The Dying Streets Read online

  "This is almost forty years old," I point out. "It can't be connected."

  "There was another one, about five years later," he continues. "I'm still trying to pull up the details, but it was in Edinburgh. A girl again, I can't remember her name. Two years later, there was a third victim, another woman. I wasn't assigned to those other cases at the time, but obviously people talked. We'd just started to link the murders together and investigate the possibility of a serial killer when, poof, it all stopped. No more deaths, no more disappearances, no more hook. After a while, it just seemed like it was all over."

  "And they were all killed with a hook?" I ask, still reading the article.

  "Through the mouth," he replies. "They had their bellies sliced open too."

  "Was anyone ever arrested?"

  "Such as?" he asks "There were no leads. About ten years ago, a cold-case team went over the forensics evidence again, but they still couldn't find anything." He pauses. "Those were different times back then, Laura. The media picked up on the deaths and ran a few stories, but they moved on pretty fast. There wasn't the viciousness back then that we get today. We didn't have the same pressure, and since the cases were never formally linked, there wasn't the impetus to keep investigating once the killings stopped. By the late eighties, it was clear that if one person was responsible for all three deaths, he'd stopped."

  "Serial killers don't just stop," I point out. "No serial killer in history ever got to a point where he decided he'd killed enough and just wanted to bow out gracefully. They keep going."

  "My theory was always that maybe he died," Greenwell replies. "Maybe one day he accidentally stepped in front of a bus, or just keeled over when he was heading out for a spot of murder. Ordinary people die, so why not a killer?" He shrugs. "Not every campaign of mass murder has to end in drama, does it? Then again, maybe something else stopped him. I suppose he could have gone to prison for an unrelated crime and we never put the two together. I know it's all very unlikely, but there are a few possible explanations. You're right, though. Something must have intervened."

  "The prison angle makes sense," I reply. "He might have gone away for a long stretch, for something completely unrelated, and now he's out and he wants to pick up where he left off."

  "It still doesn't make sense," he points out. "Why would he suddenly start targeting homeless people? Plus, all the original victims were women, and now we've got at least one man."

  Staring at the article for a moment, I can't help but feel that I've accidentally stumbled into a much bigger case than I'd originally realized. A few hours ago, I thought I was facing up to a dull, plodding investigation that wasn't going to lead anywhere, but my interest has finally been piqued. My only concern is that if the case starts to get any kind of high profile, Greenwell might yank me away.

  "It's a head-scratcher," he continues. "I don't think we can ignore the similarities, though."

  "You're not suggesting that it's the same guy, are you?" I ask after a moment. "I mean, there's no way he'd stop, wait thirty years, and then start again. It's completely irrational. Anyway, the victim profiles are so different, it's hard to believe there could ever be a through-line."

  "There was also a sexual element to the old cases," he replies. "Anything like that with these latest bodies?"

  I shake my head, still staring at the photocopy of the old front-page.

  "I can dig the full files out for you," he continues, "but the bodies all showed signs of assault, both before and after death. The evidence was never conclusive, but the killer seems to have had some very particular and very nasty fetishes. He used the hook to incapacitate the victims, then it seems he fulfilled his dirty little pleasures before gutting them to finish them off. Try explaining that to the grieving parents of one of the victims. Trust me, it's not an experience I'm ever likely to forget."

  "The differences are starting to outnumber the similarities," I point out. "The lack of those fetishes in the modern deaths is a clear sign that it's not the same person."

  "You can't be sure."

  "Pretty much," I continue. "The fetishes would have been inextricably linked to the rituals of the murders. Even if some unlikely set of circumstances arose to stop him for a while, it's almost impossible to believe that he'd go back to committing the murders but leave out the assaults."

