The Evil Beneath

by A J Waines

  ‘I love the Thames,’ I said, defiantly. ‘Nothing’s going to change that.’ My eyes swept the room. ‘Lovely place.’

  ‘I can recommend the lobster.’

  I shuddered. ‘Too fine a line for me, I’m afraid…alive one minute and dead the next.’ I winced. ‘Sorry, I’m not usually this morbid.’

  He nodded. ‘I know. Cases like this,’ he waved his menu towards the river, ‘They can get under your skin.’

  ‘Isn’t this against the rules?’ I said.

  ‘What? Talking about the case?’

  ‘No, taking me out to dinner.’

  ‘You’re helping us with our enquiries.’ He said it with a wry smile on his face.

  ‘And you’re helping yourself to my garlic bread,’ I said.

  I liked the way his eyes went sideways, like a young boy pulling off a coin trick he’s been practising for weeks.

  ‘I want to ask one question and then I don’t want to talk shop after that,’ I said.

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Any leads on the latest woman you found at Battersea Bridge?’

  He put down his knife. ‘She’s been identified by her parents. Another strangulation, but, the post-mortem showed she hadn’t had a termination.’

  ‘Oh. Nothing to do with me, this time?’

  ‘Let’s hope not.’

  I felt my shoulders drop.

  ‘What was her name?’ I ground my teeth, hoping it wouldn’t be familiar.

  ‘Lindsey Peel. White woman, in her mid-twenties. Ring any bells?’ I ran the name through my brain’s data-bank. Nothing. ‘PM showed she’d been in the water only about an hour, but was killed several hours before that. Strangled. So, it’s pretty much the same MO, but no pregnancy or termination, so she wasn’t a client at Fairways. We know that much.’

  ‘I’ll check my list of private clients, just in case.’

  Brad’s starter arrived: chargrilled baby squid in tomato and chilli sauce. Suddenly I wasn’t hungry.

  ‘It might be useful, if you can bear it, to see the body…’ He took a mouthful of squid. His stomach was obviously made of stronger stuff than mine.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I stabbed an olive in the dish with a cocktail stick. ‘I’m getting used to dead bodies by now.’

  ‘It’s just that…we hope not, but the way things have been going, you might know her, there might be some connection.’

  ‘Yes. I understand.’ I put the stone on my side-plate and watched it roll into the middle. ‘So, let me get this straight. There have been three women murdered, strangled, so far, each one under a different bridge, all found in the water?’ Brad nodded with his mouth full. He looked like he hadn’t eaten for days. ‘Pamela Mendosa, twenty-eight, white American, had a termination at Fairways, although I never met her. Then poor Aysha Turner, black girl, only fourteen…she’d also had a termination and I’d met her.’ I toyed with a chunk of meat, but left it on the plate. ‘Then, this third woman, Lindsey Peel, white, mid-twenties, no termination.’

  ‘All the same MO,’ said Brad, helping himself to more salad.

  ‘And the only other link, so far…apart from the bridges…is me. My clothes on the first, a handkerchief with my initials on the second and of course getting messages beforehand for all three.’

  ‘I’m afraid so…and beyond that, we’re struggling. I have to admit, we have no suspects. Forensics hasn’t come up with much. We’re in the dark on this one.’ He hesitated, dabbing the napkin over his lips. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this.’

  It was like trying to prise terriers from a fox, but we eventually managed to talk about something else. Tentative personal questions did indeed make it feel like a first date. He told me he was divorced and regretted having no children. He liked motor-racing and playing cards; rummy was his favourite - and anything Mediterranean. I was right about him having the look of an Italian waiter: his mother was from Puglia in the boot-heel of Italy. ‘My father’s not Italian,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t think Madison sounded like it was from that part of the world.’

  ‘He’s from Hartlepool.’

  Ouch. ‘Not quite so…idyllic.’

  He smiled. ‘They run an olive grove now near Mum’s home town.’

