The Sixth Soul

by Mark Roberts

  Lewis hung up. As Bellwood approached, Rosen relayed the news to her.

  ‘What’s your take on it?’ asked Bellwood.

  ‘Dwyer’s either had his instructions on the sixth victim, or Flint’s using a different means of communicating. Either way, Dwyer could be abducting a woman right now.’

  50

  Asleep on and off all afternoon, he lay on his single bed in the monastic cell of his bedroom and dreamed of the woman he’d been forced to address as ‘Mother’.

  Mother wore gloves, long white gloves up to the elbows to cover the track marks that the other saved souls of the Church of the Living Light had noticed from their pews and complained about to Pastor Jim, who’d ordered her to cover her arms during worship. But Herod could see the fragile network of veins beneath, criss-crossing her inner forearms like a map of the London underground, a permanent record of her former sins that the long white gloves could mask but could never eradicate.

  She wore them to worship, then she wore them all the time, but when Herod closed his eyes at night, all he could see were her needle-hacked veins and arms.

  In his dream, she was singing at the top of her voice but all that came out was a ringing sound followed by silence, a sequence that simply repeated. He opened his eyes and snatched up his mobile phone. He pressed the button to connect the anonymous call – always, always it registered on the display as anonymous – and, as soon as he did so, the caller rang off at the other end.

  The house lay mute. And then, from downstairs, something most unusual happened. For a few moments, he had to question what it was and whether it was really happening.

  He headed for the stairs. The landline was ringing.

  51

  Rosen arrived home just before midnight, with the intention of catching a few hours’ sleep. But it was to be a sleepless night.

  Softly, he called, ‘Sarah?’ as he came through the front door, but could hear nothing. The downstairs felt empty of her presence.

  He went straight up the stairs, his back aching and an irrational fear drumming its fingers on the inside of his head. In the bedroom, she was asleep with the bedside light on. She opened her eyes and smiled at him.

  ‘You’re late home, David.’ Her voice was heavy with fatigue.

  He threaded his jacket onto a hanger and thought, I will never take this woman for granted as long as I live.

  ‘It was a dream of mine . . .’ she said.

  He kissed her and she closed her eyes, as if sleep were stealing her away. He was tempted to prompt her to complete the half-thought she’d articulated but, over the years, he’d learned the importance of holding his tongue, the ability to make room when his head buzzed with questions.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes, a tired husband. Slowly, she opened her eyes again and turned her weary gaze on him.

  ‘I wanted to know the inside of the antenatal like the back of my hand. Each tile on the floor, each light in the—’

  Ceiling. He unknotted his tie and waited.

  ‘I wanted to go to the clinic and be examined, to find out how our baby was growing, and I know, David, I know you did too. But now I don’t want to go to St Thomas’s at all. I wasn’t going to say anything. But I’m scared of what I’m going to find out.’

  She spoke slowly; by this time he was almost naked.

  ‘I know how serious things are for you at the moment, how it’s all seeming to come to a head, and I promised myself I’d say nothing but I can’t not tell you. I had a phone call from the hospital. I’ve got to go there. It’s come out through the blood tests. There’s a problem with the baby.’

  Sudden fear and disappointment overwhelmed him in a moment. In the next, he turned to Sarah, his face a calm mask.

  ‘When’s the appointment?’

  ‘In the morning. Nine-forty.’

  ‘Who called you, Sarah?’ He laid his hand over the back of hers, pressing down the anxiety that her words had sparked.

  ‘It was a doctor . . . Dr Brian Reid.’

  ‘It wasn’t a call from the medical secretary or clinical appointments?’

  ‘No, it was a doctor . . . Dr Reid, Dr Brian Reid.’

  ‘Is he in the Gynaecology department?’ asked Rosen.

  ‘He’s not Gynaecology, he’s in the Haematology department, Dr Dempsey passed me over to him. They’re doing me a favour.’

  ‘Nine-forty in the morning?’

  ‘Dr Reid’s sending someone to collect me at the main door, Haematology, first floor, North Wing.’

