Faye was kept in the waiting room for several hours as more urgent cases kept getting bumped above her by the triage nurses.
Eventually, she was seen by an admissions nurse in a tiny room off the busy A&E corridor.
The nurse was brisk and to the point, as if the patients were on a conveyor belt of human misery that she needed to get through before her shift was over. ‘What happened to you then, love? Another car crash?’
‘They told me my boat crashed,’ Faye said. ‘The mooring pins came loose in the storm. I almost drowned. H-have you seen my cat?’
‘Your cat?’ The nurse’s expression softened. ‘I’m sure she’s fine. Let’s focus on you for now. What happened when the boat crashed?’
‘I was trying to stop it. The engine wouldn’t start. It happened so fast.’
‘It’s okay, dear. You’re okay. Did you lose consciousness at all?’
Faye bit her lip. ‘I... I think so. One moment, I was heading for the boat, and then I was on the towpath. Someone was standing over me. And then... then I was here.’
‘Right. We’d better get you admitted. Can you roll up your sleeve? I need to take your vitals.’
***
The Medical Assessment Unit was full to bursting. Faye’s trolley was parked in a corridor, as there were no beds available inside the ward. The hospital, like so many in London, was groaning under the weight of an ageing population. Patients who should have long since been sent home were waiting on appropriate homes to go to and the social care needed to get them there.
As Faye waited, people streamed past every few seconds: nurses, patients, distraught visitors. More than one bumped into her, and few of them did more than mumble an apology as they did so. One guy had the gall to tell her to get out of the way.
It was nice to be out of the wet clothes she’d emerged from the boat in, though a hospital gown was not a great improvement.
Eventually, a nurse came over and told her she could go home.
‘Go where? I don’t have a home any more,’ Faye said. She thought briefly of her mum’s. No, she couldn’t go back, not as long as her stepfather remained there.
‘Don’t you have a friend or emergency contact you could call?’
Faye paused. She could call Laura. Or her mum.
Then it hit her. There was one person who had looked out for her every time she needed somebody. ‘Yes. I don’t have her number, though. I think I lost my phone with the boat.’
‘What’s her name?’ the nurse asked. ‘I can look her up for you.’
‘Ashley Rafferty.’
***
‘Thanks again for doing this, Miss Rafferty,’ Faye said. She had asked the nurses to call Rafferty to plead her case. She needed to go somewhere, and she couldn’t be released unless she had somewhere to go. ‘It’ll just be for one night, I promise.’
Rafferty sighed inwardly. She knew better. Faye was as helpless as a newborn lamb. She had no money, no clothes, no job, and nowhere to go. As if it was ever going to be just one night.
‘And thank you for bringing these clothes for me.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Rafferty said. The less said about the clothes, the better. Faye was markedly smaller than Rafferty, so Rafferty had resorted to the old standby of pilfering whatever was available in the Met’s lost and found box. ‘We’ll go shopping this weekend.’
‘But, Miss Rafferty, I don’t have any money.’
‘It’s my treat. And, if you’re moving in with me, please call me Ashley instead of Miss Rafferty. You make me sound so old!’
‘Okay, Miss Ashley.’
Chapter 35: Home Sweet Home
Saturday 25th June, 03:00
It didn’t take Faye long to make herself right at home.
Rafferty had cleared her junk out of the living room and unfolded a sofa bed which now dominated the room. She introduced Faye to her cat, Mr Snuffles, who took an immediate liking to her. Like Faye, Mr Snuffles was a stray. He’d been a little ball of white fluff when Rafferty rescued him. Like Faye, Rafferty hadn’t planned to open her home to another living being, but it had worked out for the best.
Rafferty quickly fetched extra blankets and pillows from her storage unit in the apartment building’s basement, and then they planned a quick trip to the local supermarket to see to all of Faye’s basic needs.
‘Thank you,’ Faye said for the hundredth time as Rafferty picked up a cheap toothbrush for her. She had the same reaction to every item Rafferty picked up: new socks, underwear, and even a stack of easy ready-meals for Faye to microwave. By the time they made it to the checkout, Faye was holding back tears of gratitude.
