Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1)

by Lewis Hastings

  The Incident Unit was parked next to the same flight of steps that the group had overlooked. With the timeworn, black, ornate iron gateway now forced open, critical staff could access without impediment.

  The offending group had fortune and the tidal system on their side, whereas the police team had discovered that Mother Nature was against them. All they could do was wait for the river to drain into the sea and slowly, mockingly reveal its prey.

  Whilst every instinct encouraged the recovery of the lifeless body, the staff on board the Colquhoun and their colleagues on dry land knew they needed to photograph and document the entire scene first. From the edge of the road to the scene itself a SOCO team would map, photograph and capture evidence. A suitably clothed search group carried out a microscopic examination of the location, too.

  Once the tide had reached its lowest point, they would search the mud flats for more clues, albeit most would have been washed away, but with providence on the side of the investigators something may have been ensnared among the historic artefacts and more recent flotsam and jetsam.

  There was nothing anyone could do to help her, the least they would do would be to treat her with dignity and catch the cold-hearted bastard that had done this to her. To a person, they wrongly assumed her offender was a single individual.

  Roberts was in full swing and had sought out the shift inspector, a man he had known of since the late nineties when he famously disgraced himself at Hendon Training School in a sordid escapade with a fellow female recruit, who he would later describe to his adoring entourage as ‘pretty but in an unconventional way’.

  His recent rise through the ranks had surprised everyone, not least himself.

  In minutes, and without a fight, Roberts had convinced him that he needed primacy over the investigation.

  The inspector pointed down to the river. “She connected to that escapade last night, the one with the bus? What a bloody cock up that was. A wonder none of us were killed too. Luckily it was only two of them Hungarians.”

  Cade had joined Roberts and wasn’t in the best of moods. He was tired, hungry and limping.

  “They were probably Romanian, not Hungarian. There’s a difference you see.” He said it aloud, hoping that as many of those present would hear, not least the inspector.

  “And the driver of the bus? He was a first-generation Jamaican migrant called George Douglas. Incredible man he was too. As the inspector says, lucky it was just him, could have been many more. Oh, and her…” he pointed down to the frigid grey body, “She’s Bulgarian by the way…”

  The inspector didn’t suffer fools gladly and was known for his outspoken nature, but he sensed he had overstepped the mark with the shuffling suited individual in front of him. Whilst he was unlikely to kowtow to him, he thought it would look good to act contrite in front of the local staff.

  He interjected quickly, a little too quickly for Cade’s liking, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  “We ‘aven’t met. I’m Inspector Dave Payne. And you are?”

  Roberts introduced O’Shea and Cade to the ebullient and ever-sarcastic Essex-born boss. He had realised Cade was a little too ‘sensitive’ to enter into a full-blown professional conversation with Payne, a man he’d never met but had heard a lot about via the urban grapevine.

  There were two Inspector Paynes in the force and both worked south of the river. One was known as Constant and the other, Nagging. This one was Constant.

  “Right, sergeant, I’ll leave you to do your detective stuff and then when you are done no doubt my boys and girls will clear everything up once again and you can all Foxtrot Oscar back across the river. Typical Yard, all care and no responsibility. Who was this slag anyway? The boat crew say she’s got something offensive written across her fanny, must ‘ave pissed someone right off!”

  He rapidly shoved what was left of a sandwich into his mouth, brushed the crumbs from his face and started to walk away.

  Cade was leant against the wrought-iron railings, reflux was building in his throat, venom pooling in his fists. He needed to focus on the operation down below him or he knew that Payne would most likely end up in the river as well.

  O’Shea joined him and placed her hand on his shoulder. It was a calculated risk. He didn’t resist.

  “Ignore him, Jack. He’s a complete wanker. Terrible reputation, dressed for export by his last boss. I was at Hendon with him. He’s clearly forgotten I ever existed. You know how it is with the arrogant ladder climbers? They forget their past and who they have trodden on.”

  He understood, but it didn’t excuse him.

  “You finished, inspector?” Cade had turned around and was looking Payne in the eye. He was trembling with nervous energy and exhaustion. “You said your bit? Made yourself look good in front of the troops? Cracked a few well-placed jokes? Thrown in a bit of black humour for good measure?”

  He had got Payne’s attention.

  “Yes, fuckwit, I am talking to you.”

  Pandora’s Box had been opened, just enough to let a thin and dusty shaft of light into its darkest corners.

  Roberts stepped between them, holding up his hand in a gesture of peace.

  “I’ll deal with this, guv. Jack’s had a long night, we all have. No offence.”

  Payne flicked the last corner of his sandwich over the railings and onto the embankment, a fortuitous gull catching it before it struck the water.

  “Good. ‘Cause if I wanted to, I could ‘ave this northern colleague of yours put back on the first tram to Manchester. At a push I could write you up for turning up at work dressed as a bloody scarecrow. Look at you, what a bloody disgrace. Did you sleep in that suit?”

  He was spitting his toxic words towards Cade, miniscule pieces of saliva, mixed with leftovers of his breakfast, were landing on the pavement and glancing off of an already soiled shirt.

