Dead in the Water

by Wilfred Jules

  Ianthe unlocked the door and went into the dark hallway. In front of her was the small bathroom next to the single bedroom. On the right the kitchen and on her left the lounge facing the street from which the sound of a PlayStation reached her. She dropped her backpack on the ground next to the door and turned right to go to the kitchen to first make herself a cup of tea, delaying the inevitable for a few moments.

  A door opened behind her and someone roughly grabbed her left arm.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Tony Zanelatto was a 5’9” medium built man with a big mane of dark hair and a hipster beard, dressed as always in a casual chic way. Valentino white T-shirt, Gucci black jeans and the latest fashion in Nike sneakers. He also sported a Vacheron Constantin Overseas Automatic timepiece that he claimed he had been able to get cheaply, but which must have set him back more than 20 grand. She had looked it up. He had bought it right after she had received the Seiko Astron as a Christmas gift from her parents. He had been so jealous and derogatory about her present that he just had to go out and buy his Vacheron Constantin at the Christmas clearance sales as a Christmas present to himself. Ianthe had received a cookbook from him that Christmas, in the inscription of which he hoped she would finally learn to cook. Ianthe always spent a lot of time hunting exactly the right present for him, but the Mont Blanc pen she had finally decided on was discarded as not having been the right colour.

  “Ouch. Let go of my arm. You’re hurting me, Tony!” she exclaimed. “I was at work, obviously!”

  “No, you weren’t,” he countered. “I called your HQ half six and they said you had left already.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I had a quick drink in The Gladstone with Nathan, you know, the Chief Mortician.”

  He finally let go of her arm.

  “That poof? Jaysus, I just don’t get why you like him that much.”

  “You used to like him, too, Tony. And you forget that I need to work with him regularly. I needed to talk to him about a case, anyway.”

  “So, it was just work related, huh?”

  “Yes,” she lied. “He told me to give you his best regards.”

  “Well, you don’t need to bother to return them.”

  She eyed him warily.

  “What happened to you, Tony. To us. You used to enjoy going out in Brighton just because it has such a crowd of colourful people like Nathan.”

  “Life, Ianthe. That’s what happened. What is happening. With work and all there is just not enough time to waste the hours we have on clubbing or associating with people of no consequence. Like Nathan.”

  “Hmm. I don’t understand what you are so wound up about. I’ve had an awfully long day, too. You didn’t text me to say you were at home already or I would have hurried. Actually, I thought you’d probably be home tomorrow.”

  She went to the small kitchen, decorated with atrocious pink tiles, to switch on the kettle.

  Tony followed her there and took two cups and teabags from the cupboard.

  “Hey, I know. I’m sorry,” he said much more calmly. “Things didn’t work out that well today. I’ve had truly little sleep. And I was looking forward to seeing you again and perhaps have a nice dinner together. And then I found the house empty, so I was disappointed.”

  He managed to pull the sad face that had always endeared him to her.

  “Yeah, well, you know what my job is like. I was called in incredibly early this morning.”

  “Oh, I thought you were not the officer on duty last night?”

  Ianthe was surprised he had remembered that. She mellowed at once.

  “You’re right. Vik Gorti, you may have met him once, was on duty, but he couldn’t be bothered once again, I guess. So, they called me instead.”

  “You should have told them to keep trying him. That you had other things to do or so. He always seems to get away with that.”

  Tony really had no idea what policework was, she thought, once again.

  “Can’t really do that, can I?” she replied. “And definitely not with a murder case.”

  “Murder, was it?”

  “Yeah. Someone got killed at Brighton Marina last night.”

  He whistled, sipping his tea.

  “Brighton marina, huh. Who would have thought? Brighton is becoming dangerous.”

  “Crime capital of England, babe.”

  “And did you hand it over to Vik now?”

  “Nope. The super preferred me to continue with it. I’m the investigating officer on this one. And it looks like it is going to be a complex one, so I’ll be gone a lot I’m afraid.”

  “Complex? In what way,” he asked.

  They settled on the couch in the lounge, in front of the big telly that was showing one of the MOFO games he tended to play.

