Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(44)
Dr Framline scrambled over and jammed his finger into the courier’s neck. He shifted their position, looking for a pulse, but I could see in his expression that there was none. Finally he shook his head and told me to let go. The courier’s face flopped open again.
Somebody was screaming and I had to check it wasn’t me. It could have been me. I certainly wanted to scream, but I remembered that, right then and there, Lesley and I were the only coppers on the scene, and the public doesn’t like it when the police start screaming: it contributes to an impression of things not being conducive to public calm. I got to my feet and found that we’d attracted a crowd of onlookers.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I said, ‘police business. I need you to stand back.’
The crowd stood back – being covered in blood can have that effect on people.
We preserved the scene until back-up arrived, but two-thirds of the crowd had their phones out and were taking video and stills of me, Lesley and the mutilated remains of the cycle courier. The images had already hit the internet before the ambulance arrived and the paramedic had covered the poor sod with a sheet. I spotted Beverley hanging around near the back of the crowd and when she saw that, she caught my eye, gave me a little wave, turned and walked away.
Me and Lesley found a place under a shop awning and waited for the forensic tent, the swabs and the replacement bunny suit.
‘We can’t keep doing this,’ said Lesley. ‘I’m running out of clothes.’
We laughed – sort of. It’s not that it gets easier the second time, it’s just that by then you know you’re still going to wake up the next morning the same person who went to sleep.
A DS from the Murder Team arrived and took charge. She was a squat, angry-faced middle-aged woman with lank brown hair who looked like she fought Rottweilers for a hobby. This was the legendary Detective Sergeant Miriam Stephanopoulos, Seawoll’s right-hand woman and terrifying lesbian. The only joke ever made at her expense goes: ‘Do you know what happened to the last police officer who made a joke about DS Stephanopoulos?’ ‘No, what did happen to him?’ ‘Nobody else knows, either.’ I said it was the only joke, not a good one.
She seemed to have a soft spot for Lesley, though, so we got processed much faster this time, but as soon as we were done we were bundled into an unmarked car and driven to Belgravia. Nightingale and Seawoll debriefed us in an anonymous conference room at which nobody took notes, but at least we were offered tea.
Seawoll glared at Lesley; he wasn’t happy. Lesley glared at me; she wasn’t happy that Seawoll wasn’t happy. Nightingale wasn’t anything except distracted; he only seemed interested when I reported my sense impressions just prior to the attack. After the briefing we trooped over to the Westminster mortuary, where surprisingly both Seawoll and Stephanopoulos attended the autopsy. Lesley and I made a point of standing behind them in the hope they wouldn’t notice us.
The cycle courier lay on the table with his face splayed open in a way that was becoming horribly familiar. Dr Walid was giving his conclusion that, somehow, person or persons unknown had managed to trick the victim into changing his face with magic and then set him to attacking random strangers. DS Stephanopoulos gave Seawoll a sharp look at the word magic, but her boss gave a small shake of his head that said, Later, not here.
‘His name was Derek Shampwell,’ said Dr Walid. ‘Age twenty-three, Australian citizen, had been in London for three years, no criminal record, hair analysis shows intermittent marijuana use over the last two years.’
‘Do we know why he was singled out?’ asked Seawoll.
‘No,’ said Nightingale. ‘Although all the cases seem to start with a sense of grievance. Coopertown was bitten by someone’s pet, Shampwell was struck by a motor vehicle while riding.’
Seawoll glanced at Stephanopoulos. ‘Hit and run on the Strand, sir, in a CCTV blind spot.’
‘A blind spot?’ asked Seawoll. ‘On the Strand?’
‘Thousand-to-one chance,’ said Stephanopoulos.
‘May,’ barked Seawoll, without turning round. ‘You think there are related cases?’
‘Including the incident Grant and I witnessed in the cinema, and the one that took place just prior to Shampwell’s death, I’ve identified fifteen cases where the perpetrators have shown uncharacteristic levels of aggression,’ said Lesley. ‘All people with clean records, no psychiatric history and all within half a mile of Cambridge Circus.’
‘How many do we know were actually’ – Seawoll paused – ‘possessed?’
‘Just the ones whose faces fell off,’ said Nightingale.
‘Just so we’re clear,’ said Seawoll. ‘The Commissioner wants this kept quiet, so PC May liaises with PC Grant for the low-level stuff but anything significant, anything at all, you talk to me. Do you have a problem with this, Thomas?’
‘Not at all, Alexander,’ said Nightingale. ‘It all seems eminently sensible.’
‘His parents are flying in tomorrow,’ said Dr Walid. ‘Is it all right if I sew his face back together?’
Seawoll glared at the body. ‘Fuck,’ he said.
Nightingale was silent on the drive back to the Folly, but at the foot of the stairs he turned to me and told me to get a good night’s sleep. I asked him what he was going to do, and he said he’d work on some research in the library – see if he couldn’t narrow down what was doing the killing. I asked if I could help.