She stepped away and made her way back up the Watergate Steps. She tried to shake off the sharp prickles of anxiety, but she couldn’t get rid of the feeling that the torso had been staged for her.
Chapter 2
‘How long have we got until the tide comes in?’ Henley was facing the river watching the small waves crashing against the derelict pier. She checked her watch. Nearly two hours had passed since the first 999 call.
‘I checked online, and high tide is at 9.55 a.m.,’ Ramouter replied as he stepped around a half-submerged car tyre, his eyes glazed with anxiety. ‘Low tide was at 3.15. Sunrise was at 6.32. A three-hour window for someone to dump whoever this is and hope that someone would find it before the tide comes in?’
‘Maybe,’ Henley acknowledged. ‘But for all we know it could have been dumped after sunrise or was dumped earlier upstream before being washed up here.’ She inspected the glass façade of the Borthwick Wharf, empty commercial spaces and work units that opened to the terrace and lacked security cameras. Henley doubted that the local council would have extended their own CCTV cameras to this part of the street. They had been neglecting this part of Deptford for as long as she could remember.
‘Has it been touched?’ Henley asked Anthony, who had appeared at her side.
‘As far as I’m aware, it’s in situ. It wasn’t touched by the woman who found it. Matei, your builder, said that he hadn’t touched the legs but, unhelpfully, it’s covered in his vomit. I had a quick look at the arms that were found downstream before I came here. From the looks of things, the treasure hunters may have prodded around a bit.’
‘There’s always one.’
The wind dropped and the air softly crackled with the electricity generated from the substation nearby.
‘We’re isolating the recovery of evidence to the direct path from the alleyway to the torso,’ said Anthony. ‘I doubt very much that whoever it was sat here and had a coffee afterwards.’
‘They may not have had a coffee, but if we go with Ramouter’s theory and the body parts have been dumped, then whoever it was certainly knows the river,’ Henley replied. ‘We’ll let you get on. Ramouter and I are going to take a walk.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Ramouter.
‘To meet Eastwood.’
‘And you want to walk it?’
Henley did her best to push aside her frustration when Ramouter pulled out his phone. ‘Google Maps says that Greenwich Pier is almost a mile away,’ he said.
‘Your body-part dumper isn’t the only one who knows the river,’ Anthony shouted out as Henley began to walk determinedly along the riverbank.
The gold sceptres on the twin domed roofs of the Old Royal Naval College pierced the cloudless sky. The bare masts of the restored Cutty Sark completed the historical panoramic view that Greenwich was known for. It was a resplendent, whitewashed version of history that contrasted with the sewage that washed ashore. Henley stopped walking when she realised that she could no longer hear the sounds of Ramouter’s leather soles slipping on wet pebbles.
‘Where are you from?’ Henley asked, waiting for Ramouter to take off his jacket and loosen his tie. She moved closer towards the moss-covered river wall as the tide began to encroach.
‘Born in West Bromwich. Moved to Bradford when I was twelve.’ Ramouter tried to brush off the bits of mud that had stuck to his trousers, but they only smeared more. ‘Lots of moors, no rivers. Surely it would have been quicker in the car.’
‘This is quicker. Unless you fancy sitting in traffic for the next half hour while they raise the Creek Road Bridge.’
‘You know this area well?’
Henley ignored the question. She didn’t see the point in telling him that she could have walked this path with her eyes closed. That this small part of south-east London was ingrained in her. ‘Whoever dumped the torso would have taken this route. It doesn’t make any sense to come down here, go back up to the street level and then drive up to Watergate Street. Out of sight, below street level. Lighting would have been minimal.’
‘Body parts are heavy though.’ Ramouter tried to quicken his step to catch up with Henley. ‘The human head weighs at least eight pounds.’
‘I know.’ Henley pulled out her mobile phone, which had started to ring. She saw who it was and ignored the call.
‘Head, torso, arms, legs. That’s at least six individual body parts.’