  “Do I make myself clear…sergeant?”

  “Crystal…inspector. No doubt when this is all written up, you’ll also want an apology out of the bus driver for causing chaos on your pristine roads, and the girl that is floating around in your cesspit of a fucking river? That’s right, you seem to have forgotten her. That slag, as you so charmingly call her, that poor woman, strapped to that frame without an ounce of her dignity left, happens to be my friend…”

  He paused, not for effect, but to let the welling nausea pass.

  “She was also my informant…their informant,” he gestured to Roberts and O’Shea. “And above all the best source that your Commissioner has probably had since trams left the streets of London and headed to Nottingham – which, for the record, is where I am seconded from, not bloody Manchester!”

  Payne looked back towards Roberts and snorted his displeasure.

  “I’ll deal with this muppet later, Roberts. Trust me, I’m in no mood to do it now. Some of us are busy. What’s your commander’s name , Cade, back up there in whatever grimy northern mill town you hail from?”

  Love – Fifteen.

  Cade smiled. It was far from a friendly gesture.

  “It’s Curtain, as in pull yourself together, man. Eddie Curtain, he’s a chief superintendent. I can give you his number if you like. Ask for him by name, tell him Acting Inspector Jack Cade sent you. I’m sure he’d just love to hear your theory on northern policing.”

  Fifteen all.

  Payne shrank a little, knowing he’d met his match. He could also tell that Cade was a moment away from boiling over. The last thing he wanted was another fight, with so many professional witnesses; the last had seen his promotion frozen for a few years, he was handier with his mouth than his fists and Cade had the look of somebody quietly capable, if not a little unhinged.

  He gestured back to the river.

  “She’s all yours, Cade. She’s all yours.”

  Fifteen – Thirty.

  Cade paused, allowing the defeated Payne to head towards his vehicle. As he removed his hat and started to enter the car, Cade called over to him.

&nbs
p; “Oh, inspector, for the record, the girl in the river? The one who gave up her life to make yours a little safer? She’s called Nikolina and she would have kicked your arse all over Battersea for calling her what you did.”

  Thirty – All.

  “And David, just one other thing.”

  Cade was beginning to enjoy himself at last.

  “This stunning lady stood next to me is called Carrie O’Shea. She’s the best analyst this force will ever have. She used to be a police officer just like you and I. She should look familiar to you. I’d say she’s unconventionally pretty, wouldn’t you?”

  Forty – Thirty.

  It took Payne a second to compute Cade’s words, but as he did so he stared at O’Shea. God, she had blossomed into a good-looking girl.

  Game. Set. Match.

  Cade became aware of a video link beaming a direct feed from the Colquhoun up to the Incident Unit team.

  “Do you mind if we observe?” Roberts asked a boiler-suited constable.

  “Not at all skipper, the imagery is really clear, new kit this, helps us enormously, saves us having to get wet too.”

  As desperate as he was to be on the patrol boat, Cade knew that the logistics of getting from the embankment and on board were likely to make any request problematic. The uplink helped. Whether he should watch was another thing entirely.

  The screen was not dissimilar to the size of a laptop computer, but far more substantial. The hand-held camera on the Colquhoun was transferring crystal-clear imagery not only to the shore team but also had the ability to beam up to an air unit or the CAD room.

  The initial image was blurred as Dave Wilcox altered the lens, attempting to provide wider-angled footage. He manually twisted the focus ring on the camera, which was fitted with a polarising filter. The filter did its job – a little too well – cutting through the light and allowing the team to see deeper into the water.

  There she was.

  Cade could just make out the body, within reason it could have belonged to any young woman, but he knew it was Petrov. He needed no further full-colour imagery to confirm it.

  Over the next few hours, the river would continue to drop. It had reduced in depth by half a metre whilst the team had been on site. Every ten minutes the waterway would reveal a little more of her.

  Cade had seen enough and walked towards the Incident vehicle to see if they had some water. He needed to rinse his mouth, which had filled with acid. He was hungry but could not eat. He took a mouthful of the bottled water and swilled it around his teeth. A voice carried across the short distance between where he stood and a patrol vehicle.

  A member of Incident Unit was busily walking past Cade and in a stage whisper said, “I see you’ve met ‘Constant’ boss. Ignore him. We all do.”

  Another voice joined the conversation, belonging to Dave Payne, who was busy trying to look busy and engage with everyone he could.

  “I’ll deal with you another time, Sergeant Cade. You’ll keep, and I shall be ringing Curtis as soon as I stop holding this city together.”

  Cade emptied the water into the gutter before replying.

  “It’s Curtain, as in well-hung.” Cade then spelled out the name, deliberately annunciating every letter, knowing that Payne would never hear every one, his door firmly slammed, shutting out the world and particularly the bolshie northerner.

  Cade was angry with himself for allowing Payne to get the upper hand at a time when what really mattered, what actually meant more to him than winning any argument, was the humane and dignified recovery of one of the bravest souls he had ever encountered.

  He turned towards O’Shea who was tapping his arm.

  “Jack, she’s here.”