  “You know I can’t tell you that, babe. Let’s just say it isn’t obvious. And complex means a lot of hours, generally.”

  “Which means in turn you won’t have time for me. For us,” he pouted.

  “Afraid so. Part of the job.”

  “Well, I probably need to take a few more business trips soon anyway. So, timing at least isn’t that bad. What shall we do for food?” he asked, changing the subject suddenly.

  “Pizza?” she suggested.

  “Why not,” he replied, somewhat to her surprise, as he tended to be very particular about every food that had an Italian origin.

  “Let’s have it delivered from VIP Pizza this time. Might just be edible,” he said.

  *

  He drank a bottle of red Chianti with the pizza, while she stuck to a glass of Primitivo from Puglia, Pietra, which she favoured. Her seafood pizza was quite nice, but his ‘quattro stagioni’ had been dried out, he had complained. But then he always criticised his food. And every time they ended up swapping plates as hers looked better to him. Which never stopped him from moaning about it anyway.

  He had a few whiskies after dinner while she watched the news. He recently had become interested in single malts and had procured online some very exclusive Speysides. Ianthe liked a dram as well, but she favoured Jura Prophecy, a heavily peated malt from the islands, which he did not like so much. Finally, when he started falling asleep on the couch at 10:22 PM, she sent him off to bed, where he started snoring almost immediately. Ianthe disposed of the rubbish and went to the kitchen to rinse the glasses. Then she read her notes for a while and retired at 11 PM sharp.

  CHAPTER 7

  DC John Ryan felt a little apprehensive this morning as he was driving his black Harley-Davidson Forty-Eight Special along the Shoreham Bypass from where he lived with his mum on Hamble Road in Lancing to Malling House. When he had received the call on his cell from DI Ianthe Seymour last night around seven, he had mainly been flattered Pooh Bear had suggested his name to the DI as an additional team member for Operation Blackbird. It was only after he had had dinner with his mum, and he had kept her company while she was watching a rerun of EastEnders that he had become a little uneasy about the situation. He had not been on the force very long and had only joined CID in September last year. When he was still in uniform, he had heard about Ianthe’s stellar rise in Sussex Police due to a number of high-profile cases she had been able to solve quickly and efficiently, and he had met her a few times at a crime scene, but he had never really worked with her. In CID so far he had been part of the team of DI Vik Gorti, and they got on well together, as John had early on realized Vik did not like to be contradicted, and wanted to monopolize the communication with superior officers. “Watch and learn,” was his motto. “The upper levels are so politicised,” he always claimed, “that career breaking mistakes are easily made. Better leave the communication to me, John. Your time will come soon enough.” And John so far had been happy enough to do that. He was in it to help fight crime, and as long as Vik was solving cases, that was simply fine by him. But the thing was that Vik was extremely negative about DI Ianthe Seymour. He claimed the cases her reputation had been built on had been solved more
by luck than by proper police work. And her career was more the result of the need of the brass for so-called “positive action” than competence. He had gone so far as to suggest that her relationship with the current Chief Constable Lloyd Hamilton was not quite proper. John had thought that had been a bit of a cheap shot, as he knew that Ianthe was living with a boyfriend in Brighton. Regular arsehole that boyfriend was, too, he knew. When John had still been a PC, he had been called to a disturbance Tony had been at the heart of at The Temple Bar on Western Road. John had had to give Tony a warning first and then charge him for failing to cooperate with the police. Tony had been going on about how his girlfriend was a high-flyer at CID and would have John’s balls if he did not drop it. John had been a bit concerned about the whole thing, but he had never heard anything from Ianthe or anyone else about that case. His superior at the time had told him not to worry. DI Ianthe Seymour was known for walking a straight line there.

  Considering all this he did the run from home to Malling House in about thirty-six minutes. He conscientiously kept to the speed-limit, as he was warned his hierarchy took a dim view of officers speeding for no reason at all. Even though the now dormant power of his Harley exhilarated him. It was like riding a dragon waiting to be unleashed. He rode onto the parking lot and as always could not resist listening for a few seconds to the emblematic “potato” rumble of the big machine, caused by the uneven interval between the pistons firing combined with the V arrangement of the cylinders. He killed the engine, took off his yellow-and-black helmet and at 8:06 AM precisely he walked in on his way to meet DI Ianthe Seymour as requested at 8:15 AM.

