Deviance. London Psychic Book 3 (3 page)

"That's what people want, I guess," Jamie said. "As long as it doesn't upset their own lives in any way."

Missinghall looked at his watch. "I've gotta go, sorry." He stood up and brushed pastry crumbs from his suit. "Do this again sometime?"

Jamie smiled up at him. "That would be great. Thanks for coming, Al. Stay in touch."

Missinghall turned and walked away but after a few steps he came back, his eyes serious.
 

"There's also been a rise in reported missing persons around here," he said. "Prostitutes, illegal immigrants, homeless addicts. You know we don't have the resources to pursue all the cases in detail, especially with people who move on so quickly. But it's worrying, so stay out of trouble, Jamie."

Jamie put her hand on her heart and gave him a look that made him grin before he walked off into the crowded streets. But she knew she couldn't let it go. The police would do their investigation into the murder, but there was something wrong in Southwark and after last night, she was already involved

Jamie stood and walked to the cathedral door, her eyes drawn to the flint cobbles embedded in the walls on either side. She reached out to stroke one of the rocks, its surface smooth and almost metallic to the touch, the colors layered like the center of the earth. Then she pushed open the door to Southwark Cathedral and walked inside, determined to find something of Nicholas Randolph here.
 

The Gothic cathedral was a mixture of the architecture of ancient faith and a modern sensibility, appealing to tourists and the faithful alike. A series of medieval bosses were attached to the back wall, fastened there as remnants of the fifteenth-century church. One of them portrayed the Devil devouring Judas, its face blackened by fire and time.
 

One of the stone tombs caught Jamie's eye. It had
Thomas Cure 1588
written above it, a memorial for a saddler to the Tudor King Edward VI, Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth. With a prominent ribcage and skeletal bones with an over-large head, it looked nothing like the tombs usually seen in churches. Instead of a representation of the man in life, this was a cadaver effigy, a decomposing body, a direct
memento mori
to remind people that our physical remains will soon be as this. Jamie shivered a little in the cold of the stone church.
 

"May I help you?"
 

Jamie turned to find a bright-eyed older woman, leaflets clutched in her hand and a 'Volunteer' badge pinned neatly to her lilac knitted sweater. Jamie smiled.
 

"Thank you, that would be great. I'm doing some research about the area and I've heard that the medieval church here was involved with the brothels. Is that true?"

The woman frowned, her face showing distaste. "As much as many of us would like to erase the past, it's the truth. The church used to be St Mary Overie and it was owned by the Bishop of Winchester. He licensed the stews, as they were known, in Southwark for four hundred years. But of course, that was a long time ago and we are now actively working to clean up the community, to rid it of that dirty past."
 

"I'm interested in the work the church does with the community," Jamie said. "Is there someone in particular I could talk to about that?"

The woman smiled, clearly relieved to be focusing on a more suitable topic. "Well, we're all involved," she said, pride evident in her voice. "Was there anything in particular you wanted to find out about? Volunteering perhaps …" She looked Jamie up and down, in the way only an older woman could. "We have rehab groups, too."

At her words, Jamie became more aware of her appearance. She'd lost weight recently, eating only for fuel these days. Her cheekbones stood out against pale skin. She rarely wore makeup and she tied her dyed black hair into a tight bun most days. But drug-addict chic was not really the professional look she was aiming for.

"Did you know Nicholas Randolph?" Jamie asked.
 

The woman froze, her breath catching at the name. She put a hand against the wall, her head drooping a little. Tears glistened in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Jamie whispered. "Were you close?"

"He was Nick to us," the woman said. "And he was a good man, despite what some said about his past." A hard edge came into her voice at that. "But the Lord forgives and washes our sins whiter than snow. The darker spark within us may lapse into old habits but even that can be forgiven. Repentance is a daily practice after all, and I'm afraid that Southwark more than most is testament to the dual nature of sinner and saint. Nick was both, as are we all."

"Was his community outreach program supported by all in the church?"
 