  "I never said it was definitely the same killer," he continues, "just that there are enough similarities for it to have caught my attention. There are a lot of knives in the world, Laura, so someone using a hook really stands out. It could be a coincidence, but I figured I'd bring it to your attention." He pauses. "So much for putting you on a quiet case. I want to keep this well away from the media for now. It's the kind of thing they might latch onto, and I want you to have as little attention as possible."

  "Fine by me," I mutter, staring at the photo of Rachel Hemingway from the old newspaper front-page.

  "It could also be a copycat," he points out.

  "No," I reply, taking a deep breath. "That'd be too random, and anyway, he's only copied certain elements. A copycat would go the whole hog."

  "Let me know what you dig up," he replies. "I'd like to know if there's a link."

  "I'll keep you in the loop," I mutter.

  "Oh, and you were right about Daniel Gregory," he adds. "He's taken a big offer from the Sunday papers to tell his story, but he's already indicated that he's not going to sue us. Apparently he wants to forgive and forget, and he thinks legal action would simply cause more heartache. He's given a big speech about how he wants to heal the wounds that have been caused. Makes me want to bring up my breakfast."

  "Of course he doesn't want to cause more of a fuss," I reply, not making much effort to hide my cynicism. "Nothing to do with the fact that he did it and doesn't want us to start raking over the muck again."

  "Let it go," he says, as he turns and leaves the room. "You've got other fish to fry."

  "But -"

  "Let it go," he says again, more firmly this time. "You've got your hands full here. Learn to focus. The Daniel Gregory case is over, and Nick Jordan's looking into Natasha Simonsen's death. It's nothing to do with you anymore."

  Once he's gone, I stare at the article and try to work out if there's any way that the murders thirty years ago could be connected to the two homeless victims we've found recently. There are so many contradictions and differences, it's hard to see how a direct line can be drawn from one set of deaths to the other, but I can't ignore the fact that in all the deaths a hook was used to create more or less the same injuries. I might not have worked out the connection just yet, but at the back of my mind there's a growing suspicion that I might be onto something. Either way, I haven't got much else to go on, and it's clear that my next step is to identify the two bodies in the morgue.

  Sure, they were homeless when they died, but they came from somewhere. They were real people once, with real lives and families.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ophelia

  Fortunately, when I get back to my spot I find that no-one has taken it. I've had good spots nicked before, and there's no point trying to get them back. You just have to accept that you've lost out, and get busy finding somewhere else.

  Reaching behind the bush that runs along the wall, I grasp about until I find the plastic bag I stashed a few days ago. There are a few old sandwiches inside, liberated from a supermarket bin that was mistakenly left unlocked. Although they're a few days out of date, the sandwiches are still pretty good, so I open one up and eat it as quickly as possible. Once that's done, I transfer some change from my pockets into the small tin I keep for savings, and finally I hide the bag back behind the bush.

  It's not much of a secure location, but it's better than nothing.

  "Hey!"

  Looking over my shoulder, I spot a guy wandering toward me. From the way he's walking, it looks as if he's either drunk or high, and I'm immediately worried. Glancing along the path, I see a crowd making its way over a nearby br
idge, so if it comes to it, I can always scream for help. Hopefully it won't come to that, however, so I get to my feet and turn to face the guy.

  "What you doing down here?" he asks.

  "Nothing."

  "You got something in that bush?"

  I shake my head.

  He smiles.

  "You got something in your pants?" he adds with a leery grin.

  "No," I reply, although I wish I could think of a better comeback. I'm rubbish at snappy conversations.

  "Come on," he says, looking down at my trousers. "What's up with you, eh? You're new to the streets. I can tell. We all have to help each other out, yeah? You give, and then later on you get. It's karma, innit?"

  "I'm not new," I reply.

  He laughs.

  I stare at him. There's a part of me that just wants to let rip and tell him to keep the hell away from me, but I know better than to get into a confrontation with someone who's clearly out of his mind. My strategy in this type of situation is just to be polite and hope I don't attract too much attention. Failing that, I could just leg it.

