Prologue
Butcher Row. Passing the sign on her morning run it always made her smile. A name to be scared of.
The late May sun was raising its eye over Canary Wharf to the East, she ran steadily, one foot falling after the other, used to the feeling of power under slow release; controlling her stamina. She was going to need it; she fought Jane Heally, a black girl from Canning Town, in a week, and even if she wasn’t scared, she didn’t take chances once the gloves were on.
The river was high, and as she reached Limehouse Basin, a boat scudded by toward the City, its bell clanging mournfully.
Seconds Away: Round One. She danced out of her corner and saw the look of fear in Jane Heally’s eyes…
An engine gunned frantically, a little way away, and a big black SUV barrelled round the corner on the far side of the basin. Instinct told her to skid to a halt. The East End held the stuff of Yardies, Triads, and Ex-Soviets, as well as the local firms going back generations: you got used to the signs.
She hunkered down behind the wall; 'You din't see it; you don't know'. The vehicle had stopped and two men had got out. She heard the rear door of the SUV, then something was dragged out, then a gentle splash as it went into the water of the basin. The rear door banged shut, and as she stole a glance above the wall, the men, both in black overalls, climbed back inside, and drove away. She waited before standing up.
Lying face down in the water was a man's naked body.
Her hand went for her mobile and she had dialled 999 and pressed 'send' before realising: she would have to explain, make a statement, there’d be trouble. She killed the connection and switched off the phone. She started to run again. People would be sleeping in some of the boats moored in the basin; let the police ask them – nothing was going to bring the stupid old sod back, was it?
Suddenly a police siren was wailing close to. She froze, and then darted for cover up a small flight of stairs, onto the wall, and then a scramble up the tree. She wedged herself onto a sturdy branch, pulled her legs up and waited.
The cop car pulled up just where the SUV had parked, and again two people got out, this time a man and a woman, both in uniform. The woman walked to the edge of the basin, looked, and said 'Fucking great. End of the shift and now this'.
The man replied. 'Ker-ching!'
'Fuck your overtime' came the reply. 'I want sleep'. She spoke into her radio. 'Hotel Hotel from Hotel Hotel 49; CSI needed at Limehouse Basin; body of IC one male in the water.'
'Thanks, Kay. Stay with it.' crackled the radio.
'Cheers'. She glanced around the basin. 'The river boys will get him out, right?'
'I fucking hope so'.
'Let's start knocking on doors'.
'Hatches, you plonk'.
'Fuck off'.
The two police climbed aboard one boat after the other; only about half of them were occupied, and the owners came out sleepily and looked at the dead body in the water; they were mostly shocked and upset, but they all said they knew nothing about it. She sat in the tree and watched, and waited.
Soon an unmarked Toyota pulled up beside the cop car, and a man in a grey suit got out. He took pictures of the body, and talked on his mobile phone; presently there was the roar of a motor boat engine, and the River Police arrived with a rope and a harness to pull the body out of the basin. The grey suited man unfolded a blanket, which he kept in the boot of his car, and they laid the body on it. While the uniformed officers kept people away (for it was quite light now), the grey suited man put on tight rubber gloves and began to examine the corpse. He had just turned the body over, requiring a little help from the male constable, when a third car arrived and two plain clothed officers got out.
'What have we got, Liam?' asked the older of the two CID.
The CSI stood up, peeling off his gloves. 'As you see; IC1 male, aged 50+, height 1 metre 60, weight about 90 kilos, hair grey, eyes grey, no articles of clothing.'
'I can see that. Did he drown?'
'Hard to say at this point, Sir. There’s a puncture wound on the left side of the back just below the ribcage; contusion on forehead consistent with fall, and no ligature marks, but until I get him back to the office, I’m not prepared to –'
'Be any more helpful, no…'
The grey suited man looked hurt. 'Actually, yes.' He paused, resentfully. 'There is a brown mark on the middle finger right hand resembling nicotine stain, and indentations on bridge of nose suggesting deceased was a glasses wearer.' He stood up. 'Make of that what you will.'
While the others clustered round the body, rolling it onto a stretcher from the CSI's car, and covering it with a blanket, the inspector walked away from them and towards the tree. The watcher froze, as the policeman took out his mobile phone and dialled.
'Clive? Is that you? I've got something for you. We've just pulled a naked middle aged white man out of Limehouse Basin; are you interested?'.
The reply was brief, and the inspector just said 'Right' before pocketing the phone. The ambulance arrived soon after; the body was taken inside, and then all the vehicles drove away.
She climbed down the tree, and looked curiously at the empty patch of water where the body had floated, before running on; in her mind, a picture of Jane Heally out cold on the stretcher.