She was near Kensal Green, a popular part of town for continuous cruisers thanks to a generous fourteen-day stay policy and easy access to Kensington and Chelsea. There were permanent moorings too, with tethered electricity, waste disposal, and water on tap. Amber didn’t really see the point in living on a boat if it meant being in one place all the time, but she could see the appeal in the location. Her own salary barely covered a studio in zone four.
The waters had been quiet all morning. There were a few narrowboats dotted along the towpath just past the cemetery, with the space between each boat growing greater the farther she got from Kensal Green tube station.
She could hear the sounds of the incarcerated to the south, where Wormwood Scrubs dominated the landscape. The southern wall of the prison backed onto scrub adjoining the canal. Occasionally, a jogger or a dog walker passed by, many of them pausing to glance at the woman in the water. In the distance, another member of the team was taking a break. How the man could drink coffee when it was this warm, Amber didn’t know.
Behind her, the water moved in her wake. She was looking for a knife. One of the gangs that operated in the area had been linked to an open stabbing investigation, and it wouldn’t be the first time they’d tried to use the canal to hide the murder weapon.
There were a few good spots to dump things. The centre of the canals was the deepest part, but many narrowboat owners had barge poles which they used to keep detritus off the propellers, and these were liable to snag on anything under the water there. The edges were shallower, but things could be concealed among the tree roots.
Today’s discovery was underneath one of the boats. The Common Touch was a smaller narrowboat, and it appeared to have been moored up for a long time. The windows were shuttered, and one of them was broken. She was listing towards the bank, and the exposed portion of the underside of the boat was cracked. If Amber had been looking for somewhere to dump something, it would be under here.
Somebody else had had the same idea. Three feet under the boat, bobbing against the anodes on the underside of the hull, was a body.
The deceased was male, looked to be in his late twenties, and was beginning to bloat from decomposition. Amber prodded him and then recoiled. It wasn’t her job to get him out from underneath there. At least, she hoped it wasn’t.
It was time to call it in.
Chapter 18: The Pathologist
Sunday 19th June, 11:30
‘Yep, he’s definitely dead,’ Doctor Larry Chiswick smirked.
The pathologist was an aging man with hippy-length grey hair and a personality that veered between much too serious and far too mirthful. He’d been summoned from his Sunday morning lie-in to attend to the body in Kensal Green canal, and he was taking great pleasure in making everyone else working know it. If he had to be miserable, so did they.
‘Gee, thanks. Am I good to go?’ Amber asked.
‘Sure. As soon as you’ve fished our boy out of the water.’
‘Me?’ She’d never had to handle a dead body before.
‘You think I’m getting in there with you? Slide him out from underneath the boat and give him a shove from underneath. He won’t hurt you.’
Amber reluctantly did as she was told. The body felt swollen, slightly soft, and a ripe, sweet smell hit her the moment he had been freed from the confines of The Common Touch.
‘On three. One, two, three!’
Soon, the dead man was on the towpath.
‘What’s the current like in there?’ Chiswick asked.
‘Weak. It’s non-tidal, so the eddies trail whatever boats come past.’
‘That explains the abrasions. I can’t see any other signs of injury. I’ll have to get him back to the morgue for autopsy. Can you bag me a water sample?’ Chiswick said.
Amber nodded and took the proffered sample vial.
Chiswick smiled curtly. ‘Thank you.’
***
It didn’t take long to identify the body. As soon as Chiswick entered ‘canal’ as a keyword, the system flagged up a missing person. The descriptions were a match, and the face looked similar enough, though it was impossible to be sure with the adipocere.
‘Mark Sanders. Who put you in a watery grave?’ Chiswick mused. He clicked through to look for an open investigation. He needed to know whom to inform that he had Sanders in the morgue.
The name DCI Morton was listed under ‘Senior Investigating Officer’.
