So now Ross was looking for links between this victim and the others. Rudlin had been pretty ordinary, not important like Staunce and Spatley: redbrick university, Lancaster; reasonably well-off family; nobody close to him worked in police or government. It was possible that the idea here was just to create terror in a particular group of people, but then why not kill loads of them? The presence of the protestors outside was interesting. The faces that had been identified in the crowd outside the bar didn’t match any who’d been present at the Spatley murder, but that sample, among all the masks involved, was pretty small. It was perhaps indicative that the protestors just happened to show up in this neighbourhood and mount their first ever protest outside a bar on the night when the Ripper attacked someone inside it. That was a very attractive connection to make, now with three data points in a row, but it could still just be coincidence, given the prevalence of the Toff movement across London. Perhaps the Ripper was somehow the ‘spirit of the protests’ or being summoned by someone in the Toff crowds, or feeding on their anger or something like that.
Tired coppers from the main investigation had told her they’d found no sign of a pre-organized picket of the bar on Toff websites. But with an organization this diffuse — if it could be called an organization at all — there was usually little warning of anything. It was as if they were dealing with a flash mob as a culture. A bunch of tweets had gone out, giving the impression that something was already happening outside this particular bar, and other people had shown up to join in. The main investigation had asked Twitter to provide details of those accounts under the Data Protection Act, and Forrest’s office had promised to share that with her.
‘If our lot ever get something on Crimewatch,’ said Quill, after she’d told him, ‘they’ll need a special effects budget.’
In the back of Ross’ mind, as she worked the case, she was also working her other problem. She looked to Costain every now and then, and gradually she realized that there was something she could do to change things, perhaps to make things better. It would involve no risk on her part. It would be very hard on him.
That was all right.
She waited until he was on his own, staring into the fine detail of the silver splash on the wall. ‘About last night…’
‘What about it?’ He was careful now, guarded. She could tell that he thought she was going to say it had been a mistake, that it was all over. He was worried either about losing the connection they’d made or about missing his chance to get hold of the Bridge of Spikes. Would she ever be able to look at him and make an accurate assessment of what he was thinking?
‘I had a good time.’
She felt horribly pleased to see his sudden smile. ‘Oh. Great.’
‘So, we should talk about how we’re going to go forward with all this. I mean, if we’re going to go to the auction together, how we could maybe find, you know, some trust.’
He was nodding quickly. ‘Absolutely.’
‘So, I was thinking, second date?’
‘Right. Right, yes.’
She didn’t like the amount of power she had over him either because of her bloody allure or because he was giving it to her in order to flatter and deceive her. ‘Do you mind combining business and pleasure? There’s someone I want you to meet. My place at 2 p.m. tomorrow.’ She walked off and looked over her shoulder: yeah, now he was the one watching her go.
* * *
Sefton lay awake in bed, listening to Joe snoring beside him. He couldn’t help but keep seeing the blows the Ripper had struck. The news tonight had been about escalation, about far right groups starting to march in areas affected by the riots, starting to shout down Toff protestors. From what he knew about the Thirties, he didn’t like the feeling of where this was all going. If people started to feel the establishment was failing them, that the police were failing them, they looked for order in terrible places.
He kept thinking about Barry Keel, about human remains. The two deaths overlapped each other in his head, to the point where he felt vaguely guilty, insanely, for Rudlin’s death too.
He had to do something more than he was doing, he decided. He had to find some way to heal both himself and everything around him. He had to see if the centre was going to hold, to ask a greater power for answers.
* * *
At home, Quill stayed up late that night, looking at the documents of the case, wondering if there was any single thing more he could do. They’d gone out to the Spatley home that afternoon, after they’d got all they could from the new crime scene, and had found, even with their Sighted eyes, nothing the main op hadn’t.
Forrest was starting to realize that Quill’s team were bringing nothing extra to the operation. There seemed to be no connections between Rudlin and the other two victims. They still had very little in the way of access to an occult underworld that seemed to know nothing about this case. Nothing, nothing, nothing … and time was running out both for his team and for the next bloody unlucky man who the Ripper decided to randomly slaughter. Just as he’d finally decided to go to bed, his mobile rang. He saw it was Sefton, and answered.
‘Jimmy,’ said the voice on the other end of the line, ‘I’ve decided.
We’re not getting anywhere. So it’s time for me to do something I’ve been putting off. Something a bit scary.’
‘You know,’ said Quill, ‘Ross called five minutes ago, and she said almost exactly the same thing.’
NINE
It was Sunday morning. Sefton stood at the familiar bus stop in Kensington. Nobody else waited there. The streets were quiet, still calm, despite that now omnipresent smell of smoke. You could actually hear the birdsong. The occasional jogger or dog walker passed him.
He heard the bus approaching. He looked down the road and concentrated … and yes, now he knew what he was looking for, there it was: the number 7 bus, to Russell Square, as indicated by the display on the front. This wasn’t a modern bus. It was a very old one. As Sefton knew from terrifying experience, you needed the Sight to see it, let alone board it.
He put his hand out. He tensed up as the bus slowed down. He could see nothing behind its dark windows. It stopped, and he got onto the rear platform. Brutus had said that each time he had to find a new, more dangerous way of coming to see him, but surely if he made it again through what had been an overwhelming passage, at least he’d get a hearing. He braced himself to encounter what was in this darkness, taking a step forwards as the bus accelerated away from the stop at-
He turned. This was different. They were travelling incredibly fast.
A force that he could not have argued with thrust every inch of his body at once towards the door.
He had time to yell and-
The bus vanished. He hit the road. There had been a moment in his head of knowing he was going to. That moment was the worst thing of all.
He bounced. He rolled. He missed the wheels of a car that swung suddenly out of his way. His body hit the kerb and he yelled.
He lay there, taking big, slow breaths. He was okay, but only because something had made sure he was okay. It wouldn’t do so next time. That had been a warning.
Brutus had meant what he said. He’d been stupid enough to try it anyway. It would need something new. It would need something worse.