The Dying Streets

by Amy Cross

  "But if they -"

  "Let 'em forget. You don't need names to catch this guy."

  Sighing, I realize that he's probably right. Finding a name in a database isn't going to be much use; what I need to do is speak to people who knew the victims, who might be able to come give me some background on their lives. After all, these two people - who as far as we know never met at all - fell victim to the same killer, which means that at some point they must have gone to the same place or done the same thing. Still, I know full well that the homeless community isn't likely to be very helpful.

  "So now do you want the good news?" Tim asks.

  "You've found another body and this time there are some nice juicy fingerprints to be had?"

  "Better."

  "Someone's come forward to say they saw something?"

  "Better," he replies. "Boots on the ground just brought in a girl from near Charing Cross. Some homeless kid, they haven't got her name yet but one of the guys in the custody suite thinks she's called Ophelia."

  "No-one's called Ophelia these days," I point out.

  "Whatever. She was arrested for causing a disturbance on the Millennium Bridge this afternoon. Care to guess what she was swinging around when the plods grabbed her?"

  I wait for him to continue, although I'm starting to realize what he's driving at.

  Grinning, he holds his hand up and uses his index finger to make the shape of a small hook.

  "Coincidence," I reply quickly.

  "Big-ass hook," he continues. "Old, rusty, and based on a few preliminary tests, I'm pretty sure I can prove it's the one that was used to kill the guy we found this morning. I'll have confirmation for you within the next few hours. Matching it to the other victim might be hard, since she's been on the slab for longer and the necessary samples weren't collected during the original autopsy, but I'm telling you... This is the hook you're looking for."

  Getting to my feet, I head over to the door.

  "There's one other thing," he adds.

  "Good news?" I ask.

  "Not sure. It's just that this girl seems to be a bit of a hand-full. They're gonna refer her for a psych screening to see if she needs proper help. So far, she's pretty feral, but she hasn't actually attacked anyone since she was brought in. Wait 'til you see her. We're talking serious wild child stuff."

  "Where is she?"

  "Waiting for you, actually," he says as he leads me along the corridor. "She's already been interviewed once, but they didn't get much out of her. She came up with a few grunts and brief answers to questions, but for the most part she refused to say much. Not even her full name. I've told them to keep her in the interview room until you can get down there. I figured you'd at least want to have a word with her, even if you can't get anything useful."

  By the time we reach the custody suite and I've been taken through to the interview room, Tim has filled me in on the few details we've managed to gather about this girl. She's been seen around central London a few times over the past few years, and during that time she'd been picked up for graffiti and a few other minor offenses. Attempts have been made to place her in sheltered housing, but she always runs away and for the most part she's been abandoned by the system. She seems to be just another floating vagrant in a city full of dispossessed people, but as I get to the door and look through into the room, I can't help but wonder if she might be useful.

  "Jesus," I mutter as I see her and realize that she looks crazy, with brooding dark eyes and a thick mop of messy brown hair. I don't know whether to be scared of her or scared for her, but it's hard to believe that she's not got some serious psychological problems. "She looks like she's in a bad way."

  "I pity the poor bastard who had to do the cavity search when she came in."

  "Was that strictly necessary?" I ask.

  "Standard procedure," he replies. "I'd like to be able to tell you that she doesn't bite, but unfortunately I can't make a promise like that. She might very well bite, so keep a little way back from her, okay? And if she does bite you, make sure you get a tetanus shot, yeah?"

  "Any drug or alcohol issues?"

  "None that we're aware of," he continues. "Believe it or not, she seems to be clean on that score. Whatever's messing her up, it's coming from inside her own head."

  Staring through the window, I wait until this Ophelia girl finally notices me. As soon as we make eye contact, I can tell that she's going to be trouble. Unfortunately, she's the only lead I've got right now, which means I need to find a way to make sure she helps me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  "What are you doing?" the old man asks, using the side of his boot to gently nudge his son's shoulder. "There's no time to sleep, boy. We've got work to do."

  Curled up on the floor of the dirty, trash-filled flat, the old man's son barely stirs. He lets out a brief groan, but with the previous night's alcohol still in his system he can barely open his eyes. Even when his father gives him a firm kick to the arch of his back, he merely mutters a few obscenities before trying to get back to sleep.

  "Come on," the old man continues, "we have to make up for last night. It's your fault the scrawny little bitch managed to get away."

  He waits, but his son is in no fit state to reply.

  "Is this how you think things are going to be?" his father asks. "Are you just going to roll around in a drunken haze day after day? I thought I was raising a man, but now it seems you're nothing more than an infant." He pauses, waiting for his son to respond, but finally he sighs as he realizes that he's on a hiding to nothing. "You'll never amount to anything," he continues. "That stupid little bitch was right to throw you out of the house. The world is full of people who are happy to drink themselves to an early grave, passing through life without ever leaving anything of value. It pains me to think that my own son could be such a creature."