‘Trust you to open a murder enquiry before you’ve even got a body.’ This time, Chiswick’s smile was genuine. He picked up his phone and debated which call to make first: let Morton know, or get next of kin to identify the body.
‘Sod it. Formalities first. Morton can wait.’
***
Jake Sanders arrived a little after lunchtime with a local constabulary officer who had been dispatched to perform the next-of-kin notification. He looked a lot like how Chiswick imagined Mark would have looked before he died: he had a strong, chiselled jawline, grey-blue eyes, and sandy ash-blond hair. Even Chiswick had to admit he was handsome.
His jaw was set, and he was desperately trying not to cry. There was a quiver to his lip that Chiswick knew no man could fake.
Chiswick led him through to where Mark’s body was lying underneath a sheet.
‘I have to warn you, Mr Sanders, that your brother may not look as you remember him due to his time in the water. Are you sure you’re ready?’
Jake Sanders gave the slightest nod.
Chiswick pulled back the sheet just enough to reveal the head, and Jake Sanders swore.
Though he knew from Jake’s reaction what the answer would be, Chiswick still had to ask. ‘Is this your brother?’
‘That’s him. Cover him up, for God’s sake, please!’
Then Jake turned and dashed out of the room.
‘Third door on the left!’ Chiswick called after him. They never did make it to the bathroom.
Chapter 19: Stakeout
Sunday 19th June, 12:00
Morton was in the middle of preparing for a trip out to Burnham Beeches when he got the call from the pathologist. He relayed the news to the waiting Incident Room.
Ayala was standing by the coffee machine, mainlining as much coffee as he could. He’d been up for thirty-six hours and no longer looked his usually impeccable self. Mayberry was sitting at the conference table snoring, his head laid on his right arm, while Silverman hovered nearby, glaring disapprovingly.
‘Sanders is dead. The doc’s got him on ice downstairs. Mrs Silverman, your role here is done. Thank you so much for your assistance. We’ll take it from here.’
Morton gestured for Ayala to escort her out of their Incident Room. She began to protest, and Morton smiled sweetly. He said nothing until she was gone.
‘Does this mean we can go get some shut-eye, boss?’ Ayala asked.
‘Nope. We’re going to the drop point at Burnham Beeches.’
‘What?’ Ayala exclaimed.
‘The kidnapper is the killer. We know where the kidnapper will be tonight. Wake Mayberry up, go change into your civvies, and make up a tent somewhere in the Beeches. I want you to look like you’ve been there all day so you blend in. And yes,’ Morton added, ‘you do have time for a nap.’
‘On it,’ Ayala said. ‘Mayberry! Wake up!’
***
Sunday 19th June, 22:00
Burnham Beeches was an hour out. Morton drove, with Rafferty and Faye in the back seat of his car. He used the time to watch Faye in the mirror. She seemed withdrawn, mistrustful. She barely said a word to him, and only when she was spoken to directly.
Rafferty had a little more luck. The one topic Faye seemed to enjoy talking about was her cat. That, she had in common with Rafferty.
Faye seemed less stressed than Morton would have been if it had been Sarah who had been “kidnapped”. He understood her mistrust of men and of the police. Faye had been through much in her short years, and yet, somehow, her lack of visible emotion was con
cerning. Was it simply that Faye had learned to bottle up her emotions? Prison could do that.
‘So, Faye, it’ll be like last night. At midnight, you’ll get out of my car and walk fifty feet ahead. You’ll drop the bag, turn around, and get straight back in the car.’
Faye brightened as if relieved she would not have to go through the trauma she had endured in Hampstead Heath. ‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it,’ Morton confirmed. ‘I’ll leave my headlights on full beam the whole time so we’ll be able to see you. If you get into any trouble, scream. Got it?’
‘Got it... Mr Morton?’
‘Yes?’
‘Won’t the kidnappers know you’re the police?’ Faye asked.
Kidnappers, plural. Morton made a mental note. ‘I’m sure they will. They’ll see us drive up, drop the money, and then they’ll see us leave.’
