Dr. Schuller. “Have a look, Richard. It's the same message, letter for letter, word for word.”
Sharpe eagerly took her place at the magnifying glass, finding just the right focus for himself. “As if the killer has a brand, and he keeps using it over and over.”
'Two out of three, technically,” agreed Copperwaite.
“It's clear enough.”
Jessica took a last look at the message, inscribed in the flesh, burnt into the flesh by a micro-brand. “I confess, I've never seen the like of it before,” she told the men.
“It's clearly the work of a serial killer now, one wishing to taunt police with a hideous method of torturous death for his victims,” suggested Chief Inspector Boulte. “We'll keep this out of the communique you wish to forward the media, Richard.”
“We'd like a good deal more said about the killings, Chief Inspector.”
“I've reviewed your suggestions and those of our American colleague, Richard. I'm sorry, but it all seems a bit premature at this time to alarm the public with this information about…about the tongues being seared on top of all this other nastiness, you see?”
Jessica took several deep breaths of air, allowing her disappointment clear vent. Sharpe bit his lip and nodded to his superior, saying, “Whatever you judge best, Chief Inspector. It is, after all, your show.”
Sharpe abruptly turned from his superior and rained compliments on Jessica. “You've done a fine job for us. Dr. Coran, in the startlingly brief time you've been on the case.”
Copperwaite eagerly added, “Yes, she's already proven her worth to the case quite dramatically, I'd say.”*
Copperwaite's compliment hardly left his lips when Sharpe laughed aloud. Whether Copperwaite knew it or not, he'd hit upon the true reason why Chief Inspector Boulte did not wish to go public with this information. It had come not from the Yard's efforts or findings, but from the American, the colonist, Jessica Coran. Boulte only showed a politically correct smile and agreed with his men, saying, “Yes, Dr. Coran, your contribution to the case, thus far, has been most impressive. Keep up the good work.” Dr. Karl Schuller, however, remained displeased, his dour expression as frozen as the dead Coibby's, and he left without a word to anyone. Boulte followed after him.“Where do we go from here?” she asked Sharpe.
“How about lunch?” he replied.
“Bonzo,” agreed Copperwaite. “I'm starved.”
“There's a little pub not far from here, called Groton's, if it's not full. Old favorite,” said Sharpe. “Let's have a go at it, shall we?”
“We shall,” Jessica agreed.
“Over lunch, we can talk about our next move. If we have one.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asked. “ 7/ we have one?”
“Chief Inspector Boulte's pushing for a new investigative team to come on.”
“What? What kind of thinking is that?”
“Administrative.”
“Is that how New Scotland Yard works? If so, it smells like yesterday's fish.”
“Boulte used a fishy metaphor as well,” replied Sharpe, a bit amused at her anger. “Says we're rowing a leaking boat.”
“He's always saying crap of that sort. 'Gain on swings, lose on roundabouts,' he says ten times a day,” reported Copperwaite as they continued to the bar. “Gawd 'elp us. The man doesn't know the geography of his own house.”
Sharpe laughed uproariously at this, leaving Jessica to wonder what she'd missed. He quickly explained, “It means he can't find the john in his own home.”
She joined in their laughter. “I've a Geordie friend from Tynsdale knows more than that man,” said Copperwaite.
“Boulte doesn't rise to the level of a Geordie, a George perhaps…” Sharpe's summation brought on more laughter. Copperwaite explained for Jessica that a George in Britain meant the automatic-pilot mechanism on an airplane or the cruise mechanism on a car. “Let the hamster onto the wheel,” added Sharpe, chewing now on an unlit pipe.
“Still, isn't it rather a bit premature to call in a new investigative team at this point?” she asked.
Sharpe shrugged. “Oh, I don't know. He has to have someone to play the goat. Short of having someone in the greenhouse-ahh, the lock-up-he has to point a finger in some direction. To be fair, he has a hell of a political Rube Goldberg balanced on his shoulder right now, and-”
“Ahh, you're daft, Sharpie. You make too many excuses for the man.”
Sharpe ignored Copperwaite as they continued along a tree-lined street, children playing in nearby yards. “Boulte's right about one thing. We haven't amassed a thing on the killer, and now we may simply have to wait for the killer to strike again before we can learn any more about him or them. This is a sorry state of affairs, but it happens to be the circumstances we're now faced with, as you know.”
“We're just to sit about like bumps to wait for a… another killing?” asked Copperwaite.
Jessica complained as well. “That's a bit like the tail wagging the dog, don't you think?”
“What steps then would you have us take?”
“Use the Times and the BBC. Get word out on this killer. Tell the public what you've found, what to look for.”
“That might flush him out,” agreed Copperwaite.
“Or send him packing,” suggested Sharpe.
Jessica looked into his eyes. “Either way, don't you think people should be forewarned? If there's anyone out there who knows anything about this branding for instance, it could lead to a break in the case. As it is, you have no suspects and no direction. Sometimes you need to manufacture a direction.”
NINE
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly and foul contagion spread…
While at Groton's Pub, Sharpe's beeper hailed him, and after making a phone call, he returned to the table with a grim look in his eye. “Afraid Stuart, Jessica,… before anything regarding the crucifixion deaths and the fact the victims had all been branded can be released to the press, another body, in the same condition, awaits us at the Serpentine.”
“The Serpentine?” asked Jessica.
“A large lake, rather serpentine in form, if one uses imagination, bordering Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens,” replied Copperwaite, placing a polite hand over his gaping, yawning mouth. “Rather a distance from the other bodies, wouldn't you say, Richard?”
But Sharpe's mind was elsewhere. He hardly heard a word.
“Ahh, of course,” Copperwaite's light came on. “Not bloody far from where your ex and your children live, is it, Richard?” asked Copperwaite, knowing the answer.
“Let's get over there.”
The ride to Hyde Park felt like a funeral procession marked by extraordinary solemnity. Sharpe brooded, looking like one of the ancient gargoyles atop so many London cathedrals. Obviously, the Crucifier had struck too close to home for Sharpe's comfort. Jessica followed Stuart Copperwaite's lead, Copperwaite appearing to respect his elder partner's need for silence.
“Body's been snatched from the water. No telling how much evidence has gone lost before we were notified,” Sharpe finally said, breaking the quiet. “First thing you'll want to examine, Doctor, are the wounds to the