  ‘Then I’ll come with you,’ said Rosen. She closed her eyes and the neutral mask slipped from his face.

  ‘I can go alone. I just needed you to know.’

  ‘I’m going with you, Sarah. I can delegate for a few hours. Dr Reid didn’t say anything else, did he?’

  ‘They’re hurrying me through the system. There’s no risk to the baby . . . immediately.’

  She turned onto her side and Rosen stroked her shoulders. A minute later, her breathing altered and she was asleep.

  He threw his shirt, socks and underwear into the wash basket in the corner of the bathroom. He turned on the shower and thrust his head into the powerful jet of hot water, snarling, ‘Christ!’ Water battered his features and, for those few moments, he was in tune with the impotent rage that had stalked him down the years. But, for once in his life, it had a human face.

  Sebastian Flint’s face glimpsed in the tiny mirror of room 11 at St Mark’s Monastery.

  He kept the water on full power, beating around his head until his breathing and heartbeat subsided to normal. He towelled himself dry and, on catching his reflection in the mirror, paused, recognizing his look of suspicion.

  In clean pyjamas, he settled beside Sarah and sought out her hand beneath the duvet. He linked his fingers around hers and she turned her head slightly on the pillow.

  She was fast asleep, peaceful now. Rosen was grateful for this mercy.

  52

  Conference Room One was the largest single space in Isaac Street Police Station, and it was the venue for Rosen’s press conference. The long rectangular room was packed with journalists and photographers, seated on rows of blue plastic seats. There was a buzz in the air, a rising expectation, a clamour of voices, the word ‘Herod’ circulating like electricity.

  At the top end of the harshly lit, windowless room, a dais had been set up, with a miked-up table, and chairs, and a PA system. Behind them was a pinboard, Metropolitan blue, with the logo – two lions, a shield and a crown – and the words: Working Together for a Safer London.

  Rosen stood in the shadows, breathing deeply to master his nerves, and listened to the sheer noise of the waiting journalists. For once it wasn’t the prospect of public performance and potential humiliation that unnerved him; it was the trip to hospital with Sarah that followed it.

  He’d called Mr Gilling-Smith’s secretary three times from eight-fifteen but each time he’d connected to an answering machine. On the third call, he’d left his mobile number and an urgent request to call him back.

  There were no empty places. On each seat, a journalist, and in their hand, a press release, a single piece of paper bearing two pictures of Dwyer: a CCTV shot and Corrigan’s photo, both from the British Library

  To the left of the dais, a forty-two-inch plasma screen was set up to play a brief sequence of CCTV footage. At the door on the way out, to avoid a scrum and a sprint to issue the pictures, each news organization had to sign for their own electronic footage. There was a legally and morally binding clause: no transmission of footage before 6 p.m.

  Baxter, in full uniform, led the way in, and a buzz rippled through the noise. Rosen followed and sat at the centre of the table, with Bellwood on his right. Next to Rosen sat Rob Waters, press officer.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Waters. The room settled into silence.

  In his jacket pocket, Rosen’s phone vibrated silently, and he intuitively knew it was Mr Gilling-Smith’s secre
tary returning his call. He focussed on the press in front of him. His phone buzzed and buzzed in his pocket.

  ‘Why can we not broadcast the images until six?’

  ‘Questions at the end,’ replied Baxter.

  ‘I’ll take that one, Chief Superintendent Baxter.’ Rosen scanned the room, imposing a measured silence on proceedings. ‘But, like Chief Superintendent Baxter said, questions at the end.’ He located the source of the opportunistic question; he knew and liked the journalist who’d tried it on. ‘We need a favour, assistance with a strategy. We need you to build up the broadcast. Let people know there’s going to be a significant release of still and moving images. We need people, as many as possible, to be sitting in front of their TV sets, actively waiting and engaging with these images. Six o’clock news broadcasts are our optimum slot. We want homecoming commuters to see this. We don’t want it coming out in dribs and drabs. We want to create a media event and we need your cooperation.’