‘Oh... okay. When will we get Mark back? Tonight?’
The question seemed earnest, innocent, and even childlike. Morton knew he couldn’t give her an answer without lying to her, so he said nothing.
The rest of the journey was silent. Eventually, Morton turned onto the pretentiously named Lord Mayors Drive. He pulled past the visitor centre and parked up just beyond a small picnic table. It was gone eleven at night, and nobody was to be seen.
He thumbed his encrypted radio. ‘Ayala, Mayberry, you there?’
‘We’re here. We saw you pull in.’
‘Seen anything this afternoon?’
‘Nothing of note,’ Ayala’s voice crackled over the radio. ‘It’s been pretty quiet since suppertime. I’ve got thermal imaging cameras pointed in all directions. When they get here, we’ll know it.’
‘Good work, Ayala,’ Morton said. There was a moment of silence, and he could practically imagine the junior officer blushing. Compliments weren’t Morton’s style, but this one was deserved. He squinted into the darkness, trying to find their tent. ‘Where are you guys?’
‘About four hundred feet ahead and to your left. Our tent is dark green, so you won’t be able to spot us.’
Just as long as the kidnappers don’t stumble over you in the dark, Morton thought.
Morton’s watch eventually beeped for midnight. He turned to Faye. ‘Go.’
He flicked his headlights to max as Faye stepped out of the car, and a long stretch of grass was illuminated in front of the car. He heard the door slam shut as Faye stomped off with the briefcase in hand. She set it down as instructed and leapt back into the car a minute later. She appeared to be shivering, so Morton casually flicked the heating up.
‘Ayala, we’ve made the drop.’
‘Got it, boss. We’re watching. No sign of any heat signatures so far. You off?’
‘We’d better be. I want to make a show of leaving in case someone’s watching from a distance. Happy camping, boys.’
***
Ayala and Mayberry took turns napping. One a.m., two a.m., three a.m., four. Nothing was showing on the thermal imaging cameras. Twice, Ayala got out to check that they were tracking properly, though he dared not venture over to the briefcase, just in case.
At six a.m., joggers began to appear. One wandered over to the case, looked around, and then backed away. Ayala held his breath. Could this be it?
He watched as the jogger pulled out their mobile. Who could they be calling?
A few minutes later, he had his answer. Dispatch called out for units in the area. A jogger had called in a bomb threat. The stakeout was over.
Chapter 20: The Autopsy
Monday 20th June, 10:30
Dr Larry Chiswick hummed cheerfully as he cut open Mark Sanders. Until the lab phone rang, anyway.
‘Dr Chiswick? This is Forensic Services. I’m calling about the blood sample you sent over yesterday for analysis.’
‘The Sanders sample?’ Chiswick asked. He had drawn it the first time he looked at the body, and had sent it off in the hopes of being the first in the queue come Monday morning. To get a call so quickly was unusual.
‘Yes, sir. I’m calling to warn you that Mr Sanders was HIV positive.’
Chiswick looked around Autopsy Room 1. Sanders’ blood was all over the place.
‘Shit.’
***
Two hours of clean-up and one course of post-exposure prophylaxis later, Chiswick was back at work. He was doubly careful this time, wearing thicker-than-usual gloves that made his hands feel clumsy and numb.
He had his trusty voice recorder set up on a side table to record his thoughts as he examined the body. The tape would be taken down by his diener to be transcribed and entered into the record.
‘Mark Sanders, age twenty-eight. The body was discovered trapped beneath a narrowboat in warm water, rendering a precise post-mortem interval impossible to calculate. From the adipocere, I would estimate that Mr Sanders died approximately a week ago. The police notes record him as having been seen alive by several witnesses on the night of Sunday 12th June, and as such, this is the earliest possible and most likely date of death according to the best evidence available.’
