Muslim women did not swim. Apart from the few who learned as children, or the very rich with their private swimming pools. It was unthinkable for a Muslim woman to remove her clothes in a public place. But the local authority in Greenwich offered women-only sessions at the local leisure centre, and for two hours a week the pool became a haven for the Islamic or the modest.
It had been one of the hardest things Nadia had ever done, to lower herself into water for the first time. Memories had come raging back: water all around, in her nose, her mouth, her throat. Her chest in agony as burning liquid poured into her lungs. A certainty that she would die, here and now.
It had taken long, long minutes to convince herself that the terror and physical pain were caused by memories, not by anything happening to her at that moment. For most of the first lesson she’d been unable to leave the side, but she’d made herself go back a second and a third time, until getting into water no longer filled her with dread. She’d made herself learn to swim, because she’d known that one day, she and the river would meet again.
As she walked past the box that distributed free newspapers, Nadia automatically scanned the headlines, looking for words she recognized. She’d heard nothing about the body of the woman pulled from the river at dawn yesterday beyond a brief piece on the evening news. The police feared the woman would be difficult to identify and were appealing for help. A young woman, they thought, possibly from the Middle East or the Indian subcontinent, missing for between two and six months. Anyone with any information was encouraged to contact the police.
She didn’t have any information.
In the busy shop on the high street she found the sunscreen. ‘Be sure to get factor 50,’ Gabrielle had said. ‘You have to take into account the effect of the sun bouncing off the water.’
It wasn’t unusual to pull a body from the Thames, Gabrielle had told her. Most didn’t even make it on to the news, just the ones needing identification, or those who’d drowned in suspicious circumstances. Only when the police were appealing for information.
She didn’t have any information. She had to get back.
23
Dana
‘HELEN, IT’S LIKE shopping on eBay. Only without pictures.’
‘Hang on, let me find the same site. OK, I’m logging on.’
Dana closed her eyes and pictured Helen in her home office in Dundee. She’d have taken off the suit she’d have been wearing all day, would be in jeans, or maybe jogging clothes.
With a sudden need to see Helen’s face, Dana reached behind her, found the framed photograph that she kept on the bookshelf and placed it just to the left of the monitor. She’d taken it herself – Helen in the garden, not long back from a run. Long blonde hair messy, face red and damp, and a light in her eyes that seemed to say something different every time Dana looked at the picture. Sometimes this picture calmed her when the tightness in her chest was starting to hurt. Not always. ‘How was the flight?’ she asked.
‘Busy,’ replied Helen. ‘Right, London Sperm Bank. Christ, it’s a whole new world, isn’t it?’
The London Sperm Bank was a central bank of donated sperm that supplied most of the fertility clinics in London and the South-East. Since accessing its website, Dana had been getting flashbacks to a brief period in her life, years ago, when after inheriting money she’d almost become a shopping addict. Online sales had been the worst, with the impression they gave of there being only a limited time to find and grab the best bargains. She’d get hot and jumpy as a caffeine addict, flicking from one screen to the next, spending recklessly and unable to stop. She hadn’t had this feeling in years. ‘Find the page where you select a donor,’ she told Helen.
‘I’m there. Oh my God, you actually have a trolley. It says my trolley is currently empty. Well, I suppose, in a way—’
‘Will you focus for a second?’ Dana waited for Helen to catch up, her eyes tennis-balling from the photograph of her partner to the drop-down list of men who could father her child. Each entry was identified by a simple icon of a male figure and accompanied by the most basic of details: race, sometimes nationality, eye colour, hair colour, height, skin tone, education and, occasionally, religion. The icons were in different colours. So, did she want a fondant-pink, citrus-yellow or lime-green donor? Helen in the picture was amused, not taking it seriously.
‘I cannot choose the father of my child – of our child – on the basis of this information,’ Dana said, when Helen in real life was finally looking at the same screen. ‘These guys could be child molesters, drug-pushers. They might hang around at Waterloo station on Sunday mornings taking down train numbers. God help us, they might play golf.’
