Ring. Sister. Piano (Book 4 of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Thirty Five: The Fleet

Sleep restored some of his optimism. And this was fortunate, because he now had to head into a grimy London suburb and spend the morning thinking like Robin Crake.

He loved boarding the trains at Oxford Station. He had been free to leave the city for seven months now, but it never lost its novelty. He liked to see those spires receding into the distance as the train pulled away, until they were just black thorns on a plant he would never have to trouble himself picking.

Of course, the pleasure was mixed with a few misgivings this morning. Leaving the town at a time like this - leaving Ellini unguarded when she was hell-bent on challenging Myrrha, and when Elliott Blake was hanging around, doing the obscenely brilliant things he did with a piano, felt wrong. But what else could he do? How else could he help? He'd go mad if he didn't try to do something.

Twenty years had changed Camden Town beyond recognition, apart from the soot. Jack looked for the cottage by the lock, only to find that it had been torn down to make room for a warehouse, plastered with advertising bills at different heights, so that the marvels of Doctor Thomas's World-Famous Boot Blacking would be apparent to everyone, whether they were short or tall.

The Old Mother Redcap was now called The World's End, which seemed unreasonable, because it was clear when you stood on Camden High Street that the world stretched on for miles in every direction, and would never tire of trying to sell you things.

There was nothing very extraordinary opposite the pub - just a shonky shop and a cabinet-maker's. There was also a coffee-vendor's stall, topped with two large, five-gallon cans containing the tea and coffee. The coffee-vendor was chatting to a woman in an apron, who was holding a baby in a business-like way, as if it was a basket of laundry.

The spring was still in Jack's step, in spite of everything. He felt healed - sharp - stretchy. And this was so like the neighbourhood he'd grown up in. He didn't have very good memories of the neighbourhood he'd grown up in, but it was still a world he knew. He could disappear here. He could wear the streets like an oilskin coat.

There were lots of men in cloth caps queuing outside the stall, probably on their way to work, waiting for their morning brew, or a thick wodge of bread and butter to serve as breakfast.

Jack joined the queue and bought a bacon sandwich, wrapped in greasy wax-paper, which he chewed thoughtfully as he wandered up the High Street, trying to picture what had happened that day, twenty years ago.

He knew Sita had been the first murder, although he couldn't remember when he'd picked this up. It made sense, both from what he knew of Robin, and of Ellini. Of course she would talk proudly of her clever little sister, and so of course Robin would have seen her as his biggest rival for Ellini's affections.

And, for the first murder, Robin would have wanted her to be unsure whether it had really been murder at all. That would prolong Ellini's agony and ensure he got to spend more time with her. He would have been walking with Sita, perhaps, and pretended to stumble.

The uncertainty of it must have bothered him, though. Even if he found a deep enough shaft, even if he timed it just right, there was always the possibility that she might survive. And what would he do then? Creep into the sick-room and smother her with a pillow? Hardly the dramatic spectacle he'd had planned.

Jack's stomach was tight, but his mind was racing. He hated, hated, hated that he could do this - that he could put himself so easily into Robin's shoes. But, at the same time, it was so beguiling - to think without consequences, to put your needs at the centre of the universe, to do what you did so well without a second thought. How free he must have felt when he was planning those murders! How dire and despicable, how creative...