‘I know that also. So, tell me, what point are you making?’ Henley waited for Ramouter to reach her before manoeuvring him towards the river wall as though she was chaperoning a child.
‘I’m just saying that that’s a lot of dead weight to be carrying around at three in the morning.’ Ramouter paused and placed his hand against the wall, trying to catch his breath.
Henley didn’t openly express her agreement. She fished out a black hairband from her jacket pocket and pulled her thick black curls into a ponytail. She had forgotten how much energy it took to walk across the gradient slope of the riverbank. Worse, she felt mentally unprepared for the job ahead, with a trainee struggling behind her who had no idea this was her first time as senior investigator in almost a year.
‘It’s a bit grim, isn’t it?’ DC Roxanne Eastwood shouted out as Henley finally reached the first crime scene. ‘Morning, Ramouter. Not a bad gig for your first day.’
Henley had always thought that Eastwood actually looked and carried herself like a detective. Now, Eastwood was poised on the riverbank, the sleeves of her jacket rolled up with her notebook in her hand. She had come prepared for the river and was wearing a pair of jeans and trainers that had seen better days.
‘Morning, Eastie. How does it feel to be out of the office?’ Henley asked, her eyes drifting to a crime scene investigator who was putting an arm into a black bag.
‘I should be asking you that,’ said Eastwood, with a look of concern.
Henley silently appreciated the empathy and placed her hand on Eastwood’s shoulder.
‘But since you asked, it’s bloody terrible. I think I’ve got sunburn.’ Eastwood rubbed a hand over her reddening forehead. ‘Forensics are going to be wrapping up in a bit. Not that there’s much for them to do. Bag it and tag it.’
‘Where’s Mr Thomas?’
‘Ah, our illustrious treasure hunter. Last time I saw him, he was heading towards the shops. Said that he needed to get some water for his dog.’ Eastwood shook her head, obviously not believing a word of it. ‘I’ve got an officer keeping an eye on him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already uploaded pictures of his find onto Instagram.’
‘I want him taken back to the station. Ramouter can take another statement from him.’ Henley said it purposely so that Ramouter would sense she was in control. ‘If he’s like most mudlarkers, he would have been out here first thing this morning waiting for the tide to go out. Where exactly were the arms found?’
‘Just over there.’ Eastwood pulled down her sunglasses and pointed towards the foamed waves created by a passing river bus. The tide had already come in where X had once marked the spot. A sense of urgency filled the air as the river regained its territory.
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘Only that he found the second arm about three feet away from the first.’
‘It’s a sick trail of breadcrumbs,’ said Henley.
‘You’re telling me, and before you ask about CCTV, there’re loads of cameras—’
‘But none aimed at this part of the river.’
‘Exactly.’
Henley’s mobile phone began to ring. She pulled it out and answered. After a quick chat, she ended the call.
‘That was Dr Linh Choi. You wouldn’t have met her yet but she’s our go-to forensic pathologist. She’s just arrived,’ Henley explained to Ramouter. She wiped away the sweat from the back of her neck.
‘So, we’ve got two arms, both legs and a torso,’ said Ramouter. ‘Where’s the head?’
Good question. Henley thought of the places between
the two locations. A primary school, two nurseries and an adventure playground among the flats and houses. The last thing she needed was to find a head in the kids’ sandpit.
‘Can I have a quick look?’ Henley asked the assistant from Anthony’s CSI team, who had just bagged up the arm and was scribbling in her notebook.
‘Sure.’ The assistant unzipped the bag and pushed the plastic apart.
‘Fuck,’ Henley said under her breath. Her heartbeat quickened, her stomach flipped.
‘Oh,’ said Ramouter as he peered over Henley’s shoulder. One arm was covered with gravel. Slivers of seaweed criss-crossed old scars. The second arm. Slender wrist, the ring finger slightly longer than the index, broken fingernails. Black skin. Henley could hear Pellacia’s words from earlier ringing in her ears.
‘Too early to say if it belongs to the same victim or if it’s more than just one.’