The woman hesitated and doubt flickered in her eyes. "Yes, of course, we're an inclusive church. We have an altar for the victims of AIDS … Although, of course we cannot ignore what the Bible says about sexual sin. Nick was more tolerant than many, for sure, and he worked with some …" She paused and shook her head. "Well, let's just say that I'm not sure there's anyone who can replace Nick in that particular part of the community outreach program." The woman shuffled her leaflets and then handed one to Jamie. "Here's some information about the church windows and the main tombs of interest. I'll leave you to continue alone."

The woman turned away to greet a family of American tourists who would be unlikely to ask such difficult questions.

Jamie walked towards the middle of the church and paused in front of a stained glass window portraying characters from Shakespeare's plays. This had been the playwright's borough, back when theatre was part of the pleasure bank of the Thames alongside the prostitutes, bear baiting and gambling dens. The replica of the Globe Theatre stood a few streets away, and the stained glass honored the greatest of the Bard's plays. Prospero commanded the tempest with Caliban at his feet, Hamlet stood contemplating the skull of Horatio and the donkey-headed Bottom cavorted with pixies, while around them, all the world continued to be a stage.
 

At the very back corner of the cathedral, Jamie found the chapel to the victims of AIDS. A young man knelt on an altar cushion, his eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer. There was a noticeboard set up by the side and Jamie walked closer to see what the church was involved in.
 

There were pictures from community events, people smiling at sausage-sizzles under rain-soaked skies, children making origami animals to accompany Noah into the ark. In one picture, Jamie spotted Nicholas Randolph, his dark hair recognizable with the streak of white. He looked younger in life, his face relaxed and happy. He wore a shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing a rainbow on one arm, the promise from God not to destroy the world again and now a symbol for acceptance. Next to him, her face alive with laughter, was Magda Raven.

Blake Daniel tried to concentrate on the document on his screen. He willed his brain to conjure the next sentence and strained against the need to get up. He swallowed and clenched his fists under the desk.
 

Just one drink and the anxiety would subside.

This need for alcohol was a permanent thudding in his blood. His father's recent death and the discovery of a dark family history had sent him back into the tangled embrace of the tequila bottle. But now he was determined to pull away. Jamie managed her grief at the loss of her daughter and she was much harder hit than he was. Coffee would be a better remedy – at least for now.
 

Avoiding the critical eye of his ever-watchful manager, Margaret, Blake walked upstairs, out of the research area of the British Museum into the Great Court. It was a stunning marble courtyard with glass panels overhead that allowed the sun to touch every corner, a magnificent setting for the treasures within. Blake loved his job as an artifact researcher at the museum and every time he walked these halls, he marveled again at how lucky he was to work here.
 

He grabbed a coffee and a cupcake from the posh bakery in the forecourt, then found a place to sit so he could look out at the crowd. He popped a couple of headache pills and then sat for a moment, watching the people go by. He tried to guess the nationalities of those who walked past, a game he often played here in the city where all could find a place. Blake felt at home in London, where his own mixed-race heritage was a cultural norm. His mother was Nigerian, his father Swedish, and his caramel skin and blue eyes were less unusual here than in either of their native countries. Not that he had been to either. He listened to chattering voices around him, most in languages he couldn't even guess at, let alone understand. Perhaps it was time to visit.
 

Blake sipped his coffee, holding the hot brew between gloved hands. The thin leather hid deep scars across his skin from years of abuse. His father had tried to beat the Devil from his son, intending to destroy the ability to read objects and see visions from the past, or even another realm. But the beatings hadn't worked and the visions still came – sometimes as a gift and sometimes a curse. Blake had reconciled himself to his scars years ago, but now he was almost glad of them, a physical reminder that his father had even existed at all. After years of hating the man, his death hadn't brought peace, only more questions.
 