  "I've had a fucking awful day," he continues, stopping just a couple of feet away and eying me with a look that clearly hides some kind of intent. "A fucking pisser of a day with capital letters, if you know what I mean. It's been like every fucking thing is trying to get me down. Do you ever have days like that? It's like God's up there, and he's looking down right at me, and he's thinking about how much he really wants to fuck with my life."

  I force a smile, even though all I can think about is when to run.

  "How's your day been?" he asks, fixing me with a determined, unblinking stare.

  "Fine."

  "You don't feel like relaxing?"

  "I'm fine."

  "Is that what you are all the time? Fine?"

  I stare at him.

  "I think you should hang out with me for a few minutes," he continues, glancing over at the bridge for a moment before turning back to me. "We should look out for each other. Does that sound like a good idea? We can be friends, and that's what friends do, isn't it? They look out for each other, do each other favors, that kind of thing." He pauses. "You wanna be my friend, don't you?"

  "I'm busy," I tell him. The guy's quite thin and wiry, so I'm worried I might not be able to outrun him. Then again, I'm had plenty of practice running from people over the past few years.

  "Busy?" he replies.

  I nod.

  "Doing what?"

  "Nothing much."

  He laughs.

  "I should go," I add, turning to walk away before he puts a hand on my shoulder. I immediately flinch; I hate being touched, and although I manage to spin out of his grasp, I can tell he's not going to let me go without a fight. His pupils are enlarged, which means he's definitely on some kind of drug, and drug addicts terrify me. You never quite know what they're going to do next. He could still turn out to be harmless, or he could turn out to be nothing more than a loud yob... or he could turn out to be a maniac.

  "What's the matter?" he asks. "You scared of me?"

  "No," I reply, "I just -"

  "So what's wrong with me? Why don't you wanna be my friend?"

  "I'm fine."

  He steps closer, and finally I can see that his pupils are dilated. He's on something, and whatever it is, I don't want to be around when it tips him over the edge.

  "Listen," he starts to say, "let's just -"

  And that's when I turn and run. Racing across the open space, I head for the steps over by the far wall. I can hear the guy running after me, but I know I'll be fine if I can just get to the steps and then make my way up to the bridge. At least in a crowd I know that the guy won't try anything, and it'll be easier to slip away. As I reach the bottom of the steps and start bounding up two-at-a-time, I figure I only need to keep going for a few more seconds. My heart's pounding and -

  Suddenly I feel someone grabbing me from behind. Losing my footing, I land hard on the steps, grazing my hand against the concrete. Turning, I see that the guy has caught up to me, so I quickly jam my elbow into his face, forcing him back. Reaching under my coat, I pull out the hook I took from the guy last night and I lash out with it, catching the guy's left cheek and cutting a sharp gasp down to his chin. He curses as he pulls away, and I quickly get to my feet and start stumbling up the steps. I can barely breathe, but I know I can't afford to stop, not even for a second.

  When I get to the top, I pause for a moment as I try to work out which way to run. The crowd is all around me, so I just need to make a decision and disappear.

  Mistake.

  The guy lunges at me from behind, knocking me against a woman and sending all three of us crashing to the ground. As startled onlookers hurry away from us, I look back and kick the guy square in the face before climbing over the woman and getting to my feet. After a moment, I hear the guy cursing at me again, and I turn in time to see him stumbling toward me. Instinctively, I lash out at him with the hook, catching his neck this time and ripping away a piece of skin. He lets out a gasp of pain and stumbles away before dropping to one knee.

  "Alright!" shouts a voice nearby, grabbing my arm and twisting it behind my back with such force that I drop the hook. I can already tell from the sound of the voice, and the smell of a polyester uniform, that the cops have caught up to us.

  "She attacked me with a fucking hook!" the guy screams, before turning and running off through the crowd.

  Nearby, the woman is being helped to her feet.