  *

  John dropped his helmet and bike riding gear at his ordinary workspace and was about to climb the stairs to the second level where the Major Incident Rooms were, when DI Vik Gorti, coming out of the bathroom, stopped him.

  “Morning, John. Good to see you in so early.”

  “Morning, Vik. How are things?”

  “Can’t complain. The baby is finally starting to sleep through the night.”

  “Good to hear.”

  “Hey, I need your help today with some CCTV analysis. It’s that burglary case of Saturday. Could you watch it to identify the vehicles passing through?”

  DI Vik Gorti was well known for not liking the more menial part of police work. With the ever-growing forest of cameras going up around the UK, there was an ever-increasing dump of information available that needed to be analysed. Unfortunately, the right software was not always there yet to do that fully automatically. So human eyes were still required. And John did not know any detective who enjoyed watching hours of CCTV footage. So, he quite understood DI Gorti on this one. Still, he was happy to be able to tell him he was not available today as he was part of Operation Blackbird right now with DI Ianthe Seymour. Vik scowled at him.

  “DI Ianthe Seymour? Oh my God. How the hell did she manage to steal you from my team?”

  “Well, I understand the super suggested my name to her.”

  “She really has wrapped the super around her little finger, hasn’t she? You’re in for a bad surprise, I’m afraid, John. But hey, this may actually be helpful. I want you to report to me what she’s doing, what progress she is or is not making, the mistakes that no doubt will become obvious, etc etc. Good lad.”

  Without waiting for his response, DI Gorti continued towards his workplace, which was a good thing, as John did not feel comfortable with his comments and request at all. He looked at his watch. Sh**, it was 8:18 already. He climbed the stairs two at the time and opened the door to the conference room. His heart sank as DI Ianthe Seymour was already present, her eyes shooting daggers at him.

  *

  Just over three hours earlier Ianthe had woken up next to Tony. She listened for a few seconds to him snoring. He would be out for a bit still, with the amount of wine he had consumed last night. No way knowing what he had already ingested before she even had arrived home, she thought. In order not to disturb him she slipped out of bed, picked up her clothes from the chair where she had rather carelessly dropped them the night before, and wearing just her t-shirt in which she normally slept, tiptoed to the door of the bedroom and stepped into the little hallway. She dressed quickly in her simple gym outfit and her Janoski sneakers she kept in a bag in the hallway, picked up her keys and went out. Going through the door, she bumped into the doorpost which made her groan. A huge purple bruise had formed where Tony had held her when she had arrived from work last night. Why did he always have to do that? He knew she bruised easily! Why could they never have a normal conversation anymore? It always seemed to end in shouting and tears. Tears from her, that was, she thought a little bitterly. She knew Tony did not see it the same way. When she had tried to sit him down and talk about it, he always reacted surprised and dismissive. He said she was imagining things. All couples behaved like that he said and yes, while they had a bit of a fight – understatement of the year - once in a while, show him the relationship in which there never was a fight, right? That he checked on her, that he was sometimes annoyed with her, showed that he genuinely cared about her. And yes, he knew there were times he shouted and he should not do that, but she must know it was not easy living with a policewoman who was off all times of day or night when there was an important case. She made it obvious to him he came only second to her job, he complained, and she should understand that. And if it became a little physical, which he claimed did not happen often, did it, it was just that he became frustrated that she did not appear to care as much about him and their relationship as he did. Which made her feel guilty. It was true her work could be absorbing. And if there was a major incident, she did spend almost all her waking hours thinking about it. So, she did neglect him at those times. And other couples did have their occasional row as well (although she could not for the life of her remembering having ever heard her parents fight). So, it was definitely also her fault. And she did bruise easily, also when they were having the rather rough sex he liked. Which was not all that often. Come to think of it, they almost never did it anymore. That must be frustrating him as well, she thought. She parked her car on Queens Road at the gym thinking she must really make more of an effort to reduce his levels of vexation with her. He was probably disappointed in her and the energy she chose to put into this relationship. Failure was not an option. She must do better, she was resolved, when she walked into her Fitness First at five am sharp.