When they got home, Rafferty uncorked a bottle of red wine and poured two generous glasses. Faye’s eyes lit up.
‘I’ve never had red wine.’
Rafferty was stunned. Faye was twenty-two years old, and yet still a child in so many ways. ‘Then, I hope you like it.’
She did. Faye gulped down the wine much too fast and immediately asked for another glass. Between the two of them, the Châteauneuf-du-Pape didn’t last half an hour, and they had to move on to a six-pack of beers. Faye seemed much more at home after a few drinks.
‘I miss him,’ she said. The mood in the room quickly shifted from jovial to melancholy.
‘I’m so sorry, sweetie,’ Rafferty said, putting an arm around Faye and hugging her close.
Faye recoiled visibly, pulling herself away. For just a second, her expression was one of unbridled rage. Her nostrils flared, and her arm muscles tensed up.
Rafferty pulled back. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to get some sleep. If you need anything, you know where I am.’
‘Miss Ashley? There is one thing. What happened to Fabby?’
Shit, Rafferty thought. I’d forgotten about the cat.
‘I’ll go look for her tomorrow,’ Rafferty promised. ‘I’m sure someone’s taking good care of her.’
Chapter 36: The Wreckage
Saturday 25th June, 09:30
The Guilty Pleasure was a write-off. Rafferty and Ayala met on the canal early on Saturday morning to see if there was any chance of recovering latent evidence from the boat. They arrived to find a circus on the canal. Men in vests marked Canal and River Trust were running around, and one was barking orders through a megaphone.
The water had subsided, leaving the towpath covered in mud. Rafferty trod carefully as she made a beeline for the man with the megaphone.
‘Detective Inspector Rafferty,’ she introduced herself. ‘What’s going on?’
The man lowered his megaphone and shook Rafferty’s hand. ‘Mike Barnham, Canal and River Trust. We’ve got two boats to recover. Why are the police involved in a simple canal crash?’
‘One of the boats, The Guilty Pleasure, may be a crime scene.’
Barnham arched an eyebrow. ‘I take it you’re talking about more than being drunk while in charge of a narrowboat.’
‘The owner of The Guilty Pleasure was murdered two weeks ago.’
‘I guess we won’t be billing him for removing her from the water, then. Do you think the crash was deliberate? We figured it was just an accident, what with the storm we had last night. We’ve got half a dozen wreckages to deal with today. Every boat that can’t move under her own steam needs to be craned out of the water to make way. And we’ve got downed trees all over the place, too.’
The scene looked like something out of a tornado movie. Fencing had collapsed on parts of the towpath, shrubbery had fallen into the water, and the two boats were barely visible above the waterline.
‘Was anyone hurt?’ Rafferty said.
‘Aye. There was a young lass taken to hospital last night. Mr and Mrs Macullum – they own the other boat that sank, the Arcadian – were alright, though they’re mighty shook up. That’s them over there.’ Barnham pointed to an elderly couple sitting in plastic chairs. They were watching their boat with tears in their eyes.
‘What will happen to the boats?’
‘Normally, I’d just haul them up out of the water, winch ‘em onto a lorry and tow ‘em, but I’m guessing you’ll want to see the inside of The Guilty Pleasure if it’s murder you’re investigating. Let me put her on the towpath, check she’s structurally sound, and then you can investigate all you want. That sound fair to you? There’s a bit of extra grass just down the bend, there, so if we pop her there, she won’t be in anyone’s way.’
Rafferty looked towards the space Barnham was indicating. It didn’t look big enough for a boat, but she trusted his expertise. ‘It sounds good to me. I’ll leave my colleague, here, Detective Inspector Ayala, to chat with the Macullums and then see to some crime scene tape.’
She turned away from Barnham to speak with Ayala, and the megaphone-barked orders resumed.
‘Where are you going, then?’ Ayala asked.
‘I’ve got to see a man about a cat.’