  Rosen held a script, and now he turned his attention to it.

  He read, ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. For those of you who don’t know me, I am Detective Chief Inspector David Rosen.’

  The vibration of his phone stopped.

  ‘We have invited you here this morning to ask for your help and that of the public in identifying a suspect in the current murder investigation in which there are, to date, five adult female victims. We are seeking to interview the man pictured in the photographs we have issued to you, and the following CCTV footage from the British Library. We believe this man has, in childhood, gone by the name of Paul Dwyer, though he may well be living under a completely different name now. He is in his mid- to late forties, perhaps even early fifties.

  ‘We are seeking to question this man in connection with the abduction and murder of Jenny Maguire, the abduction and murder of Alison Todd, the abduction and murder of Jane Wise, the abduction and murder of Sylvia Green and the abduction and murder of Julia Caton.

  ‘We are using all resources available to us to locate him, including HOLMES – Home Office Large and Major Enquiry System – the National Police Computer and a team of over thirty law enforcement specialists including detectives, uniformed officers, scene-of-crime officers, forensic scientists and specialist IT civilians.’

  Rosen drew breath and paused, trying to picture Dwyer’s face as he choked on his bravado while watching the six o’clock news.

  ‘We would like to thank the dozens of members of the Greater London community who have already been quick to come forward to assist with this investigation. We’d also like to thank Londoners for their tolerance and patience as we have made our extensive enquiries.

  ‘We are clearly dealing with a dangerous individual so must advise the public accordingly. If any member of the public sees this man, they are not, repeat not, to approach him directly. They should instead inform the police via the number printed at the bottom of the press release’ – he gave the number – ‘or through the emergency services 999 route.

  ‘If you know this man, or are harbouring him, we urge you to come forward now and assist us in our ongoing investigation. If you have any suspicions about anyone, maybe a friend or a member of your family who has been acting out of character or who has appeared increasingly anxious, please contact us in complete confidence.

  ‘If you want to remain anonymous, you can call Crimestoppers.’ He gave the number.

  He looked up from his script and said, ‘OK, let’s watch the images.’

  The silence, as the carefully doctored CCTV footage was shown of Herod entering the British Library, was profound. The images of Dwyer suddenly froze on screen with a final, still photograph.

  ‘Any questions?’ asked Rob Waters.

  ‘Are you still dismissing an occult motive?’

  ‘We’re pursuing several lines of investigation.’

  ‘Is he operating on his own?’

  ‘It’s part of our ongoing enquiry.’

  There was a barrage of other questions hurled at the panel but Waters put up his hand to silence the crowd. He thanked the assembled journalists for attending and reminded them that they had to sign for their footage on the way out.

  Coming off the dais, Baxter touched Rosen on the arm as he headed towards the door at the back of the room.

  ‘Hurrying away again, David?’

  ‘What do you want, Tom?’

  ‘I hope this idea of yours, you know, not broadcasting the images until six o’clock, doesn’t backfire on you.’

  ‘Maximum focus of public attention. It gets results.’

  ‘It would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it, if another woman was snatched? Before six o’clock? Don’t think I could do much to help you in that event. Think about it.’

  ‘He doesn’t operate in daylight!’

  ‘Fingers crossed he doesn’t switch MO at the eleventh hour.’

  Rosen held Baxter’s gaze, fixed on the speck of light reflected in his iris, and felt the coldness of the other man’s malicious glee.

  ‘Because, if a woman does get snatched today, well, David, it’s only fair to say you would bear some personal responsibility for that.’

  Baxter crossed his fingers and moved away, holding Rosen’s eye as he did so.

  53

  ‘Mr Gilling-Smith’s secretary. Can I help you?’

  Rosen’s phone was on hands-free and he was stuck at a red light on his journey from the press conference to St Thomas’s. So far, the lights had been with him, but close to his journey’s end, this red felt like a body blow.