  "Let go of me!" I shout, trying desperate to get free before I feel a pair of handcuffs being slapped onto my wrists. I try to get free, but it's hopeless.

  "This yours?" asks a female cop, picking up the hook. "Jesus Christ, it weights a ton. Where'd you get it, some kind of factory? Do you realize this counts as a deadly weapon?"

  "She was swinging it at people," says the male cop.

  "He was trying to kill me!" I shout, although in the confusion the guy has managed to get away. Tears are already forming behind my eyes, and I realize with a sinking sensation that I'm about to start crying like an idiot. "He chased me! I was defending myself! Ask anyone and they'll tell you!"

  "Yeah," the male cop continues, "maybe, but you're the one with the big hook, aren't you? I mean, if we're talking about people who pose an obvious threat to public safety, the hook kinda stands out. The way you were lashing out, you could've hurt anyone who happened to be standing nearby."

  "She knocked me right over," says the woman as she totters toward us. "I think I've sprained my ankle."

  "What's your name?" the other cop asks.

  "None of your business," I spit at her, still trying to get free even though I know there's not much chance. I try to look away so she can't see me crying.

  "Fine," she replies with a sigh, "we'll do it the hard way. You're under arrest for assault with a deadly weapon and causing a disturbance in a public location. You have the right to remain -"

  "I didn't do anything!" I shout, with tears now rolling down my cheeks. I always work so hard to keep away from the cops, and it's been almost a year since my last run-in. At best, they're going to haul me in and humiliate me; at worst, they'll throw the book at me and send me to prison while they decide just how tight to turn the screws. I've always known, ever since I arrived in London, that there was a risk of something like this happening.

  "Ophelia, right?" says the male cop after a moment. "I think we've met before. You were pulled in for graffiti once, weren't you? Some other stuff too. Petty theft, was it?"

  Sniffing back tears, I stare at him with all the venom I can muster.

  "Never had you pegged as the violent type," he adds with a faint smile. "Still, can't ignore the hook, can we?"

  With that, they start leading me back to the other side of the bridge, while the crowd parts to let us through. There must be close to a hundred people staring at me, all writing me off as some kind of criminal. As we reach the patrol car and the male cop goes to open
the door, I make the mistake of glancing at one of the windows and seeing a hint of my reflection. I look absolutely wild, like some kind of creature that rose from the sewers. I guess I'd quietly hoped that years of living on the streets hadn't caused too much damage, but as I'm shoved into the car, I finally have to face the realization that I look like a monster.

  Seeing my own eyes in the rear-view mirror, I feel a wave of horror pass through my body. This is me. This is what I've become.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Laura

  "Anything?"

  Looking up from the computer, I see that Tim is standing in the doorway with a smile on his face, as if he already knows the answer to his question. I quickly close the chat window; the last thing I need is for anyone to know that I sometimes unwind at work by talking to random strangers online.

  "Let me guess," he continues. "You've been trawling the missing persons database all afternoon, looking for someone who matches the description of the two bodies, and you've come up with nothing. At most, you wasted your time on one or two possible matches that turned out to be dead ends."

  "These people have to exist," I reply, even though I'm far too tired to argue with him. "They have birth certificates, families, credit histories... They were real people before they..."

  I pause.

  "Before what?" he asks. "Before they became homeless?"

  "You know what I mean," I mutter. "They're in the system somewhere. They exist."

  "Sure they do," he says. "Doesn't mean anyone gives a damn about them, though. You think anyone's gonna go and report little Timmy missing if he runs away from home after being a fucking junkie for a couple of years? Hell, no. No-one wants to risk him being found and brought back. They just tell themselves that the little bastard'll be okay and they get on with their lives, hoping there'll never be a knock on the door. Meanwhile, Little Timmy ends up dead on the pavement in the heart of London, but no-one ever connects the corpse with the name." He pauses. "Trust me, Laura. In the unlikely event that you do manage to snag a name, the families of those victims won't thank you."