‘Just as long as none of them are ginger.’
Silence. And the photograph had that look she always hated, that So-I’ve-made-a-joke-at-your-expense,-get-over-it look. Dana wondered if she might be about to cry. ‘We’re supposed to be able to pick the father of our children,’ she said. ‘We choose the man we most love and admire in the whole world and if we’re lucky he feels the same way and we make a family together. Other women’ (normal women, said the voice in the back of her head) ‘spend years making this decision. They have a world of data available. I – we – have fewer than a dozen words.’
‘It’s what we signed up for, hon,’ said Helen.
‘Did you know that the starfish is one of the few species in the world that can reproduce asexually?’
Silence. She could picture Helen taking a deeper breath, bracing herself to deal with Dana-being-difficult. Sure enough, Helen in the picture was doing the I’ll-keep-my-temper-if-it-kills-me face.
‘Fascinating,’ real Helen said. ‘But pending the invention of cloning technology, I think we have to be pragmatic. We know these guys are screened for any health issues.’
‘Oh, they’re screened within an inch of their lives,’ said Dana. ‘I’m surprised any of them make it through.’
‘They also have to have a GP’s consent, so if there were any mental-health problems, or even persistent criminal behaviour, we could expect it to be picked up,’ Helen continued, speaking slowly, as though to a rather stupid child.
‘I guess.’
‘And given that remuneration is pretty stingy in the UK, we have to assume their motives are reasonably altruistic.’
‘Seems fair.’
‘OK, so these are a bunch of healthy, decent guys who are prepared to put themselves through considerable inconvenience, not to mention embarrassment, in order to help others. We could do a lot worse.’
And that was why she loved her. Helen caught her when she was falling. She saw what was important. ‘Now let’s filter out any who don’t have at least a bachelor’s degree,’ she was saying now, ever the practical one.
Dana smiled at the photograph that had transformed back into what it normally was: a picture of a wise, warm woman.
‘OK, how about Donor 68? Dark-brown hair, brown eyes, 1.78 metres, medium skin tone, postgraduate degree.’
‘He’s Scottish,’ said Dana, looking at the blue icon.
‘Perfect,’ said Helen.
24
Lacey
‘HARD TO STARBOARD . . . Bloody hell, woman, slow down . . . No, you missed it. OK, take her round . . . No, reverse won’t work against the tide. Take her round . . . Bloody women drivers.’
‘No disrespect, Sarge, but back-seat drivers are worse. I’ve got it.’
‘OK, ease back on the gas, tad to port, hold her steady and . . . Yes, well done, Finn.’
Great. Against a fast-moving tide, in rapidly disappearing light, she’d pulled the launch up alongside a piece of floating debris and held it steady for several seconds. Turner, on the other hand, who’d done nothing more than stretch out one overlong arm and lift it out with a boat hook, got the credit. Sighing audibly, Lacey put the engine into neutral.
‘Marine Central. Can you confirm your location, please?’
Wilson leaned across Lacey and spoke into the mi
ke, giving their location as just up-stream of Tower Bridge. ‘Go ahead, MP,’ he told the call dispatch centre at Lambeth. Inside Lacey, anxiety started nibbling. They were practically at the end of the shift. She didn’t want to be delayed, not tonight, not when someone might be waiting for her back at the boat. What was it, a minute before midnight, when the Faery King appeared?
‘We’ve been getting reports of a small, unlit craft, heavily occupied, proceeding up-stream in the region of the Blackwall Pier. Suspected illegal immigrants on board. You are asked to find and hail. Marine Lower unable at present. Local police informed. Proceed with care.’
‘Take the port bow,’ Wilson told Turner, heading for the fly bridge. ‘Lacey, once I’m up there, you go on starboard. I want you both clipped on.’
With a sinking feeling – they were unlikely to finish on time now – Lacey hooked her safety line on to the base of a stanchion.
‘Hold tight,’ called the sergeant.
