Free River of Souls by Kate Rhodes Page B

drive through the rush-hour traffic. The rapid ten-minute ride to Wapping gave me little time to speculate. The river was at high tide, blacker than ever, vanishing between the ancient buildings on Wapping Wall.
    The street outside the Prospect of Whitby was a hive of activity. It had been cordoned off by three police vans and a traffic patrol car. The Met had commandeered the pub, which was heaving with officers. When I headed inside, the dark wooden panelling seemed to absorb every speck of brightness, as though natural light never penetrated the leaded windows. My eyes scanned the interior looking for Burns, but caught instead on a sign over the bar stating that the Prospect was London’s oldest riverside pub, open since 1520. The interior had been salvaged from old ships; the bar was made of pewter, walls supported by old barrels and masts. I was still studying the ancient flagstone floor when a young woman appeared. She was almost as small-framed as me, with cropped red hair, her pixie-like face splitting into a smile of greeting. It was Angie Wilcox, one of Burns’s detectives from his days at Southwark. The last time I’d worked with her had been on the Crossbones case, but her ability to talk ceaselessly without ever drawing breath was unchanged.
    ‘The boss headhunted me. Last time I saw you I was full steam ahead planning my wedding. It went okay, thank God, apart from one bridesmaid getting rat-arsed at the reception and making a tit of herself. I’ve had some luck at work too – they’re putting me up for my inspector exam next year.’
    ‘Burns must be thrilled to have you.’
    ‘I bloody hope so. It’s been full-on since I arrived, and now this happens.’
    Angie was as excitable as I’d remembered, but she silenced herself when Burns’s deputy arrived. Tania Goddard towered over us, so glossy she looked like she’d been airbrushed; her black fringe bisected her forehead in a geometric line, lips a vivid crimson. Only the bleak look in her eyes revealed her state of mind.
    ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
    ‘I’ve had better days. The victim’s WPC Amala Adebayo, thirty-four years old. She’d only been with us six months. Her body was found tied up twenty metres west along the riverbank. The men who found her brought her up here; they were worried the river might carry her away.’ Her voice tailed into silence. ‘You’d better go through, Alice. Burns is waiting.’
    The wide sweep of the river greeted me when I got outside, acres of charcoal sky with the warehouses of Shad Thames lining the opposite bank. But no one was admiring the view. A white tent had been erected in the patio garden, a police photographer disappearing through the flaps. Burns had his mobile clamped to his ear, his accent growing steadily more Scottish. A business-like young scenes of crime officer scribbled my name on her checklist, then handed me a sterile suit and plastic overshoes. I was about to put them on when a tear dropped from her eye onto the sheet of paper. She wiped it away hurriedly, as though emotions were a weakness best ignored.
    ‘Did you know Amala well?’ I asked.
    The girl gave a miserable nod. ‘We started the same week.’
    ‘I’m so sorry. What was she like?’
    ‘Lovely.’ Her eyes were still brimming. ‘You could tell her anything. I can’t believe anyone would hurt her.’
    When I turned round, Burns was facing me. His expression warned me that whatever lay inside the tent wasn’t going to be pretty.
    ‘This is worse than Jude Shelley’s attack.’ He pulled a police ID card from his pocket. ‘That’s how Amala looked yesterday. I want everyone to remember that.’
    ‘She’s stunning.’ A young black woman with high cheekbones and flawless skin gazed back at me.
    ‘Not any more.’ His scowl deepened.
    Burns pulled back the tent flaps and I stepped inside. The temperature seemed to fall by several degrees, rain drumming on the plastic roof. Amala Adebayo’s corpse was clothed