Jessica walked the path most likely taken by the Crucifier. Copperwaite and Sharpe had shrewdly assessed where the killer's “transport”-as they called his car-had most likely been parked so as to draw no attention. Copperwaite pointed out the spot. He also pointed out the likely trail where the body was carried toward water's edge before being dropped when the bridgeman's headlights surprised and frightened the killer or killers. No footprint impressions had been found as just enough rain fell in those hours before dawn to obliterate human tracks. Copperwaite explained, “But tire tracks were found and impressions taken that night. Unfortunately, the impressions matched literally hundreds of thousands of tires used in England, and so long as there remains no suspect, we have no suspect car to match impressions to.”
As she'd walked with Copperwaite last night, Jessica had asked, “How long have you and Sharpe been partners?”
“Not long at all, actually.” Copperwaite reminded her of Hugh Grant with some girth. He wore a perpetual, sly grin. “Sharpie lost his last partner in a gun battle over some drugs filtering in from Algiers. Nasty bit of luck. Then I come on with him, almost a month after. It's been two years now.”
“You seem awfully-I don't know-alike?”
“Alike? Sharp and me? Ha! As different as chalk and cheese, we are.”
“Close, then. You seem close.”
“Aye, that we are. Have to be close in every way, now don't we? Have to know the habits, the good and bad of one another to put your life in another's hands, you see. Isn't it done the same in your country?”
“Yes, very much so.”
“Sharpie's one of the best, if not the best. Ought to have had Boulte's job, you see, but then, you know how it goes. Over here, we have a saying 'bout that.”
She smiled knowingly but said, “Oh? And what's that?”
“Buggin's turn, we call it.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning every fool is given a turn at a job until all the fools have been exhausted. Meaning Sharpe was unfairly treated, and Boulte was promoted in order to demonstrate the height of stupidity in the Yard, to demonstrate Boulte's special brand of awe-inspiring incompetence.”
“I get your meaning.”
“You read what the Times had to say about our flaming Boulte? They're right on, they are. The man's a clot, a bloody, blinking, ballying, flipping, flaming, ruddy bastard! And he's a clawback as well, he is.”
“A 'clawback'?”
'Toady, I suppose you'd say. Claw at your backside as it were.”
She wondered what Boulte had done to deserve Copperwaite's total disdain. “Can you say that again, in its entirety, from the beginning?” she asked. “About Boulte. It sounded so resonant.”
They laughed. Jessica turned to stare out across at the majestic Thames that wound its shimmering, ribbonlike self about the palacelike structures on either embankment. Sightseeing boats and ferries dotted the water. The sunshine and surroundings defied the fact of anyone's having been murdered here, and she said as much to Stuart. Copperwaite handily replied, “Curly it was, awfully curly that dark morning we come on her.”
“Curly?”
“Awful gruesome, mum, Doctor. You can't imagine, seeing those bloodied hands, the gaping holes through 'em.”Jessica and Copperwaite walked back to the York where he had tea and she coffee with crumpets. Tired, she had said good night to Stuart in the lobby.
That had been last night. This morning, Jessica had taken the London Times, left at her door, down to breakfast with her, and read the lambasting given the Yard for having done nothing visible about the murdering Crucifier and for allowing the monster to roam freely through the streets of London. In a scathing attack on the steps-or lack of steps-taken by Scotland Yard, sidebar photos of the dead victims posed in life and in death framed the story. A reporter named Culhertson tore into Chief Inspector Paul Boulte as being unable to “rise to the level of competence.” She thought the quote sounded suspiciously like something that might have come out of Copperwaite's mouth.
“The only ray of hope in all of this horror,” wrote Erin Culbertson, “is that Inspector Richard Sharpe is leading the investigation and has wisely brought on a well-known forensic specialist, Dr. Jessica Coran, from the FBI, America.” After this, Culbertson listed Jessica's previous wins, ignoring all the losses, many of which were supremely personal losses accumulated over a life given to chasing such abhorrent creatures as the Crucifier.
She walked the short distance to the Yard, enjoying the beauty of London along the way, feeling somewhat overwhelmed and yet fulfilled here on her second day at Scotland Yard.
On entering the building, Jessica found herself immediately besieged by the duty sergeant with a message. Having left an overseas E-mail address for the Yard with J. T., she felt not at all surprised to electronically hear from John Thorpe. Informed of the transmission and directed where to go in order to read her E-mail and respond, she found herself alone in a vast array of computers manned by computer drones. J. T.'s transmission read:
Wish you all the best of British luck over there, and you know how lucky the British are, right? Right. Currently, having some difficulty tracking down the artist who did the fantastic artwork on our dear friend Horace the Tattoo Man, but have found someone who actually recognizes the art and artist, a so-called cutting-edge artist in the field a fellow named Jurgen Dykes, who takes his inspiration from a mentor named Kyle Winterbome, who takes his inspiration from H. R. Giger, whom everyone knows from the Alien trilogy of movies, his artwork famous the world over. Fantastic stuff in every sense of the word.
She electronically replied:
At least now you know the name of the artist. You can begin to track him down. Have you a location on Dykes?
She didn't expect a ready answer, realizing that J. T. was not likely out of bed yet, given the hour in America, much less at his computer terminal awaiting a reply from her.
She continued to read the remainder of his message:
Last known location of the artist somewhere in upstate New York and Florida before that, but he appears to have vanished off the face of the Earth. Will continue to investigate. Have plenty of help from division.
Jessica typed in an addendum to her earlier question, and then she looked it over for correctness and clarity. It read:
So far, here, J. T., it's not going so well with the Crucifier case, either. Please, keep me informed of your progress there, and I will do the same from here regarding our case at the Yard.
Jessica took in a great breath of air and signed off, hoping the best for J. T. and the strange case of Tattoo Man, when she looked up to find Inspector Richard Sharpe coming directly for her. He held an enervating glint in his eye and a sly turn to his lip.
“They told me I'd find you here. Is all well in the States? Hope you found the York to your liking.”
“Yes to all three questions, and how are you this morning?” He seemed in a fantastic mood. She wondered what had brought it about.“I've been better. The Times article has Boulte on my backside, I'm afraid. The least of my worries, however, the least.”
Jessica guessed that seeing Boulte made red in the face had done the job for Sharpe, and that even as Boulte lit into him for lack of progress on the case, Sharpe enjoyed seeing the man out of control.
Sharpe continued, almost chipper. “I understand you had a go-round the O'Donahue site with Stuart last evening?”
“Yes, I had… a go-round, yes.”
“Anything strike you?”
“Nothing that will change the opinion of the Times, or help you with Boulte, no.”
He shook his head and frowned. “Politics, really. Has no bloody place in the Yard, but then it's endemic now, actually. They wouldn't know how to ran the place without politics.”
“The press pushes buttons here like they do in America. A strong force.”
He shrugged this off. “Culbertson's a friend. She rather prints what I feed her, rather dislikes Boulte for good reason. He treats her like an anaconda.”