Crossbones Yard (3 page)

Authors: Kate Rhodes

BOOK: Crossbones Yard

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That’s when something caught my eye. Two ironwork gates I’d never noticed before, with dozens of ribbons and tags of paper hanging from the railings. Then I glanced down and my endorphin glow evaporated instantly. A second look confirmed that my eyes were telling the truth. A hand was lying on the pavement beside my foot. It was even smaller than mine, holding out its palm, as if it was waiting to be filled with coins.

The hand was connected to a fragile wrist, and the fingertips looked raw, as if they had been burned. I forced myself to press two fingers against the freezing skin, but there was no pulse. When I peered under the ironwork gate the body was less than a foot away, swaddled in black cloth, too dark to tell whether it was a boy or a girl. My thoughts raced away from me. The killer could be anywhere, watching me panic. The street was deserted: a row of vacant office buildings, an abandoned warehouse, no one in sight. The nearest building with lit windows was a hundred metres away, or I could run to the Marshalsea pub in a couple of minutes. Scanning the road warily, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialled 999. A woman with a calm voice promised to send an ambulance immediately.

‘You can stay on the line if you like, until it arrives.’ She sounded like a concerned grandmother, plump and middle-aged, a cup of tea at her elbow.

But my thoughts were taking too long to translate into statements, so I thanked her and zipped my phone back into my pocket. Chill from the pavement was travelling up through my legs into my vertebrae. For some reason I didn’t want to leave the body alone, even though it was too late to matter who kept it company.

It felt like hours until the police arrived. By then I had been through every reason why a body would be lying on an
abandoned lot in Southwark. Maybe someone had got on the wrong side of a gang, or a teenage runaway had fallen asleep and given in to hypothermia? My hands had stopped tingling, fingers completely numb. When the ambulance and two police vans finally pulled up on the opposite side of the road, everything swung into motion, like an episode from
Casualty
. A man in a long overcoat seemed to be in charge. Police officers buzzed around him, following his instructions, then moving away again, lifting boxes of equipment from the van. When he came towards me it was too dark to make out the details of his face, apart from the contrasts: dark eyes and eyebrows against pale skin. He seemed to have forgotten how to smile.

‘Alice Quentin?’

‘That’s me.’ My teeth chattered as he peered down at me.

Men spilled out of a van behind him. Lights were being set up; someone else was working on the gates, using bolt cutters on the chain.

‘How long have you been here?’ he asked.

‘Twenty minutes or so.’

A bright light flicked on. The man was standing too close, as if the rules about personal space had ceased to apply. He was as thickset as a boxer, black hair spilling across his face.

‘What were you doing by yourself, on a street like this?’ He scowled at me like I might be the perpetrator.

‘Running. I do it all the time.’

‘Then you’re mad.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Certifiable.’

‘Arrogant shit,’ I muttered under my breath as he strutted away.

The gates were open now, arc lights cutting through the dark. A woman in white overalls was tying black and yellow tape to the telegraph pole I was leaning against. She unwound the reel, stranding me inside the circle, like I was another piece
of evidence to be bagged up and taken to the lab. I edged closer to the gates. People were rushing in and out, collecting things, taking things away. Someone paused to scribble down my witness statement. Over the policeman’s shoulder I caught a glimpse of the naked body. It belonged to a young woman, her small bare feet sticking out under a tarpaulin. Another white-suited drone leaned over her and released a searing flashlight, inches from her face. The detective in the expensive coat marched by again.

‘Can I go home now?’ I asked.

‘Exactly how do you plan to get there?’ he sneered.

‘On foot.’

‘You’re joking,’ he shook his head. ‘Come with me.’

I was too tired to argue when he opened the passenger door of his car, or to protest when he fastened my seat belt, his forearm skimming my thighs. He sat back and studied me.

‘Why in God’s name go running at night, in an area notorious for knife attacks and gun crime?’

I returned his stare. ‘I run pretty fast. If anyone bothered me I’d leave them standing.’ When he started the car his jaw was set, face immobile. ‘I bet you’re great at poker, aren’t you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your expression never changes. You look angry all the time.’