‘Call DSI Pellacia,’ Henley told Ramouter. ‘Tell him that we’ve got two possible murder victims.’
Chapter 3
To anyone walking past, the natural assumption was that Greenwich police station was closed. The blue shutters at the front of the building hadn’t been raised for three years, and two lonely orange traffic cones blocked the driveway which led to a row of empty parking spaces. A faded poster redirected all prospective visitors to Lewisham police station or to call 101 if it was a non-emergency. The locals walked past wondering when the building would be knocked down and replaced with another overpriced, privately owned apartment block with a concierge service for the rich and a backdoor for the lucky few who had been allocated social housing. If the people had looked up, then they would have noticed that three windows on the fourth floor were open and a soft swirl of cigarette smoke was wafting out.
The Serial Crime Unit had been temporarily based on the fourth floor for six years. When the Metropolitan Police was a bit more flush, DCSI Harry Rhimes had been rewarded with the SCU after his team successfully apprehended a district nurse named Abigail Burnley, who had killed fifteen people under her care. Serial killers didn’t pop up with great regularity, so the department busied itself with serial rapes, burglaries, kidnappings and cases considered too extreme for any of the twenty-six murder inquiry teams spread throughout London. Six years later, Burnley was serving a life sentence, Rhimes had been dead for eight months, Pellacia was in charge of an underfunded unit and Henley was heading towards him with a face like thunder.
‘How dare you?’ Henley didn’t stop Pellacia’s office door from slamming shut behind her.
‘Don’t you think a little bit of respect is due? How about, How dare you, guv?’
DSI Stephen Pellacia, who had been smoking out the window, stubbed out his cigarette. The strain of being in charge of the SCU was starting to show. There was more grey streaked through his brown hair and the circles under his creased eyes were darker. The euphoria of being the boss had worn off long ago and Rhimes’s absence still hung heavily in the air.
‘You could have given me some warning before putting me out there. Then to top that off, you dump a bloody trainee on me,’ said Henley.
‘Why are you making this an issue? You’ve been on restrictive duties for six months. I thought that you would be—’
‘There has never been an issue.’ Henley almost spat the last word out. ‘You’re the one who told Rhimes that it would be best to stick me behind a desk.’
‘And you’ve been complaining about it every day since.’ Pellacia’s green eyes narrowed and the small muscles in his jaw flexed with tension. ‘Look, we’re going round in circles and I haven’t got time to argue with you. I’m already late with this briefing. There’s a lot to get through and I’m due at the Yard.’
‘Before we start—’ Henley took a breath and counted to three. ‘Do you have any idea who the lead investigator is going to be on this case? The sooner I update the CRIS report and complete a handover the better.’
‘Yeah, about that,’ said Pellacia as he stepped around Henley and reached for the door. ‘We’re not handing it over.’
‘What do you mean we’re keeping the case?’
The voice of dissent came from DC Eastwood. She pushed aside a loose strand of blonde hair from her burnt forehead. ‘I thought this was just was a one-off.’
‘It’s not,’ Pellacia said firmly, avoiding Henley’s stare.
The SCU was housed in a room that was now far too big for their team. There was a time when the officers had hot-desked with CID and the Community Support Unit. The building used to shake with the sound of a suspect banging on the old pipes in his cell. Now the cells were more likely to contain Stanford having a snooze. The team at this point consisted of Eastwood, Henley, DS Paul Stanford, who was en route to the Old Bailey to give evidence in a serial rapist case, and now Salim Ramouter. Pellacia was in charge and these days very rarely left the office unless it was to answer the calls of his superiors who were based at New Scotland Yard. The SCU was supported by a civilian admin team: Ezra, an ex-con at twenty-three years old and a computer genius who Pellacia had taken under his wing, and Joanna. No one knew how long Joanna had been knocking around the police stations of south-east London and neither did they know how old Joanna was, but the general consensus was that she definitely knew where all the bodies were buried and how many skeletons the Met had in their cupboards.