  I found the way he struggled to find the right words compelling, likewise, the way his eyes were always a single crease away from laughter. It made everything else blissfully recede for a while.

  I told him about Andrew and my work. I told him my chicken ragu was delicious, even though I barely touched it. What I didn’t tell him was that butterflies were playing havoc with my digestion all evening. It was partly to do with the case, but more to do with being close to him.

  I still wasn’t sure if this was the beginning of something personal or a one-off thank you from the Metropolitan police for the contribution I’d made. I knew which one I wanted it to be.

  He asked for the bill and I willed the waiter to get seriously side-tracked.

  ‘So – if you hadn’t become a psychotherapist, what then?’ he said, sliding the mint from its wrapper.

  ‘I was keen on the idea of forensics, as it happens, but I failed chemistry GCSE, so that put paid to that.’

  ‘What were you good at, at school?’

  ‘I loved the trampoline – those few seconds when you’re in the air, thinking you can defy gravity - sublimely free.’ He looked at me wistfully as if he knew what I meant.

  ‘What else?’

  I felt honoured. No one had taken this much interest in me in a long while. ‘I was a bit of a whizz at synchronised swimming – don’t laugh – a real natural, apparently. I had a hip injury when I was seventeen, so that had to go.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you at seventeen,’ he said enigmatically.

  Afterwards we walked along the riverbank until we reached the underground station.

  ‘My nearest Tube station is Putney Bridge,’ I said. ‘District line.’

  ‘I live near Elephant and Castle. The other way. Northern Line.’

  I hooked a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘Right then.’

  He looked down at his boots. ‘I forgot to mention. Can you bear one last thing about the case?’ he said.

  ‘I think I can just about manage it.’

  ‘Our SIO told me there was something found on the woman at Battersea Bridge, but it wasn’t anything personal.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘She had a book in her pocket.’

  ‘A book?’

  ‘Yes. A children’s book, The Secret Garden, ever heard of it?’

  I felt a wave of vertigo wash up my body and thought my legs were going to fold away underneath me. Brad grabbed both my arms.

  My voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘This person, this killer really knows me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That book…as a child…it was…’ I leant into him, unable to make my legs straighten.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was my favourite book…’

  He guided me into an upright position against the wall, but didn’t quite let go.

  ‘It’s a popular book. It could simply be —’

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence.’ I hugged myself. The temperature seemed to have dropped ten degrees. Suddenly I didn’t want to have anything to do with Bradley Madison, this case, London - any of it, anymore. I wished I’d stayed in Norwich. Or gone to Spain with my parents. ‘Someone knows that book held a special place in my life. When Luke, my brother…died…I was twelve…that book saved my life… it was…’

  I couldn’t stay coherent any longer. I let go and fell into him allowing my tears to soak into his shirt. His arms were strong and safe and I sobbed; full-body sobs as he stood firm and didn’t say a word. I was grateful for his silence. No attempts at comfort, no flinching with embarrassment. Then he put his arm around me and led me to the main road. We caught a cab and the next thing I knew, we were in my kitchen.

  ‘I’m so sorry about this,’
I said, clutching a batch of wet tissues.

  He reached across the table with another hankie. ‘Don’t be. Someone out there is taunting you. And the police. Someone has chosen specific ways to make a connection with you, not just the messages you’ve been sent, but also the link with Fairways - the terminations, the clothes, the handkerchief and now the book.’

  I pressed my fingers into my scalp. ‘I’ve been trying to work it out.’

  ‘We need to run through a kind of potted history. Look into everything in your background.’ He took out a notepad from his jacket pocket. ‘I know we’ve asked you about this already, but we’re going to need to rake over your past in even more detail.’

  ‘You’re a policeman again, then?’

  ‘And also a friend.’ He started drawing a smiley doodle on his pad. ‘I can be both.’

  In my current situation, having a friend who was also a policeman was no bad thing. He turned to a fresh page and I was suddenly aware of the disparity between his levels of vitality and mine.