He frowned. ‘Most days I’m the calmest man in the world, but people like you taking unnecessary risks, that annoys me.’

‘I’d gathered that. I bet you’d like to change the law, wouldn’t you? Keep women indoors, doing needlepoint.’

His jaw clenched even more tightly, fists gripping the steering wheel. He was a perfect candidate for the anger management group I ran on Friday afternoons. At least by the time he parked on Providence Square he was beginning to simmer instead of boil.

‘Anyone home to look after you?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine, honestly.’

He laughed. ‘You’re kidding, take a look at your hands.’

They were twitching in my lap, refusing to obey instructions.

‘Come on, I’ll help you in.’

He leaned over me to release the door, so close that his hair brushed against my mouth. His hand gripped the top of my arm as he helped me out of the car.

‘I can manage, thanks.’

‘You can hardly stand up.’ His fingers were still locked round my arm.

‘Really, I’m okay,’ I said firmly. ‘Believe it or not, I can climb stairs all by myself.’

‘Have it your own way.’

As his car sped away I realised that he hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself. My brother’s van was back in my parking space on the opposite side of the street, but his light was switched off. Either he was sleeping, or keeping warm in a shelter somewhere. The security door to my block was unlocked again. I made a mental note to put up a sign the next day, reminding everyone to keep it shut.

Will must have been in the flat recently. He had helped himself to the remains of the bread and a block of cheese, and emptied his clothes from the dryer. I poured an inch of brandy into a tumbler, and held it to my mouth, the glass clattering against my teeth. My thoughts ran in circles when I finally got into bed, looking for a safe place to rest. Eventually they settled on the stocky dark-haired man with the permanent scowl, and I fell asleep.

The phone rang at quarter to eight. Somehow I’d managed to sleep through the alarm. The voice was familiar and insistent, a toned-down version of refined public school.

‘Alice, it’s me.’

I rubbed my eyes and tried to think straight.

‘Sean,’ I mumbled.

‘I can’t stop thinking about you. You know you’d be mad to end this, don’t you?’

‘Look, I can’t talk now, sorry. You wouldn’t believe what’s been happening, it’s too crazy to explain.’

‘Tonight then, after work,’ he insisted. ‘Jesus, Alice. Are all shrinks this unpredictable?’

‘Statistically unlikely, I think.’

There was a choking sound at the end of the line. ‘Just as bloody well.’

I made a detour on my way to work, cycling back along Redcross Way. By daylight there was nothing scary about it. It was just a drab Southwark street with no trees, a cluster of ugly office blocks dominating the view. The area was still cordoned off with black and yellow tape, but there was no one around so I ducked underneath. Ribbons and artificial flowers fluttered from the railings, glittering in the winter sun, and a brass plaque caught my eye:

CROSSBONES YARD

THIS IS THE SITE OF CROSSBONES CEMETERY. OVER A THOUSAND PROSTITUTES WERE BURIED HERE, BETWEEN THE MIDDLE AGES AND THE 1850S. IN 1994 THE GRAVEYARD WAS PARTIALLY CLEARED TO MAKE WAY FOR A POWER STATION TO SERVE THE LONDON UNDERGROUND, BUT LOCAL RESIDENTS FOUGHT THE DECISION AND CONTINUE TO PETITION SOUTHWARK COUNCIL TO ESTABLISH A MEMORIAL GARDEN, TO COMMEMORATE THE LIVES OF THE WOMEN WHO LIE HERE.

I stood on my toes and peered over the gate, but there was nothing to see; just an expanse of black tarmac with nettles
and buddleia forcing their way through the cracks. The site was as featureless as an ice rink, except for a few crisp packets and Tesco bags the wind had carried in, and some shattered bottles bored teenagers had lobbed over the wall. I half closed my eyes and tried to imagine a thousand women standing together, staring back at me. Someone tapped me hard on the shoulder.