Adipocere was a soap-like material. Many of the police officers that Chiswick worked with thought it was a covering, something that formed over the skin. In fact, it was the body itself. The process of saponification converted the fatty acid esters under the skin into soap. It made the body look almost as if it had been mummified. For Chiswick and his colleagues, it was a godsend because it stabilised the body, preventing further decay.
‘At first inspection, I assessed there to be no visible perimortem injuries. Closer inspection on the body confirms this. There are numerous cuts and abrasions, all of which appear to have occurred after the body was placed in the water. In particular, I note a breakage to the twelfth rib on the right-hand side. There is no localised bleeding in this area, which indicates the injury was post-mortem. At the time of recovery, the body was found floating face-up, with the right side pointing towards the centre of the canal. It is possible that this injury occurred as a result of the body being nudged underneath the narrowboat known as The Common Touch. It would have taken considerable force from a blunt object to create the impact impression I see before me. The impact impression appears to be triangular, with radiating breaks approximately two inches long.’
Chiswick paused. It was easy to rule out things that hadn’t killed Mark Sanders. But there was no sign of an injury which would have proven fatal.
Chapter 21: Team Meeting
Monday 20th June, 13:00
‘Doc says we’ve got nothing,’ Ayala relayed. ‘He says there’s no visible sign that Mark was struck, shot, stabbed, or otherwise injured.’
‘Then that leaves us with the less visible,’ Morton said. ‘Poison, drowning, etc.’
‘Doc says the water is making things difficult. He’s still working on it. The lab has a rush on toxicology. Even with top priority, we’re looking at a day or two there.’
‘Then we start with the basics. Mayberry, the board, if you please.’
Detective Sergeant Mayberry had been sitting quietly at the back of the room. He wasn’t one to talk much, but he was always listening. His notes were impeccable, and his handwriting bordered on calligraphy. Morton watched as he picked up a pen and wheeled a whiteboard in front of the projector screen.
‘Let’s start with the victim,’ Morton said. ‘What do we know?’
Ayala began to reel off facts about the victim as if he was reading from Wikipedia. ‘We know he’s twenty-eight. He’s got a brother, but his parents are long gone. He owns a seventy-foot narrowboat called The Guilty Pleasure which he lives aboard. He and his girlfriend Faye continuously cruise the canals, moving up and down the canals so they don’t have to pay mooring fees.’
‘Good. We know he’s physically fit. He works in IT, but on the sales side. You getting this down?’
Morton looked over to Mayberry, who hastily began scribbling on the board. A spider’s nest of information began to appear, each fact an arm arcing away
from the name Mark Sanders, which was writ bold in the middle of the board.
‘What about the people in his life?’ Morton asked. ‘Rafferty?’
Rafferty stirred. She looked tired. Another night of babysitting was beginning to take its toll. Ayala thrust a mug of coffee into her hands. She smiled and took a sip. ‘There’s Faye, obviously. She moved on board The Guilty Pleasure a little over a fortnight ago.’
‘How long have they been together?’ Morton said.
‘Four and a half years, including her four-year stint inside. I checked the visitor logs, and he visited her once a week without fail.’
‘Nice guy. What was she in for?’
‘Possession.’
Morton whistled. ‘Four years for possession? Somebody needed a better lawyer.’
‘Faye has had a very unlucky life.’
‘I’m sorry to have to ask, but what exactly is your relationship with her?’ Morton said.
‘It was way back, at least ten years ago, now, and I was with Sapphire,’ Rafferty said, referring to the team responsible for investigating rape and serious sexual assault. ‘I was investigating Norman Atkins, Faye’s stepdad. The case fell through. Norman was a business owner, a pillar of the community, and the CPS dropped the prosecution like a hot potato.’
‘Didn’t they get Faye removed from his custody?’ Ayala asked.
‘They tried. Child Protective Services got involved. I don’t know what happened after that. I gave Faye my number and told her to call me if she ever needed anything, even if she just wanted to talk,’ Rafferty said.
Missing Persons (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 5) Page 6