  ‘Listen,’ I said, putting out my arm. ‘I don’t think I can do this now.’

  My body felt like it had been through an assault course and my mind was scattered all over the place, like a jigsaw someone had dropped. I was finding it hard simply to get my eyes to stay open. ‘Can we possibly do this tomorrow? You could come back for breakfast…’

  He folded the book away.

  ‘You’re right. It’s late. Will you be okay on your own?’

  Tempting though it was to suggest he stayed, I didn’t have the energy to go through the inevitable coy two-step required in debating whether the sofa, the blow-up mattress or the floor in my room would be more comfortable. And digging out a fresh toothbrush and clean towel. And explaining how to flush the loo so that the handle didn’t fall off. All I could think about was my head slumping into my pillow without any consideration for anybody.

  ‘Yup. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Let’s get a fresh start tomorrow. I need to be at the station at the crack of dawn, so how about we meet near there? There’s a place called Café Fresco almost opposite the police station - is eight o’clock too early?’

  ‘No problem.’ He was already walking towards the door. ‘I’ll try to remember to bring my brain with me,’ I said.

  Shepherds Bush police station is only a few minutes’ walk from Hammersmith Tube, so I left the car behind. From my limited knowledge of Italian, the name Café Fresco implied there would be tables outside, but I was mistaken. Just as well. The establishment was on a busy road with a narrow pavement and the relentless stampede of traffic scorching past meant we wouldn’t have been able to hear ourselves think, never mind speak.

  Café Fresco had a large plain window and the kind of hard-to-push door you find in dry-cleaners. There were round aluminium tables on which stood grubby plastic tubs of salt and pepper. Instead of a vase, each table had a dish of sugar. I didn’t want to look too closely, but there was definitely a cigarette butt embedded in the first dish I passed.

  I found a table in the corner, squashed between an old electric fire and a stack of toilet rolls. I was trying to find a clean patch on the table on which to lean my elbows, when Brad walked in. His cheeks were flushed and his hair tousled as if he’d just got back from an invigorating hike. Didn’t he ever get exhausted? Didn’t cases like this gradually wear him down? It made me feel weak and inadequate by comparison, until I remembered he’d chosen this line of work. I hadn’t chosen any of it.

  He waved and pointed to the menu behind the counter. I managed to convey my order for an espresso.

  ‘Thanks for coming. I’ve got about half an hour.’ A waiter brought over two warm apple turnovers with our drinks. ‘These are good, believe me,’ he said, taking a bite and sending a puff of icing into the air. I tried mine. At last. Something good about this place. I licked my lips and thanked him.

  He pulled out the same notebook I’d seen the night before and I realised from his official tone that we were going to get straight down to business. No time for small talk.

  ‘I want you to think very carefully,’ he said. ‘We’ve got Hammersmith, Richmond, now Battersea Bridge - can you think of any connection to you?’

  ‘I’ve gone over and over it. There’s nothing.’

  ‘We’ve got to look at the slightest odd thing, the tiniest anomaly. Is there anything you can think of in the last few months that’s been out of the ordinary, disturbing? A person? An incident? However insignificant…’

  ‘Okay…’

  I hesitated.

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘I’ve got a weird client, a bloke…I’m not sure, but he might have been following me…’

  ‘Following you?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. It’s difficult when it’s a client. They’re often a bit odd if I meet them on the street.’ I was thinking about the way Mr Fin looked like he was feigning surprise when I caught up with him in the park. ‘People sometimes feel awkward, embarrassed…you know…and it was only once.’

  ‘His name?’ His voice was reproachful, now.

  ‘It’s confidential…I don’t think I can…’

  He folded his arms and sat back. ‘I think it’s gone beyond that, don’t you? Three women have died.’

  ‘Okay. But I’ll need to speak to him first. I’m seeing him later today - then he’s all yours.’

  ‘Phone me as soon as you’ve seen him.’

  ‘There was also that nasty bloke at the demonstration I told you about.’