***
Battersea Dogs and Cats Home was on Battersea Park Road, just opposite one of Rafferty’s favourite Irish pubs. Virtually every Londoner knew of it, and it was Rafferty’s best bet for finding Fabby.
The cat was microchipped, so she should be relatively easy to find. Unfortunately, the contact details on that microchip were Mark’s, and the address on record was one he’d long since moved out of.
If it were not for the three-storey high picture of a dog above the door, Rafferty would have dismissed Battersea as just another glass-fronted office building in a city full of them. A quick Google said they were due to open at half ten, and Rafferty made it with five minutes to spare. When the doors opened, she paid her £2 admission fee without bothering to get a receipt for expenses and made her way to the enquiries desk.
‘Morning. I’m looking to find a cat that may have been brought in during last night’s storm,’ Rafferty said to the receptionist.
There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘We had a lot of animals come in last night. We’re still processing them. Could you come back later today?’
‘I’m afraid not. My name is Detective Inspector Rafferty. The cat in question belongs to a murder victim, and I’m hoping to reunite his next of kin with the cat as soon as possible.’
The receptionist seemed satisfied that it wasn’t a run of the mill request. ‘Let me go speak to one of our team members and see if they can help you out.’
Rafferty checked her phone as she waited for the receptionist to return and found another four messages from Faye. She almost regretted giving the poor girl her old mobile to replace the one that had sunk with The Guilty Pleasure. Faye was texting almost constantly. None of it was important. Most of it was inane questions about where something might be in the flat, followed by another text two minutes later announcing that Faye had found it.
The receptionist returned with another woman in tow. ‘Inspector Rafferty? I’m Michelle. Sandra told me you’re looking for a cat. Can you describe it?’
‘She’s a tabby, female, about five years old. She’s been microchipped and responds when called.’
‘Phew. That ought to make things a bit easier. Follow me through to the back, and we’ll see if she’s among the cats at intake.’
Intake was all the way across the other side of the building, near the Sopwith Way entrance. It took a few minutes to get there, but when they did, Fabby was easy to find. The lady who had helped Faye, one Joanna Marsden, had dropped her off after Faye had been taken away from the boat by the paramedic. Half an hour of paperwork and a small donation later, Rafferty walked out with Fabby tucked up in a transport box under her arm. She’d be home before lunchtime.
***
Ayala was left to deal with the crime scene alone. He’d been asking for more responsibility for a long time, ever since becoming an Inspector. Now that he had it, he wondered if he hadn’t been better off doing the grunt work after all.
He had three tasks. One, talk to the Macullums about their boat, the Arcadian. Two, oversee the Canal and River Trust as they pulled both boats out of the canal. Three, secure and search The Guilty Pleasure. Ayala took the jobs in that order.
The old couple were shivering as he approached. It was still raining, and they were much too old to sit in the rain while their boat was pulled from the water.
‘Mr and Mrs Macullum? I’m Detective Inspector Ayala. I’d like to ask you what happened last night. It might take a little while, and it’s a little cold out here. There’s a small café just around the corner, if you’re able to make it up the steps off the towpath.’
They agreed without demurring. Soon, the trio were the oddest-looking brunch party in London. They found a table in the back of the café, and Ayala ordered three mugs of hot tea and three full British breakfasts.
When the waitress was gone, Ayala asked what had happened.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Mr Macullum began. ‘Ethel and I have been on the canals for... how long, dear?’
‘Forty-four years, dear.’
‘Forty-four years, and not once have we had a collision. We’ve seen them. Everybody has. It’s usually a novice who misjudges a lock gate. Why on earth did she plough into the Arcadian?’
‘I’m afraid it was an accident. Our information is that the boat came untethered in the storm,’ Ayala said, relaying the story Faye had given to Rafferty.
Mrs Macullum slammed her mug down, spilling tea all over the table. ‘It was not! We saw her. She was at the helm the entire time. She could have avoided us easily.’
Ayala set down his own mug and mopped up the spilled tea with a napkin. ‘You think it was deliberate?’