  The recovery team had fought against the constant downstream pull of the river and had managed to extricate Petrov from the wooden frame, taking exquisite care to photograph the tape bindings and the position of her body. Whilst the steep embankment wall offered shelter from prying eyes their operation was highly visible to anyone using the river – or worse still any photographers on the opposite bank.

  She was carried to the highest accessible part of the muddy embankment and placed carefully into a body bag. The white bag, recently adopted by the police to aid with exhibit identification, had been used to carry the remains to a scoop stretcher and then up the flights of steps and onto the pavement.

  The staff involved were exhausted, covered in foul-smelling mud and sweating profusely, despite the relatively cool air that surrounded them. The team withdrew, leaving their most senior man to talk to Roberts and Cade.

  Mick Parker, a veteran constable and long-term member of the Dive Squad, had simply lost count of how many similar recovery operations he had performed. He always said, to his closest friends, that every job was entirely similar and yet utterly unique. It made sense.

  He didn’t shake hands with either of the officers, but spoke clearly and with empathy.

  “Mick Parker. Sorry to have to get you gents down here for this, I understand she was an ally of ours? I’d love to get the bastard that put her through this. Dark, unadulterated evil if you ask me. Which you didn’t. Look lads, if you need to look at her we’ll put a temporary shield up and you can do whatever you need to do. Be aware she’s been in the water for a while, not as long as some I’ve seen, but long enough. Just be forewarned.”

  Parker called to his team to get the portable screens and soon only Cade, Roberts and Petrov were behind them.

  “Carrie. You need to be here too.” It was Cade.

  Despite her background she had never seen anyone taken from the river before, but apprehensively stepped into the temporary morgue – a place of relative quiet considering the location – Londoners busily going about their morning routines wholly unaware of the events unfolding on their doorstep.

  Roberts nodded towards the bag and unzipped it.

  Cade fought back tears of anger as Roberts grabbed for a tissue in his jacket pocket, anything to shield himself from the noxious smell that drifted up from the bag.

  O’Shea felt herself becoming emotional too. She had seen bodies, of course she had, but this poor girl, once a potential contender for Cade’s affections was now lying in a cold, damp bag on a colder anonymous street, in a city she had only known for a few dynamic, horrendous days.

  Her once-lustrous hair was matted to her forehead and the left side of her temples and cheekbone. Her eyes, thankfully, were closed. A bright white band of skin, stretching from ear to ear, across her chin and finishing just under her nose bore testament to the presence of duct tape – now removed and secured as an exhibit.

  Roberts had opened the bag to reveal only her face and neckline, but Cade knew he had to see what they had done to her. He subtly nodded to Roberts, who continued to open the J-shaped zipper, down and down until it could go no further. Cade squatted at her side and pulled back the thick plastic until he could see her white torso, the skin already bleached by the water. He opened the bag further, finally revealing the indelible marking on her hips and hairless pubic area.

  WH RE

  Cade’s fists balled. He wiped his mouth, involuntarily pushing back the urge to vomit. Now the tears flowed.

  He could not stop picturing her last moments. It wasn’t enough that she was alone and stripped of dignity, what really hurt Cade was how she finally died.

  Her larynx would have gone into spasm, a vain attempt to avoid the water pouring into her lungs. The subsequent haemorrhaging would provide any Pathologist worth their reputation with further clues to how she had died.

  Water under pressure would have been forced into her lungs. The forensic examination would quickly establish the cause of death as drowning – in freshwater and with the obvious added malice of being forced onto the wooden frame and anchored in place, to drown, slowly, through a miniscule hole in a wafer-thin piece of tape.

  Cade wished she had gone quicker.

  Her organs would have cooled quickly, adding confusion when tr
ying to establish the exact time of death. At least freshwater had less of a catastrophic effect on the body than salt. It would take time, but they would eventually put a time on the death certificate.

  Roberts gestured to O’Shea, and they both made their silent exits, leaving Cade kneeling by the side of the gleaming white bag. He had so much to say, and yet his words would not leave him. He could form them in his mind but his vocal cords were too constricted to utter a sound. He held his hand against her cheek, expecting her to speak once more, expecting those vibrant, excitable Eastern European tones to add urgency to her every word. Just once more.

  She was so very cold.

  He bent down; it was unconventional, improper – perhaps, but she had briefly captured his professional and personal heart, therefore at risk to his own health, to his reputation. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. He needed to know she still had friends, albeit they had cruelly let her down.

  As he began to pull away from her face, he detected a faint aroma. It was subdued but it was a common smell, an everyday scent. He stayed in position for a few seconds, desperately trying to distinguish the odour from the more powerful and stomach-churning smell of the river and of death itself.

  He gently prized her cyanosed lips apart and placed his nose next to her mouth.

  He began to nod.

  “Yes…”

  He called his colleagues back behind the screen.

  “Smell her. Go on, please Jason.”

  Roberts joined Cade at Petrov’s side; he was already dry retching, but he could tell Cade would not take no for an answer.

  “Mate, I’m going to be sick, what are you trying to prove. Hasn’t the poor girl been through enough without us squatting beside her and sniffing at her like some weird deviant?”