  Turning and shuffling across the room, the old man gently eases his tired, aching body onto the sofa and takes a deep breath. He's suffering from another of his headaches, and his left hand - which is usually throbbing with pain - is tingling a little, bringing a little numbness. The old man knows that he's not well, and he's convinced that he has only a few more months left. In that time, he intends to put his son back on the right track and set him up to be a worthy successor.

  At times like this, however, such an ambition feels hopelessly far off.

  "You're nothing but a waste of space!" he shouts, even though he knows his son is far too drunk to even hear him. "You're more like your mother! How does that make you feel, eh? You're a good-for-nothing piece of crap, and if you don't sort yourself out soon there's no way in hell you'll ever make anything of yourself! You might as well just stay down there on the floor and die in your own piss!"

  He pauses, just in case his son manages to offer any kind of reply.

  "You haven't got it in you," the old man mutters under his breath. "You haven't got the soul."

  Running out of breath, the old man starts to cough. He knows he just has to wait for his son to sleep off the alcohol, but he also knows that he doesn't have time to waste like this. Leaning back on the sofa, he stares up at the ceiling and thinks back to the most recent kill, to the pure sensory pleasure of ripping the hook through that young idiot's belly. Closing his eyes, he lets his mind wander further back, to the very first time he ever killed anyone. It's that sensation of power that he wants to give to his son; the feeling of having ultimate control over the life and death of another human being.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Laura

  "Ophelia," I say, staring at the file for a moment before looking at the girl. "That's quite an unusual name, isn't it?"

  She stares back at me with fixed, skeptical eyes. It's hard to tell whether she's relaxed or alert; maybe a little of both, although I get the feeling that she knows - or thinks she knows - the score. She's not going anywhere, not until she's answered my questions. She could make things easy on herself, but I doubt she will. It's almost as if there's a palp
able aura of stubbornness radiating from her body, making it very clear that she sees me as an enemy.

  At least she refused to have a lawyer present. She's clearly very confident, but hopefully I can twist her decision to my advantage. After all, without a lawyer, she's more exposed and more vulnerable.

  The truth is, I've only been in the room for about ninety seconds, and it's clear that she's got her defenses up. Since I've barely said anything, I can only conclude that she sees all police officers as a threat, which isn't such a surprise; people on the streets have often run afoul of authority figures in the past, and even though we're keeping her warm and giving her meals, I have no doubt that she wants to get out of here as fast as possible. I could throw the book at her, of course, and charge her in relation to the incident with the hook, but if I'm going to get anything useful out of her, I need to take a more measured approach.

  "It's from Hamlet, isn't it?" I continue, hoping to stir something in her. "Ophelia was a... what? A princess of Germany?"

  She stares at me.

  "I think that's who she was," I say with a faint smile. I'm intentionally making a few mistakes, hoping to trick her into correcting me. Somehow, I need to get her to open up. "It's been quite a while since I read any Shakespeare. She was someone's sister, wasn't she? Or lover? I know she died in the end. That part, I definitely remember from school. Ophelia died at the end."

  Silence.

  I wait.

  More silence.

  The clock on the wall seems to be ticking louder than usual.

  "Like I said," I continue, figuring that this approach isn't going to work, "it's been a while." I pause for a moment as I try to work out how I'm going to get through to her. She can probably sense my discomfort already, which means I need to change my tactics quickly. Another officer has already tried speaking to her and got pretty much nowhere. Finally, I decide to try the personal approach. "So you're, what, nineteen or twenty years old? At a rough guess?"

  No reply.

  "Care to give me a hint?" I add. "Older than twenty? Younger? Sorry, you'll have to forgive me, it's just that with all that hair, it's kind of hard to get a proper idea."

  I wait for a reply.

  "I'm just wondering," I continue, almost sighing before catching myself, "why anyone would name a child born in the nineties after a character from Hamlet. It's a nice name, but maybe it was a little difficult in the playground? How do you shorten it, anyway? Ophy? Op? Phelia? Philly? O?"

  Silence.

  "No nicknames? Come on, kids can be cruel, can't they? Are you seriously telling me no-one picked on you? I mean, hell, I was picked on at school, and my name's nice and boring. Laura. Nothing weird about that, is there? I still ended up being called Lanky Laura. You can't seriously tell me that no-one gave you a nickname at school."

  She stares at me.

  "What about your surname?" I ask, figuring I might get somewhere if I just stick to basic, factual questions. "Can you tell me your surname?"

  No reply.

  "It's a secret?"

  I wait.

  "Middle name?"

  Silence.

  "Anything at all? Come on, Ophelia, I need you to work with me a little here. You don't gain anything by being obstinate. You'll just waste your time and mine."

  She stares at me.

  To be honest, I'm not sure she's even blinked since I entered the room. I honestly can't work out if she considers herself to be the hunter, or the hunted.

  "It'd be very useful to know your full name and date of birth," I continue. "That way, we can check the system and see if there's anything else we need to know about you. We can also think about trying to arrange some help, if that's something that might be of interest."