  *

  At ten past six she was back home. Tony was not up yet. He would probably drag himself out of bed not before nine today. She took a quick shower and put on the same long-sleeved blouse and skinny jeans she had been wearing yesterday. She sniffed the blouse first for any traces of stale sweat she might smell and to be on the safe side applied a generous amount of deodorant. Her other clothes were in the bedroom and she considered it better not to go in and risk waking Tony right now. She promised herself that soon she would go and do some shopping for new clothes. Her friend Jocelyn kept nagging her they should go shopping together so that she would buy some clothes in which to look a little more presentable, at which Ianthe protested that she was presentable enough in what she had. Which made Joss roll her eyes. But perhaps she should buy a new pair of sneakers. The poor old Nikes she had were indeed about to fall apart. Or maybe she should go for a cool pair of Doc Martens ankle boots. She had seen just the thing on their website the other night. But they were over 150 quid. Tony would never approve.

  Ianthe checked her watch when she opened the door to the conference room. It was 6:56 exactly. She opened her Dell XPS 13 laptop to connect to the Wi-Fi and started her day, as she always did, by looking at the serial. Nothing major had come in overnight, so she was certain she could focus all her attention to Operation Blackbird. Who would have wanted to murder Bert Devos who at first glance was just another reasonably successful businessman with a happy family, enjoying his life to the fullest with his boat? Could he have been so unfortunate as to stumble on a determined thief?
There had been a bit of thievery at the marina the Argus had reported about. She hoped the interview Ben and Ajanta were going to have would reveal something new, and perhaps the one she was planning to have with Josephine Devos would shed some light on the newfound wealth. That might have something to do with everything as well, obviously. In Ianthe’s experience, money and sex were the biggest drivers for crime.

  She glanced at her watch. Eight fourteen. She hoped DC John Ryan was not going to annoy her by being late. He was. When he opened the door at eight nineteen, DI Ianthe Seymour was livid.

  CHAPTER 8

  At 8:19 AM DS Ben Armstrong had been waiting patiently for about ten minutes for DC Ajanta Ghani in his bright white Jeep Grand Cherokee Overland. He was not annoyed with her at all, as they had agreed to meet at 8:30 only, so he was early. Traffic had been much more reasonable than expected this Wednesday morning. He had opted to take Bear Road passing close to the mortuary again, rather than going by London Road and the city centre, which obviously had been the right choice as it had taken him only 15 minutes from his home in Balfour Road. Passing this close to the mortuary had made him jittery when he thought of Nathan Greystone. It had given him a bit of a start when Nathan had mentioned having spotted him at the party in the Revenge the other day. Mind you, he was a bit flattered as well. Nathan was a dreadfully good-looking guy he thought, and his absolutely outrageous choice of dress had lifted Ben’s spirits. He checked himself. What was he thinking? Honestly, he had no idea. He had gone to the Revenge on an inkling. Always wanted to see what it was like. He was very well introduced to the nightlife in Brighton, thanks to his success with the Brighton Jaguars, but he had only been to regular clubs, never to one that was so explicitly LGBTQ+. He had walked or driven by several times but had never dared go inside. Last Saturday however, he had drunk a few tequilas first with a couple of mates from volleyball and when they had gone home, he had finally made it inside with Dutch courage. He figured that if he met someone he knew, he could always claim he was there in an official capacity. And he had had to admit it had been great fun, great music and dancing. And he had not felt awkward in the least. He was very tall, he was black, but that did not appear to bother anyone at all. On the contrary, just about everyone seemed to want to have a chat with him or dance with him. What it meant, he was not sure. He had had a couple of girlfriends when he was with the Jags, but never for long. It had all felt so artificial. Was he gay? There had not been gay teammates when he was still in volleyball, at least not that he was aware of. But then, professional athletes were never gay, were they? There were rumours about some of them, but never confirmed. There were no gay officers in Sussex Police either, he thought. At least not openly gay.