Free Beautiful Death by Fiona McIntosh

don’t know. But none of the victims were sexually assaulted. Bruising is minor and consistent with legs or wrists being tied, but there are no other wounds.’
    ‘Just the face he’s after, then?’
    ‘Sorry, not exactly, one lost his kidneys as well.’
    Now Kate looked disgusted. ‘Sick,’ she said, glancing out at the streets of Whitechapel, teeming with people from the Asian community. She knewthe area quite well. ‘This place is a real Little Bangladesh, don’t you think?’
    He nodded. ‘Where are you living now?’
    ‘Not too far from here, actually. Stoke Newington. Dunsmure Road. I bought a tiny townhouse and I’m very happy there. A quick stroll to Bethnal Green tube — all very easy.’ She looked back at him. ‘I heard you’ve defected,’ she added.
    Jack was getting used to this. ‘Yes, I’m a southern boy now,’ he said, adding a Texan-style drawl to his words.
    ‘I love Greenwich,’ she said wistfully. ‘Do you use the park?’
    ‘As often as I can. You’ll have to come over — I’ll take you to all the famous sights.’ And when she gave a groan, reminiscent of Malcolm Sharpe, Jack chuckled. ‘The BBC loves Greenwich for its period features,’ he told her. ‘You’re missing out in the north.’
    ‘Oh, I’ll take you up on your invitation, I just don’t want a guided tour through history.’
    ‘That’s because you’re a philistine,’ he said. ‘Now, how’s your bile holding?’
    She glared disdainfully at him. ‘I’ll be fine. Pay the driver.’ She opened the door and stepped out into the frenetic activity and noise of Whitechapel Road.
    Joining her, Jack took her arm as they crossed the busy street. ‘This impressive façade hides the huge sprawl of the hospital, you know. This is only the entrance; the hospital spreads out well into the backstreets. It takes up most of Whitechapel.’
    ‘Respectfully, sir, shut up,’ Kate said.
    He was undeterred as they climbed the steps, approaching the great arches. ‘Do you know whose skeleton they keep here in a private museum?’

    ‘Jack the Ripper?’ she tried, trying to sound bored.
    ‘Joseph Merrick, aka the Elephant Man.’
    ‘Good film,’ she admitted.
    ‘Except the public can’t see his remains. Only the select few.’
    ‘Please don’t tell me you have.’
    He frowned and she liked the way he was immune to the general mockery of his historical interests. ‘No, damn it, but I’d love to.’
    ‘Insist it’s for police matters,’ she suggested and earned a grunt for her trouble.
    ‘Straight to the morgue for you, my girl,’ he said, but then became serious. ‘All right now, Kate. This is not going to be pretty. Are you quite sure you’re going to be okay?’
    ‘Sir,’ she growled, ‘I’ll be fine. Lead the way.’
    He took her down the sweeping Victorian staircase, resisting the impulse to point out design details of this very beautiful feature of what had clearly become a busy, overcrowded public hospital. Everything looked tired, dirty . . . and the people they passed looked equally worn and battle weary.
    Kate had not had occasion to enter a hospital as a patient since childhood, but she knew that if she needed to she’d be marching straight into a private one. This place made her shudder, although she tried to convince herself that these were simply inconsequential corridors beyond which, surely, were friendly airy wards. She’d want a private room, though, one that looked like it came out of an episode of Grey’s Anatomy , the TV show she’d seen previewed during her visit to the US and knew would be her new addiction. Her boss had been talking. ‘Sorry, Jack, didn’t quite catch that.’

    ‘I said we need to mask and gown up. Hospital rules.’
    Kate took a last stab at levity. ‘Always fancied myself in scrubs,’ she said, as they approached the morgue’s double doors.
    DI Cameron Brodie had mustered the troops in the absence of his boss and given them all a warm welcome. For some,