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I stared out the window at the dark West London streets. I was pretty sure we had a long drive ahead of us to the other side of London—the part called “the City.” It was the old section of London, the part the Romans had encircled with a wall nearly two thousand years ago. The wall had fallen, but the ancient Square Mile still had its own governing bodies, separate from the rest of London. The Square Mile even had its own City police force.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out. My stomach churned as I watched the contact name slowly scroll across the screen:Under No Circumstances Should You Answer A Call From This Ballsack, it read.
That would be my ex-boyfriend.
See? Brits aren’t the only ones who can swear creatively.
I’m not normally the angry sort, but when I’d come home to find that my boyfriend had left open a dating site on my computer (username:VirginiaStallion), the swears had just rolled off the tongue.
According to a quick Google search, the Virginia Stallion had also been quite busy swapping dating tips on bodybuildingforums. Apparently, wearing a nicely tailored suit attracts the ladies, and Valentine’s Day can be a nightmare when you’re “banging three chicks on the regular.” All things I’d learned in the past two weeks.
You’d think I’d be more careful about the kind of men I let into my life. Lesson learned for the future.
Scowling, I shoved my phone back in my pocket.
The driver glanced back at me. “Did you come from America or Canada?”
“The US. It’s my first time here.” I bit my lip. “Have you ever encountered the phrase ‘dozy mare?’”
“Did someone call you that, miss?”
“Based on the context, I’m assuming it wasn’t a compliment.”
“I wouldn’t pay it any mind, love.” He turned onto a highway. “You working with the police at Bishopsgate? I don’t imagine you came all the way from America to report a crime.”
“Just doing a bit of consulting,” I said. “Insider trading cases in the City. White-collar stuff.”
A lie, and one boring enough that he wouldn’t ask any follow-up questions. I’d become quite used to lying after a few years with the Bureau, though I still lacked the skill of the Virginia Stallion.
“Right,” he said. “The financial district. You ask me, half those people should be in jail. Mucking about with the stock market and all that. Screws it up for everyone.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
My lies bored even me, but I wasn’t about to expose the fact that I was here to profile London’s mostfamous serial killer since Jack the Ripper. Plus, it creeped people out when I said I was an FBI special agent. And itparticularlyspooked them if they learned I worked for the Behavioral Analysis Unit, as a psychologist who profiled criminals. All of a sudden, people got jittery, as if I were going to unearth their darkest secrets just by looking into their eyes.
We lapsed into silence as the cab sped along the M4. As we drove further into the city, I began to feel a change tingle over my body, as though my senses were becoming heightened. Here, in the center of the City, the streetlights seemed to burn brighter, washing the streets in white light. On a road called Chancery Lane,we drove past squat Tudor-looking buildings, the colored lights from the shops on their lower floors dazzling off puddles on the pavement. No one lingered on the dark streets at this hour, but for just a moment, I thought I heard the buzz of a crowd of people; then it faded into the distance again.
A shiver rippled over my body. I’d never been to London, and yet I had a strange sense of déjà vu here.Get a grip, Cassandra.
The driver turned to me. “You hear about the new Ripper murders in the City?” he asked.
“I did hear about them. It freaked me out. Nearly canceled my trip,” I lied. “You don’t normally get many murders around here, do you?”
“Not like you do. We don’t have guns. But these murders… I wouldn’t advise walking around at night if I was you. From what I hear, they didn’t even put the worst of it in the papers. The girls they found, they was…” He cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t want to scare you.”
“I’ll certainly be careful.”
I didn’t need him to tell me the details—I’d been poring over them for the entire flight, and before that, in my BAU office back at Quantico. I practically knew the depth of each laceration by heart. Still, the cab driver’s concern was cute, and I appreciated it. I was quickly reviving my “polite” theory of Brits.
A few days ago, the City of London police had persuaded me to fly to the UK. The London FBI overseas office was slammed with other work, the attachés delving into investigations of terrorism cases and election interference. None of them had time for a serial killer, but I’d made my career off these cases. I’d been researching serial killers for the Bureau for years. The strange details of this case had piqued my Unit Chief’s interest—enough that he was willing to foot the bill. And the City Police wanted to meet me as soon as I arrived—a Detective Constable Stewart was waiting for me, even at this late hour.
I rummaged in my bag, searching for some makeup and my mirrored compact. I pulled out a rose lipstick and dotted some pink on to my pale cheeks in the reflection. As I did, something glimmered in my blue irises—a hint of rushing water, like a rolling river.
I snapped the compact shut.I am losing my mind.I obviously needed sleep, or water, or perhaps several Manhattans.
I rubbed my forehead. I was supposed to head straight to the station to quickly meet the detective,and the details of the case nagged at the back of my mind.
The driver looked over his shoulder at me. “Lots of papers to go through, I imagine. With your sort of work.”