  I wait for her to reply, even though I know she'll probably just remain silent. I knew when I walked in that she was going to be difficult, but I thought I'd manage to get at least some kind of response from her.

  "Is that something that would interest you?" I add. "I could call a hostel or a social worker. They'd be more qualified to start helping you plan for the future. There are various schemes that might be able to find you somewhere permanent to live, maybe get you a job and help you acquire some skills. You'd meet other people who've been in your situation, and you could access counseling or other services. If I can get you into a hostel or somewhere, would you be okay with that?"

  Silence.

  "Would you be actively opposed to it?"

  Silence.

  "Have you been in a hostel before?"

  Silence.

  "I'd need you to help me a little first, though," I tell her, trying not to let my increasing frustration become too evident. She's trying to grind me down, but it won't work. "I've read the report about what happened on the bridge, and I don't believe for a second that you're a hook-swinging maniac who's a danger to the public. It's pretty clear to me that the officers who arrested you didn't have a full understanding of the situation. Call it gut instinct, but I'm clear on that point. The problem is, I need to know about that hook, Ophelia. I need to know where you got it, and how, and most importantly I need to know how long it's been in your possession."

  She stares at me.

  "So why don't you tell me what happened?" I add. "It's very important that we get a kind of time-line hammered out here, so in your own words, tell me how you got this hook."

  Silence.

  "Don't you want to help me?" I ask eventually. "Are you suspicious?"

  She shifts a little in her seat. It's something she does every few minutes, as if she can't manage to stay completely still.

  "Have I... done or said anything to make you not want to cooperate?" I ask. "Have I offended you in any way?"

  No reply.

  "Ophelia," I continue, "you are in quite a bit of trouble here, but you can help yourself by answering my questions. You'd be surprised how much discretion I have when it comes to deciding what to do with you. The worst-case scenario would be an appearance before magistrates tomorrow, followed by a likely court date, and you'd be remanded in custody for the duration. You'd have to speak eventually; either that, or you'd be making things very difficult for yourself. There are certain criminal acts associated with that hook, and it wouldn't be good for you to be linked to those acts. People might start to believe that you were responsible for some extremely serious incidents, and you have to trust me here, that's not something that you want to experience if you can avoid it."

  I wait, but she's just staring at me. It's almost as if she's decided that she won't speak to me under any circumstances. I might as well be talking to a brick wall. She shifts a little in her seat again, as if she's uncomfortable, but that's as close as I get to any kind of an answer.

  "Alternatively," I continue, "I could arrange for you to get a place at a hostel, and they'd be able to help you get back on your feet. I don't know how long you've been on the streets, Ophelia, but I'm going to guess that it's been more than a few weeks. Months, maybe. A year? Long enough to harden you a little, but not long enough to push you past the point where you've got no hope? I know I'm probably dealing in stereotypes and cliches here, but that's because I'm not particularly familiar with this walk of life. I need you to open up and maybe give me some information."

  Silence.

  "Do you really want to just walk out of here and go back to the streets?"

  I pause, not really expecting an answer but figuring I should at least give her a chance.

  "You have to turn this experience into a positive," I tell her. "Use it to get what you want, and I can't imagine that you don't want to get off the streets. The thing is, though... I need some information first. It's about the hook you had when you were arrested. I know this is going to sound strange, but I'd been looking for that hook. It might be linked to a case that I'm working on, and I need to find the person who might have been using it for the past month or so."

  Silence.

  "I'm thinking... and hoping... that you only came
into possession of the hook quite recently. Maybe you found it, or you stole it, or someone gave it to you? Is that correct?"

  No reply.

  "Can you at least nod?" I ask, starting to feel a little exasperated. "I just need you to do something to acknowledge my questions. Did you acquire the hook recently? Yes or no?"

  She stares at me.

  "It would be in your best interests to answer me," I tell her.

  Nothing. She's so still and calm right now, she seems to be barely even breathing. If it wasn't for the fact that she shifts in her seat every few minutes, I'd almost believe she was in a coma.

  "I'm not your enemy," I continue. "I'm not exactly your friend, either, but I can be on your side. If you don't start to cooperate with me, though, I don't know what else I can do. There are people who won't see things the way I see them, and they might start to believe that you're hiding something. The blunt truth, Ophelia, is that you were arrested in possession of a weapon that has been implicated in some very serious crimes, and that's not something that can just be ignored. If you think you can sit out twenty-four hours in a cell and then get to walk out of here, you're wrong. We need to know how that hook came into your possession."

  I leave another pause, just in case she suddenly decides to speak.

  Sighing, I look down at the arrest report.

  "Denmark," she says suddenly.

  "Denmark?" I reply, hoping that maybe I've made a breakthrough.

  "In Hamlet," she continues, still staring at me with those unflinching, unyielding eyes. Her voice sounds small and harsh, but with a hint of confidence. "Ophelia was a noblewoman of Denmark, not Germany. She wasn't the queen. She might have been eventually, though, if she'd ended up marrying Hamlet and living happily ever after."