River of Souls Read Online Free Page B

the luckiest woman alive.
    I was about to leave when a familiar figure marched across the landing carrying a bouquet of yellow roses. Timothy Shelley wore the standard politician’s uniform: a dark suit, white shirt and blue silk tie, deliberately inoffensive. He looked younger than his TV persona as Minister of State for Employment, closer to forty than fifty. I’d seen him on the news countless times, justifying why the jobless totals kept on rising. He had the perfect face to break bad news, features bland and permanently fixed in a half-smile, mid-brown hair swept back from his face. He was accompanied by a small entourage. Walking behind him was a taller man, wearing the same type of expensive clothes, about the same age. At a glance he could have been a politician too, but his expression was less certain, as if he was used to taking instructions. Two bodyguards loitered at the top of the stairs, one of them murmuring into his radio. I stepped into the minister’s path as he approached his daughter’s room.
    ‘Mr Shelley, my name’s Alice Quentin. I’ve just visited Jude. I wonder if we could talk?’
    His smile widened by a centimetre. ‘My wife said you might be here. Would you mind waiting until I’ve seen my daughter?’
    ‘Of course not.’
    He turned to his companion. ‘Giles, could you ask the Home Office to delay my meeting?’
    ‘I’ll call them now, Minister.’
    The man gave his boss a measured smile before retreating at a brisk pace. He spoke to the bodyguards then babbled softly into his mobile phone.
    Shelley seemed to be operating in a slower gear than his assistant, unwilling to be hurried. After twenty minutes he emerged from Jude’s room, a little paler than before, which made me wonder if her suffering struck him afresh whenever he visited.
    ‘Why don’t we find ourselves some coffee, Dr Quentin?’
    He seemed oblivious to the followers trailing behind while we walked downstairs, as though being chaperoned had become second nature. He talked more freely as the machine dispensed cappuccino into white china cups. By the time we found a table, he’d described the excellent care his daughter was receiving, and his sympathy for all families hit by tragedy. Each statement was so perfectly honed, he could have been reciting from an autocue. Maybe I judged him harshly, but I got the sense that he was trying so hard to sound sincere that his words rang hollow. His style was the opposite of his wife’s wide-eyed openness.
    ‘Was it your decision to press for the case to be reopened?’ I asked.
    ‘Quite the opposite. I was concerned about the impact on Jude. Maybe I’m overprotective, but we’ve always been very close. I hate the idea of her hopes being dashed, and there’s no point in upsetting Guy. Let’s be honest, Dr Quentin, we both know that the chances of my daughter’s attacker being found are slim. But my wife can be very black and white about things.’
    A flicker of genuine emotion showed for the first time, every muscle in his face tensing with displeasure. He and Heather had obviously fought tooth and nail about the family’s dirty linen being dragged back into the public eye. He seemed to have no faith whatsoever in my ability to solve the crime, but I didn’t doubt the sincerity of his desire to protect his daughter. Maybe the potential impact on his family’s privacy concerned him too. If it became common knowledge that the case had been reopened, their ordeal would be replayed in the national media.
    ‘You’re in a very visible position, Mr Shelley. Can you think of anyone who might bear a grudge towards you, or your family?’
    ‘Contrary to popular opinion, the Westminster village is a relaxed place to work. I don’t have any serious enemies.’ His response came a beat too late, but it made me realise how slick he was. Like Blair or Clinton, he could have lied through his teeth in front of a hundred cameras without batting an eye.
    ‘But you must have had