‘We’re overstretched as it is,’ said Eastwood. ‘I’ve worked eleven days straight with not one rest day. We’ve lost Stanford for the week.’
‘You’re pointing out the obvious, Eastie.’
‘And the last time I checked we were running six active investigations…’
‘Seven.’ Joanna walked through the door carrying a large cardboard box filled with various breakfast orders from the café across the road. She put the box down onto Eastwood’s desk. ‘It’s seven if you include the Thames Valley job that we’re’ – she raised her hands and made the quotation signs in the air – ‘consulting on.’
Henley watched Pellacia bite his tongue as Eastwood rolled her eyes.
‘Look, you may not like it but that’s what’s happening. None of the other murder teams have the capacity to deal with it. The investigation is staying here. Is that clear?’ said Pellacia.
‘Crystal.’ Eastwood shook her head.
Pellacia turned his gaze to Henley, daring her to challenge the decision that he’d just made. ‘As Stanford is stuck in court, I’ve decided that Ramouter is staying on this body-part case with Henley.’
‘You’re splitting up the twins?’ Joanna exclaimed in mock shock.
‘I didn’t think that Stanford would take offence at no longer being Ramouter’s mentor and temporarily separated from Henley.’
‘That’s what you think.’ Joanna took a sausage sandwich from the box. ‘Ramouter, just to give you the heads-up, those two are as thick as thieves. Stanford is Henley’s brother from another—’
‘We get it, Joanna,’ said Pellacia. ‘Right, let’s move on.’
Henley mentally went through her own checklist. Muscle memory had taken over as she attended the crime scene: observe the surroundings, note the familiar and unfamiliar. Treat everything as evidence. Prepare a narrative. Secure and protect. To the outside world, she was calm and composed. Inside, her heart was about to burst out of her chest, and the knots in her stomach twisted and tightened.
Henley’s phone began to vibrate on her desk. She felt sick as she read the text from her brother Simon:
Just been round to Dad’s. Wouldn’t let me in. Bell you when I’ve finished work x
‘Now, about this river case,’ said Pellacia. ‘Potentially two victims?’
‘It’s not potentially two. There are two victims,’ said Henley. She began typing a reply to her brother. ‘The torso, legs and one arm belong to a white male. The second arm belongs to, although the sex hasn’t been confirmed, a black female.’
Henley’s mobile phone vibrated across her desk for a second time. She picked it up.
‘CSI recovered a head belonging to a white male in the skip outside 15 Nelson Mews,’ said Henley. ‘That was a text from Linh, by the way. The… parts have arrived at the mortuary.’
‘Two bloody victims,’ said Pellacia. ‘You never know, though. This could still be a nice, straightforward investigation.’
Henley didn’t reply as she picked up her bag, because every nerve in her body told her Pellacia believed that even less than she did.
Chapter 4
The building that housed the dead was walking distance from the police station, just off the high street where the cafés, pubs and estate agents gave way to more sparkling new hotels, unaffordable apartment buildings and a twenty-four-hour gym. It blended in anonymously among the Georgian houses and the council estate that shared the quiet road. Henley didn’t feel out of place now that she had her uniform on, a sharp midnight blue suit. It screamed authority even though she had kept on the black Adidas Gazelles.
‘Greenwich Public Mortuary,’ Ramouter read the sign on the wall as he finished the rest of his coffee. ‘They make it sound like a library. Like you can just walk in, show your card, pull up a seat and watch an autopsy.’
‘How long have you got left?’ Henley asked.
‘For what?’ Ramouter waited for Henley to release the child safety lock.
‘Until you’re no longer a trainee?’
‘What you’re really asking is, how long are you stuck with me for?’ The grin on Ramouter’s smooth brown face quickly disappeared as he saw that Henley was not smiling back. ‘I’ve got four months left.’ He rubbed at his beard. ‘But I did spend six months working in the Homicide and Major Crime team. It was good solid work, but I wanted something more challenging and West Yorkshire Police have nothing like the SCU.’
The Jigsaw Man Page 2