A gaggle of chattering schoolchildren caught Blake's eye, their laughter a welcome remedy to his melancholy. As they walked past, the shifting crowd around them parted for a second and Blake saw someone in their midst, a craggy face with a hint of familiarity. The man's eyes were a piercing blue, his features sculpted by northern winds, a scar across his nose like a mountain gulley. His body was like a menhir carved from ancient rock. He was still, his limbs tense. It was as if he waited for something – or someone.

Blake shivered, his skin goosebumps as he remembered the vision of the bloody rite of Odin, a human sacrifice to the gods of the north that he had glimpsed through the Galdrabók, a grimoire of Icelandic spells. His father had kept the powerful book under lock and key, but now it lay wrapped in sailcloth under Blake's own bed. He sometimes looked at the runes within, his gloved fingers tracing the angular lines that marked out his name as gifted, wondering about the others whose names were etched in a similar fashion. For the men who renewed the sacrifice of Ymir were his kin, and he saw an echo of them in the man here now.
 

He stood, trying to see the man more clearly even as the tourists whirled about, sweeping him out of view. Blake walked quickly towards the place the man had been standing, but he was gone. If he had even been there. Blake rubbed his forehead, urging the pain to subside. Could his visions be bleeding over into the real world? Or was he just seeing his father's face in the visage of another old man?
 

Blake walked back to the research area and pushed the glimpse of the man from his mind. His supervisor, Margaret, gave him a stern look, as she always did when he took too many breaks for her workaholic sensibility. She beckoned him into her small office.
 

Time to go on the offensive
, Blake thought. He smiled, meeting Margaret's eyes with a direct gaze that made most women blush, a hint of promise for pleasures after dark. He had the look of a boy-band singer after a night partying, perennial stubble and close-cropped dark hair, and Blake knew he could turn on the charm when needed. He walked into Margaret's office, a mischievous smile on his lips.
 

"I've had some ideas about what we could call this new exhibition," he said, seating himself on the side of her desk, leaning towards her a little, his posture deliberately relaxed.

Margaret was the archetype of a middle-aged museum researcher, a little wide in the hips, no makeup, greying hair. But Blake liked that in an academic. One of his idols was Mary Beard, a professor of classics at Cambridge who brought Roman culture to life with her down-to-earth ways, uncaring of what the world thought of her looks while she stunned the public with her brilliant mind.

"You know that's up to the marketing team," Margaret said. "They're trying their best with the – unusual – material."

"How about the Las Vegas of Londonium," Blake said with a cheeky smile. He indicated the clay sculpture of a phallus lying on Margaret's desk. "Or Cocks of the Capital."

Margaret's mouth twitched.

"Cock of Ages?" Blake added.

She couldn't help but laugh at that. The musical,
Rock of Ages
, played down the road from the museum and was popular with tourists.
 

"Hmm, not sure that will fly," she said. "Although it looks like we're going to have to make it over-eighteens only."

"Better for marketing anyway," Blake said. "After all, the British Museum does have one of the largest collection of pornography in the world. Bless those Victorians."

Few were aware that the British Museum had the Secretum, founded in 1865 after the Obscene Publications Act, which preserved a chronology of pornography from the era. Blake stood up to leave.
 

"Can you shut the door a minute?" Margaret said, her voice suddenly serious. Blake pushed it shut, and the click of the door echoed in the pit of his stomach.

He sat back down on the chair opposite her.
 

"How's your paper coming along?" she asked, her voice losing all trace of flirtation now. "You seem to be behind … again."

Blake looked away. "I know. I'm sorry – my father's death …"

"I'm sorry about his passing, but we have a hard deadline on this exhibition. You know that. I need researchers who can deliver on time, and you've been repeatedly absent or late this last year." She paused. "Sometimes when you come in, I know you've been drinking, Blake." She pulled a paper from a folder next to her computer. "This is a formal warning about your behavior. It goes on your record and it means you're on notice."

Blake took the paper, but he couldn't read the words. They swam in front of his eyes, a mixture of legalistic terminology and HR gobbledygook. If only he could just have a drink. It would help his concentration.