Travelling with both tide and current, an unpowered craft would move fast; the Targa flew across the surface of the river. They bounced as they hit higher waves and spray soared up around them, sparkling like crystals in the boat’s lights. Warm waves of air buffeted Lacey’s face as the elegant columns and domed towers of the old Greenwich hospital grew closer with every wave they cut through. As Lacey’s hair started to come loose, she turned her head to tuck it back in place and saw a tiny light at water level on the south bank. She wobbled, almost overbalanced, and grabbed the guard-rail. The light was still there, and just the faintest outline of something moving against the bank.
As they neared the entrance to the docks, Wilson cut back the engine, keeping it low and quiet, revving just enough to hold them in the river. To the port side of the boat, where Turner was keeping a lookout, there were lights and bustle. The docks on the Isle of Dogs never really shut down for the night. To starboard, though, it was a different story. Lacey looked across the water to where the Millennium Dome glowed orange and gold, its upright supports gleaming like hot metal. The area around it was largely in darkness.
‘I think we’ve been here before, Lacey,’ said Wilson, in a voice just loud enough to carry down to his two juniors. ‘Stay on board this time, won’t you?’
Lacey smiled, acknowledging the private joke, the reference to the previous autumn, the night she’d met Sergeant Wilson. She’d been invited by Joesbury to take a river trip with his uncle Fred and his crew. It was supposed to be a chance for her to get her nerve back on the river after a near drowning. Instead they’d been thrown into a chase for a dinghy with four occupants, three men and a girl, trying to enter the country illegally. The immigrants’ boat had overturned and all four had gone into the water. So had Lacey. It had been a thoughtless, reckless act, and she’d been in serious trouble over it. But she’d probably saved the girl’s life.
‘Happy to stay dry tonight, Sarge,’ she called up.
The boat fell silent as they held their position. Lacey tried not to look at her watch too often.
‘We’ve missed them, haven’t we?’ said Turner eventually.
‘Almost certainly,’ replied Wilson. ‘Ah well, better go through the motions, I suppose.’ He turned the boat, heading for the docks.
‘Sarge?’
Wilson eased back on the throttle and peered down at Lacey.
‘Just a thought,’ she said. ‘But what are our chances of finding them in the docks?’
‘Bugger all of nothing,’ said Wilson. ‘They’ll have tied up and scarpered.’
Lacey hesitated for a second. Did she really want to go down this route?
‘So we don’t have much to lose if we try something different?’ she said, mentally kicking herself even as the words came out.
Over the roof of the cabin, Turner was watching her with interest. ‘Does this involve getting wet? Because I’ve heard the rumours about you.’
‘Ditto.’ Lacey didn’t take her eyes off the sergeant. ‘Suppose I said that on the way here, I saw a small light and movement over near the south bank, just in front of the naval college. Would it be the end of the world if we went to take a look and didn’t find anything?’
Wilson was silent for a second, no doubt calculating the time it would take for a small-engined craft to make its way around the curves of the south bank. ‘It’s going to take twice as long to get back if we’re hugging the south bank,’ he said.
It was a good point. And she’d done her duty by suggesting it. When the men decided to go straight back, she wouldn’t be the one to argue.
‘Nice night for it,’ said Turner.
Trust her to pick the one night he didn’t have a date.
With a heavy sigh, Wilson turned the boat round in the river and drove directly south until they were close to the bank just in front of the naval college.
‘I’m in your hands, Lacey,’ he said. ‘What’s the plan?’
It was her own fault; nothing to do but give it her best shot. ‘They can’t have gone much further up-river. There just wasn’t time. So they’ll be somewhere close. They’ll know we’re here and that we can outrun them, so I’m guessing they’re clinging close to the bank, trying to sneak past us. So we have to go in after them.’
‘I’m finding this plan strangely exciting,’ said Turner.
‘They may even have tried to pull up on a beach,’ said Lacey. ‘If there are any cars around Greenwich town centre, they could usefully go on standby.’
As Wilson spoke into the radio, Lacey joined Turner on the port bow. He crouched beside her and they peered into the gloom beneath the river walls.