  ‘We’ve had nothing back yet on that e-fit you did for us. It’s been in all the papers. We’re going to step that up.’ He scribbled something down and underlined it. ‘Someone must know who he is.’

  ‘It still doesn’t explain how someone knew about The Secret Garden…and there’s also the handkerchief.’

  ‘Who knows about your middle name?’

  ‘My middle name?’

  ‘Yes. The initials J.L.G. on the handkerchief. Are you in the phone book?’

  I stopped to think. ‘Ah – of course. I’m listed as J. L. Grey.’ I laughed. ‘So that’s not such a mystery, then. Anyone could have gone out and bought a handkerchief with those initials on it.’

  ‘And the book? Who would have known about The Secret Garden? Presumably it wasn’t your personal copy we found?’

  ‘No - I don’t have one. I keep meaning to replace the battered paperback I used to have.’ His pen was poised over the page waiting for me to elaborate. ‘My parents know it was a special book to me. My aunt, Libby. Perhaps previous boyfriends - you’ve already got their names. Andrew, possibly.’ I also gave him the names of tutors on my psychotherapy course and my previous therapists; people who knew a lot about me. He put down his pen and yawned.

  ‘Sorry - early start. Okay, I’ve got more possible leads. That’s something.’

  ‘They’re all suspects?’

  ‘We’ve talked to your friends and colleagues already, of course, but we’ve got to step things up now.’ He took a final swig of coffee, but it must have been cold by then. ‘The SIO wants the name of everybody you’ve known right from the year dot.’

  ‘Crikey…’

  ‘Not now – go home and make a list - nursery, neighbours, schools, teachers, friends, college - do it year by year, everything…’ He gave me a pained look. ‘I know it’s going take time, but we can’t afford to let anyone slip through the net.’

  ‘Okay, if it might help…’

  He slipped his notebook into his pocket.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  He looked surprised. ‘For what?’ He got up and swung his jacket over his shoulder. Starsky again. I was starting to go off Hutch.

  ‘For putting everything you’ve got into this… for taking me out to dinner last night, getting me home, mopping up my tears,’ I followed him to the exit. ‘For not treating me like an idiot…’

  He held his arm against the door frame and I ducked under it. I caugh
t the leathery resin smell of his jacket and recognised a trace of woody aftershave. I took longer to come out the other side than I should have done.

  ‘It’s just my job… plus, certain parts…’ he said, tipping his head to the side, ‘have been a pleasure.’ I managed a smile. ‘Call me later when you’ve seen your client. We’re going to have to talk to all of them, so be warned…’

  As I walked back to the Tube I made a decision. I knew Brad wouldn’t approve, but I needed to do some investigating of my own. One question was all it would take.

  Chapter Eleven

  I didn’t need to push open the letter box to know that Scott Joplin was playing at fifty decibels louder than was healthy. There was no point in ringing the doorbell. I went around the back. A smell of linseed oil and pancakes met me as I climbed the fire escape. The door was wide open. A notice for Andrew’s next exhibition, tacked up with a single drawing pin, was flapping in the breeze. Nottingham, in a few days’ time. Something heavy dropped inside my chest, as I realised I would play no further part in Andrew’s future. The kitchen was empty, so I walked through into his studio.

  It was the perfect place to paint. A previous owner had knocked down at least three walls to create a spacious living area, which now housed only two home-comforts: a sofa and a rocking chair. Andrew had pulled up the carpets and sanded the floor and everything about the room was devoted to and stained by paint. There were two easels, on one of which hung a dripping pair of jeans. Stacks of oil canvases, most with their backs to the room, leant against the walls. The centre piece was an oil drum, alongside a trestle table covered in opened and unopened tins of paint. In front of the iron staircase that led to the upper floor hung a skeleton from a hook. Someone had wrapped a scarf around its neck.

  I found the hifi system under a cloth and turned down the volume.

  ‘Andrew?’

  No reply.