The cemetery had been so full of human remains in the late nineteenth century that it was closed as a health hazard and became an urban myth over time, a legendary graveyard for the forgotten dead. Thousands were buried here, and the land remained locked in dispute.

"Let us honor their memory now by tying ribbons in their name."

Magda's last few words were drowned out by the rising sound of a hymn and feet stamping to a rousing chorus.

A group of people rounded the corner at the end of the street. They were mostly middle-aged, more women than men, their voices strident as they sang. They carried banners embroidered with scenes of pastoral perfection and emblazoned with slogans. No sin in Southwark. Hate the sin, love the sinner. At the bottom of the banners, their allegiance was printed in black: The Society for the Suppression of Vice.

Magda pointedly ignored the singing and continued with the service, indicating that those present should come forward and tie new ribbons to the gates next to the faded ones from previous months. O walked forward, kissing a pink ribbon before tying it to the gate, her head bent in remembrance.

"Dirty fucking whores."

The shout came from behind the Society for the Suppression of Vice, and some of the singers turned, faces shocked by the language. But others glared at the group gathered by the gates, supportive of the words that condemned those they considered unclean. Emboldened by the harsh words, the Society singers took a step forward as if to push back the people who offended them with their mere existence.

They filled the width of the street, their dark coats and muted colors a dull contrast to the bright clothes of the sex workers and their supporters. Jamie noticed that some of the girls pulled hoods up, shielding their faces in fear of recognition.

Magda Raven stood silent for a moment, looking towards the Society group with fire in her eyes. She attached her own ribbon to the gate and lifted a candle towards the sky.

"Mother Goddess, virgin and whore, from whom all life comes."

A low hiss came from the Society at her words, and they took another step towards the group.

"May we who remember the Outcast Dead be blessed on this night and protected on the nights to come."

Magda poured some of the wax from her candle onto the bottom of the gates, marking it in remembrance. Then she walked through the crowd and began to lead the sex workers along the street, down Redcross Way towards the river. The Society walked behind, matching their steps.

Jamie lingered towards the back of the group alongside some of the male sex workers and local campaigners. Her senses were alert to the possible threat here, honed by years in the police. Most of those who marched under the banners of the Society were harmless middle-aged women from Southwark Cathedral who thought they were doing good by denouncing sin on the streets. Their eyes were guarded, their fingers gripped their banners tightly, armor against being polluted by the sin of the fallen.

But Jamie saw hate and fanaticism in the eyes of some of them. She had seen that same look in the eyes of racist thugs, religious fanatics and, once, in the smoky Hellfire Caves of West Wycombe, where she had almost died.

At the end of Redcross Way, Magda led the group into Park Street and then Stoney Street. The bars of Borough had mostly closed, but there were still a few people in the streets, laughing as they headed home. Some noticed the two disparate groups, the calm slow steps of the colorful sex workers, followed by the tramp of the Society.

"Come 'ere, darlin'," a man shouted across the road at one of the younger girls. "I've got somethin' that'll put a smile on yer face … or somethin' on your face at least." He guffawed and his mates collapsed in laughter as they staggered off down the road.

O took the hand of the younger woman and they kept walking, faces set in respect, some looking down at the candles they held. Jamie knew that they must hear such words often. It came with the job, but that didn't make it right.

The group approached the end of Stoney Street near the medieval Clink prison, where old warehouses had been turned into luxury apartments overlooking the Thames. Magda turned right, leading the group towards the ruins of Winchester Palace. The monthly vigil always culminated at Southwark Cathedral just a little further on, where they would leave a symbolic wreath in memory of the unconsecrated dead.

The great rose window atop a high stone wall was the only thing that remained of the original twelfth-century palace, illuminated by spotlights at night. This was where the Bishops of Winchester had lived until the seventeenth century, rich men who often held the post as Chancellor. The coffers of the church in this, the Liberty, were filled from the proceeds of the stews, the brothels, the Clink prison, gaming, theatres and all manner of pleasures suppressed in the City across the river. This was where London used to sin – and where, perhaps, it still did. Jamie remained at the back of the group, a buffer between the working girls and the protestors. She felt the eyes of the Society members on her back as she walked, and she wondered briefly what they thought of her.

As the first of the group passed into the light of the Winchester Palace ruins, a scream rang out, a long shrill note that pierced the night.

Chapter 2

Jamie started forward, her body instinctively reacting from her police training, her pulse racing with adrenalin. Her eyes scanned the scene. There was no obvious danger.

"Stay back," Magda's strong voice called out. "Move away now."

Jamie pushed through the throng even as the group surged forward to look. Human nature was ever to gaze at whatever horror lay beyond. Some of them pulled out their phones to take pictures.

She reached the edge of the railing that protected the ruined foundations and looked down. In the middle of the courtyard, a man lay spread-eagle on his back. Jamie automatically processed the crime scene in her mind, as she had always done in the police, scanning the area and noting the details of the body. The man's arms were a ruin of bloody flesh, the skin flayed off with a very sharp knife by the look of the clean wound edges. He wore the remains of a shredded cassock, slashed around the torso, the white collar still visible. His mouth was stuffed with white feathers and more lay around him, stained by his own blood.

"Call the police," Jamie shouted, her tone authoritative. "We need to secure the scene."

As Magda pulled her phone out, Jamie ran down the steps towards the man. The blood around him was fresh and he could still be alive. Stepping carefully so as not to disturb the area too much, Jamie bent to feel the pulse at his neck. There was nothing, but there still might be hope. She had to try.

With the cuff of her sleeve over her fingers, she tugged the feathers from his mouth, the goose down stuffed so deep into his throat that she couldn't get them all out.

After a moment, Jamie stopped. There was no way this man was alive. His face was frozen in agony, his eyes bulging and bloodshot. His thick dark hair was shot through with a streak of white. Jamie was aware of the lack of life in him. His body was still warm but the essence of it had gone, leaving only this ruined flesh. It was now more important to preserve the scene for those who could look into his death and bring him some kind of justice.

Jamie wiped away the prick of tears, frustration at another wasted life and the fact that she would not be on the police team that would investigate his murder. Her statement would be taken, as she had once taken them, but she would be on the outside this time.