  ‘My name’s David Rosen; my wife Sarah’s currently under the care of Mr Gilling-Smith.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I typed a letter about her from the last clinic.’ She sounded sharp, on the ball. Good, thought Rosen, good, good. ‘How can I help you, Mr Rosen?’

  ‘My wife’s got an appointment at Haematology at nine-forty. She received a phone call from a Dr Brian Reid setting up the appointment directly.’ The light changed to green and Rosen surged into the passage of traffic.

  ‘There wasn’t anything in the notes I typed about a problem with her bloods . . .’

  ‘Really?’ said Rosen.

  ‘But the blood tests weren’t back when I typed them up. The notes were all based on clinical observations.’

  ‘Whose clinical observations?’

  ‘Dr Dempsey, Dr Tom Dempsey. He’s Mr Gilling-Smith’s senior registrar: he’s good, very thorough. Is there a problem I can help you with, Mr Rosen?’

  ‘Is it possible for Dr Dempsey to have referred my wife on to Dr Reid in Haematology?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘But you don’t know anything about that referral?’

  ‘It happens all the time here. Tom Dempsey’s one of the most conscientious doctors I’ve worked with and I’ve been in the NHS for years. Dempsey and Reid are on good terms. What will have happened is Dr Dempsey dictated the notes while he was in clinic. The dictaphone comes up to me with the medical notes, at noon. That’s standard. He’s sent your wife to Phlebotomy to get her bloods tested after he’s seen her in clinic. The bloods have gone to the lab mid to late afternoon. Tom being Tom, he’s gone to the lab directly to get some early feedback, he’s picked up a problem with your wife’s bloods, called Brian Reid and asked for help. Hence I’m out of the loop. But it happens all the time.’ She laughed briefly and with good humour. ‘And then people come on the phone and say, You didn’t know about this? And I say, No, I’m not psychic.’

  ‘And the secretary in Haematology, would she not know?’

  ‘Not necessarily. If this is something Tom and Brian have set up between themselves on the hoof, no. Like I say, it does happen. Cut out the admin to hurry things through. I’ll phone Haematology, see if they know anything, and get back to you if you like.’

  It was getting on for half past nine.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Rosen, pulling into a pay and display parking space. ‘The appointment’s minutes away and I’m just round the corne
r.’

  ‘If there’s anything else I can do to help, just give me a ring.’

  ‘Thank you, you’ve been more than helpful.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Moments later, Rosen pumped coin after coin into a pay and display meter. He locked the car and moved as quickly as he could, weaving past people as he hurried, glancing at his watch with mounting anxiety.

  ——

  AT THE ENTRANCE of the North Wing of St Thomas’s Hospital, Sarah looked utterly anxious when Rosen arrived, red-faced and perspiring.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. They hurried towards the passenger lifts inside the building.

  ‘It’s just gone twenty to, and Dr Reid’s doing us a favour here.’

  A handful of people emerged from the lift. Rosen followed Sarah inside and the doors closed. He pressed the button for the first floor, his heart still pounding from the journey from car to hospital.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, feeling oppressed by the enclosed space. Sarah rechecked her watch and sighed as the lift ascended and slowed.

  A computerized voice announced, ‘First floor, Haematology.’ The doors slid open and they stepped out.

  Across the corridor from the passenger lift were broader metal doors, the service lifts. A pair of them eased open and a patient on a scissor bed was wheeled out, chatting to the smiling porter who pushed her round the corner and out of sight.

  The door of the clinic was visible from the lift area.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Sarah.’

  ‘Are you a doctor, David? How do you know I’ll be fine?’

  He could feel a dry heat, the embers of a stupid row that could be fanned by tension into a stand-off, so he said, ‘Yeah, you’re right, I’m not a doctor.’

  ‘Turn your phone off,’ said Sarah.

  ‘I can’t,’ he replied. A heavily pregnant woman emerged from the clinic, a woman who at a glance looked like Julia Caton. ‘Tell me again what Dr Reid said on the phone.’

  ‘ To wait by the main door of Haematology, and he said he’d send someone to collect me.’