Mrs Macullum spoke for them again. ‘If it wasn’t deliberate, she was wholly inept. Even the most novice of narrowboaters could have managed to avoid us. We didn’t come adrift, nor did anyone else.’
Mr Macullum was sitting quietly. Ayala turned to him. ‘What do you think, Mr Macullum?’
He shrugged his shoulders with a click. ‘I don’t know. It certainly could have been an accident. She didn’t look like she knew what she was doing. I know I bumped the canal side a few times when I was a new hand. Why would anyone deliberately crash a narrowboat?’
‘It’s possible that her boat is in fact a crime scene,’ Ayala said.
He realised as soon as he’d said it that he should have kept his mouth shut.
‘She destroyed my boat to cover up a crime!’ Mrs Macullum declared. ‘I want her arrested. Criminal damage, drunk in charge, whatever it takes. That floozy deserves to be in jail.’
And for the next twenty minutes, she ranted and ranted while she chewed over her breakfast. Ayala paid the bill after brunch and made a hasty retreat back towards the canal.
When he made it back, the crane was in position. It was parked on the road up above the canal, with the hook dangling down from above. He found Barnham directing his team. They were putting winch straps underneath the boat.
‘How long ‘til you’re ready to lift her out of the water?’
‘Should be less than thirty minutes,’ Barnham said. ‘We want her to come out in one piece, so we’ve got to put straps every few feet.’
Ayala watched them work. They were methodical, deliberate, and surprisingly quick. Two teams of two men were looping the straps around the boat. They started at opposite ends, putting one loop around and then moving ten feet closer to the middle. In no time at all, there were seven sets of straps along the length of The Guilty Pleasure. The team then joined up each loop and attached steel rings for the crane to latch on to. One of the men was calling directions into a radio to let the crane operator know which way to go. They latched on after a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, and the crane began to strain against the weight of the boat.
As The Guilty Pleasure was raised up, the water poured out of her. At first, the run-off came through the windows, great rivers of dirty canal water pouring down the side of the boat. Duckweed seemed to sprout from the sides of her, great knots of long green stems flooding out of the windows.
The Guilty Pleasure
rose slowly through the water and into the air. Ayala could see an enormous crack along the bow below the water line, which had to be the point where she had collided with the Arcadian. The crane held her above the waterline until she was no longer dripping, and then slowly swung to the left. The Canal and River Trust staff scurried out of the way as the crane operator placed her upon the bank ever so gently.
After she was landed, the straps were quickly removed.
‘She’s all yours, Inspector Ayala,’ Barnham said after they had performed a structural inspection. ‘Be careful if you go in. She looks alright from here, but I’d wear a hard hat all the same, if I were you.’
‘Cheers.’
Ayala quickly fenced off the portion of the canal with blue-and-white crime scene tape. Then he took Barnham’s advice and borrowed a hard hat. It didn’t exactly match his carefully tailored suit, but, on this occasion, Ayala was happy to trade off looks for safety. There didn’t seem much point in putting on evidence booties when the possible crime scene was already thoroughly contaminated, but it was procedure, so Ayala covered up, donned plastic gloves, and boarded The Guilty Pleasure, ready to collect any evidence he could find.
She looked like a shipwreck, which Ayala supposed she was. The interior, which had been decked out in solid wood, had absorbed a great deal of canal water, and it dripped from the ceiling. Ayala had to duck to avoid scraping his hard hat on the ceiling as he entered. The floor was slimy with green canal water, and there was a tiny bream flip-flopping on the counter. Ayala tried to scoop up the fish with his hands, failing miserably as it slipped from his fingers. He tried again, this time using a wastepaper bin to catch it. He took it outside and returned it to the canal.
Upon his return, he proceeded quickly through the boat. There was little of value to be seen. Any forensic evidence would have been washed away. Ayala wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking for, anyway. The cause of death was unknown, so there was no murder weapon lying around to discover.
Missing Persons (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 5) Page 11
