ophelia, so don't start thinking this is your ticket off the streets. She's just using you, like everyone else uses all of us, and she'll drop you when she's done. She doesn't actually give a flying fuck about you."