‘Can’t you read?’ It was a policewoman, her voice an outraged squawk. ‘This is a crime scene.’

‘I wanted to see the graveyard.’

‘There’s nothing to see.’ Her face was rigid with cold and disapproval. She flapped her hands at me, like I was an unwelcome cat. ‘Go on, get on your way.’

It was a relief to spend the morning buried in other people’s worries, with no time to think about anything except treatments and referrals, therapeutic cures. When the phone rang at one o’clock I was just about to eat the sandwich I had grabbed from the staff canteen. It was DCI Burns, his voice a mixture of cigarettes, Bermondsey and the Scottish Lowlands.

‘Too many coincidences,’ he muttered. ‘You said Morris Cley wasn’t a threat, but, hey presto, this happens the minute he’s out.’

I thought about Cley’s expression when I interviewed him, puzzled as a child dealing with the mysteries of the adult world. ‘There’s no way it was him.’

‘We can’t rule him out,’ Burns sighed into the receiver. ‘The girl he killed lived a stone’s throw from Redcross Way. It’s his patch.’

‘Have you interviewed him?’

‘He’s nowhere to be seen.’ There was a long pause. ‘The thing is, Dr Quentin …’

‘Alice.’

‘I’d appreciate your help.’

‘To do what?’

‘The whole thing’s too close to the Southwark murders. This has got Ray and Marie’s fingerprints all over it.’

‘But the Bensons are in prison, aren’t they?’

‘Marie’s been in Rampton for six years. Ray died last year at Broadmoor.’

‘So it’s a copycat?’

‘Worse than that. He knows stuff the press never got hold of, like the way they carved crosses all over the girls’ skin.’

‘And where do I come in?’

‘The thing is, Cley’s got to be involved. He must be working with someone else. But whoever it is, they know their stuff. They’ve done their research and they’ll want to use it again.’

‘I can’t help, Inspector. I’m not a forensic psychologist. It’s not my job to work out why people are dead, I help them stay alive.’

‘That’s why I need you, Alice. I want you to take a look at the girl’s body, see what you think.’

‘What good would that do?’

He scrabbled around for an explanation. ‘You might spot something. Something we’ve missed.’

By the time the conversation ended he had worn me down. I kept picturing the dead girl’s hand lying on the pavement, reaching out to me, like I was her only hope. Somehow Burns had persuaded me to get involved, and I had a pain in my upper back, right between my shoulder blades.

I left work just after seven and cycled towards London Bridge, chaining my bike to a lamppost beside Southwark Cathedral. I stopped to admire the building. It had been restored a few years earlier, when public cash was still available to beautify historic buildings. Every stone gleamed. If I’d been a believer
I’d have ducked inside, said a quick prayer for the Crossbones girl, and for Will, but nothing ever happened when I closed my eyes. The marketplace was deserted, discarded fruit and vegetables the traders hadn’t bothered to sweep away still littering the ground.

Sean’s flat was above a shop on Winchester Walk. His living room smelled of coffee and spices, drifting from the storeroom downstairs. I glanced around while he fetched me a drink. His flat was the opposite of mine: shelves loaded with CDs and books, his piano crammed in the corner, jazz magazines and newspapers heaped on the coffee table. For some reason when he put a glass of red wine in my hand, I told him everything – from finding the girl’s body to meeting the world’s most arrogant policeman.

‘Stay here,’ Sean said. ‘You shouldn’t be on your own. I’ll sleep on the settee, if you like.’

‘You wouldn’t last five minutes.’

‘Give me some credit,’ he smiled. ‘I’m sure I could manage ten.’

‘I’d better go.’

His hand settled on my waist, and it was suddenly much harder to stick to my plan. Instinct kept telling me to shut up and let myself be persuaded.

His dark blue eyes pinpointed me, and the smile had disappeared from his face. ‘Two things to consider, Alice, before you make up your mind.’

‘And they are?’

‘The first is that I’m great in bed.’

‘You’ve proved that already. That’s not what this is about.’

‘And I’ve fallen for you, hook, line and sinker.’