‘I’m not running this boat aground, Lacey,’ said Wilson. ‘You two will have to keep your eyes peeled.’
Slowly, the Targa made its way up-river. No one spoke. The grandeur of the Regency buildings fell away and as they steered around Greenwich pier Lacey and Turner leaned out over the water, searching its depths.
‘There’s a police car on Thames Street,’ said Wilson. ‘Just waiting for instructions. As am I, incidentally.’
‘Can you cut the engine for a second, Sarge?’ asked Turner.
‘Not for long,’ said Wilson, as the engine died. ‘What is it?’
Turner held his forefinger up to his lips. ‘What’s the depth here?’
Wilson glanced at the instrument panel. ‘Metre and a half. Not enough. If I run this thing aground I’ll never hear the end of it.’
‘Lacey, you got the light?’
Lacey held the torch close to her chest, watching Turner’s face. ‘What’ve you seen?’ she asked.
He didn’t reply, but his eyes didn’t leave the south bank.
‘They’ll be looking for a ladder,’ he said. ‘They’re closer than we are, so they’ll see it sooner. Sarge, is there any chance you can—’
‘No.’
‘Is there a reason you’re no longer clipped to the boat?’ Lacey asked Turner.
‘I’m relying on you for light in the right place at the right time,’ he replied. ‘And possibly a brisk rub-down in a warm room later.’
‘Dream—’ Lacey began.
‘Ten o’clock.’ Turner jumped to his feet and over the side.
‘What the bugger!’ Wilson pulled the boat into reverse, clearly terrified at the thought of catching one of his officers in the propeller. ‘Lacey, where is he? Get that light on him.’
‘Keep the light on the wall!’ shouted Turner from somewhere in the water. Lacey flicked the beam on to him, making sure he was on his feet and moving forward, then aimed it back at the wall, where she was pretty sure at least one dark-clad figure was trying to climb up from the beach. She found Turner again, just steps away from the shore, and shone the beam at the water’s edge to give him something to aim at. Then up at the wall again. More than one figure trying to climb the ladder.
Behind her, she could hear Wilson on the radio, informing the car up on Thames Street that one – two – possibly more suspects were climbing the river-wall and would appear
just east of the Victoria and Norway Wharf.
‘One male, one female,’ called Lacey, watching dark hair fly out around the head of a slender form. A much bigger person was already over the wall. ‘Female is young, Asian, at a guess. Second male on the ladder now. Older. White, medium height. That’s three suspects.’
Turner was running across the beach. He reached the ladder and sprang up it, practically leaping over the small day-boat tied to one of the lower rungs. He was at the top a second after the third suspect cleared it.
‘Police! Stay where you are!’ they heard him yell.
‘Be bloody careful up there!’ shouted Wilson, before informing Call Dispatch that one of his officers was chasing suspects in a southerly direction away from the— ‘He’s got him. Hold that light steady, Lacey. Suspect apprehended at the Victoria and Norway Wharf by a Marine Unit officer who is bloody lucky not to be floating out into the North Sea right now. Can we have some assistance, please? Bloody kids’ll be the death of me. Two more suspects on the loose. One Asian male, one Asian female. Assistance would be appreciated.’
‘He’s got back-up, Sarge,’ said Lacey. ‘He’s OK.’
On the embankment, two uniformed officers had come to Turner’s aid. The suspect was pushed to the ground and cuffed.
‘Well done, Lacey,’ said Wilson.
‘Finn’s the one we have to thank.’
‘Silly bugger needn’t think he’s coming back on this boat. He can soak a patrol car.’
25
Pari
‘I think of you when the first snow falls,
I think of you when the last star fades.
You are my strength, you are my kindness,
Never leave, oh never leave my heart.’
PARI WASN’T SURE whether she was awake or not. Her mother had sung that song for as long as she could remember, had probably sung it over her cradle when she’d been a baby, had sung it as she’d cleaned other women’s houses, as she’d baked bread, as she’d sat and watched the sun sink below the rooftops of the city.
A Dark and Twisted Tide Page 10
