Jamie wiped away the prick of tears, frustration at another wasted life and the fact that she would not be on the police team that would investigate his murder. Her statement would be taken, as she had once taken them, but she would be on the outside this time.
Who was this man and why was his body left here? Was it a statement to the community and, if so, which part?
Jamie looked up at the faces staring down at her. At one end, the frightened faces of the sex workers and at the other, the hard expressions of the Society for the Suppression of Vice. Sirens rang out in the London night as the police arrived on the scene.
***
Dale Cameron stood in the shadows of Winchester Square, his heart pounding as the rush flooded through him. The sense of almost being discovered gave him an added thrill. He knew he should leave but he couldn't bring himself to move just yet. The initial scream of panic at discovery of the body had given way to a low hubbub. He could hear someone weeping. He breathed deeply and let the sounds sink into his consciousness as he savored the aftermath of violence.
He clutched a dark blue waterproof bag in his fist. It was designed to keep things dry while kayaking on the river, perfect for the collection of his trophies. It was heavy now, weighed down by the bloody skin inside. He stroked the outside of the bag with tentative fingers. The kill was nothing compared to the harvest of his bloody keepsakes.
Sirens burst through the noise of the disturbed crowd. Dale snapped out of his reverie. The sound belonged to his other self, his daytime self, and his phone would soon be ringing with the news.
A slow smile crept across his face.
As a Detective Superintendent he could even stay and help process the crime scene. The officers on duty would respect him even more for doing grunt work far below his station. Part of him was tempted by the idea – part of him wanted to skate so close to the edge that they might even suspect him. But no … He shook his head. There was too much at stake now and he was so close to his goal. These small purges were nothing to what he had planned for Southwark. For now, he needed to get away from the scene before it was locked down.
Dale walked through the back streets of London Bridge to his car with a confident stride. Not too slow, not too fast. Nothing that would draw attention to himself. He placed the bag in the trunk and got into the driver's seat, giving himself a moment before completing the final phase of his ritual.
He leaned over and opened the glove compartment, then reached in and pulled out a pot of Ponds Cold Cream. He unscrewed the top and lifted it to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled the floral scent.
Dale smiled. His mother had had such beautiful skin, with the translucence of Egyptian alabaster. He used to watch her as a boy as she smoothed cream into her arms and hands, massaging it slowly until it had all disappeared, leaving only a trace of scent in the air. One day, she had turned to him, the sunlight from the window a halo around her golden hair. Come here, darling. Let me put some on you. He had stood between her knees as she took a dab from the fragrant jar. The lotion was slick on her palms as she rubbed it between them and then she took his arm and touched him with cool fingers. Goosebumps rippled over Dale's skin at the memory, the sensation clear in his mind, a moment of happiness. But then … his face darkened and he screwed the top back on the cream, slamming it back into the glove compartment. He would not sully the perfect memory tonight.
Chapter 3
High ceilings of paneled glass supported by the green pillars of Borough Market allowed the light to flood into even the inner corners of the building. There had been a food market here since the eleventh century, but these days it was aimed more at the high-end restaurants and well-paid foodies of the city. Jamie walked past an artisan baker, who piled sourdough and spelt loaves next to tempting sticky fudge brownies. She inhaled the smell of fresh bread and baked sugar goodies, sweetness lingering on the back of her throat. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation, but the problem with Borough was the sheer volume of choice. It was hard to know what to choose when every stall contained another tiny world of culinary pleasure.
Jamie was exhausted from last night. The police had arrived quickly and taken statements from those people who remained, although many had vanished into the darkness when the body had been discovered. Because of her history and contacts, her own statement had been processed quickly. She had been able to leave before the others, but she couldn't get the image of the man's face out of her mind and sleep had been hard to come by.
She weaved her way through the market, navigating the early shoppers, glancing at the abundance of produce as she passed. One stall was covered with baskets of mushrooms: wild, golden chanterelles and purplish pied bleu lying next to the thick trunks of king oysters. There were butchers with fresh game, carcasses of ducks and deer hanging down outside the shops where men with heavy hands served packets of paper-wrapped choice cuts. Proud chefs sold specialized wares – cider from a local orchard, honey made from urban Hackney bees, cured prosciutto from the happiest free-range, acorn-fed pigs. There was also a row of street-food stalls and coffee carts at the back near Southwark Cathedral, and Jamie wound her way through the crowds in that direction.
She was beginning to find her way around after moving into Southwark last month. Her old flat in Lambeth had become unbearable after Polly's death, memories slamming into her whenever she walked in the door. Jamie had wept in the empty room before locking it for the last time, but her daughter was free now and Jamie needed to live as Polly had asked her to. She had handed over all her old cases after resigning from the Metropolitan Police, and closed that door as well. But she couldn't bring herself to leave London. The city held her tightly, curled itself within her.
Jamie caught sight of Detective Sergeant Alan Missinghall at the edge of the throng, his six-foot-five frame dwarfing the people around him. He was struggling to hold two coffee cups along with several bags brimming with pastries. Jamie grinned as she hurried through the crowds towards him, happy that some things never changed. Missinghall always made food a priority.
"Let me help with that," she said. He turned at her approach.
"Hi, Jamie. Good to see you."
Missinghall handed her the pastries and bent to kiss her cheek. Jamie was slightly bemused by the affection, something he would never have shown on the job. They had worked together on a number of cases and he had been junior to her at the time, as a Detective Constable. He had covered her back during a couple of dangerous investigations and was probably her closest friend in the Met by the end.
"Let's go sit in the churchyard with these," she said, leading the way through the gates and into the grounds of Southwark Cathedral, where they found a free bench in a patch of sun. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment sipping coffee as the busy market bustled behind them and the calls of the market traders echoed across the little square.
"How's business then?" Missinghall asked, as he started into the second cheese and ham croissant. He leaned forward, making sure the crumbs fell to the pavement below. Pigeons came pecking within seconds and cleared up his scraps. This area was teeming with bird life, drawn by the rich pickings from Borough Market.