by Nick Louth
The Body on the Island
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One Tuesday, 14 May 2019
Chapter Two 2 a.m. Saturday, 22 June 2019
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven Sunday 9 a.m.
Chapter Eight Monday 9 a.m.
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve Tuesday
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen Thursday
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen Friday
Chapter Nineteen Monday
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one Tuesday, 2 July 2019
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three The previous morning
Chapter Twenty-four Wednesday morning
Chapter Twenty-five Thursday evening
Chapter Twenty-six Friday
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight Two days previously
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
The Bodies at Westgrave Hall
Canelo Crime
About the Author
Also by Nick Louth
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
For Louise, as always
When you stare into the abyss the abyss stares back at you.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Chapter One
Tuesday, 14 May 2019
The prisoner being transported in the back of the Serco van was having a laugh and joke with the two fresh-faced young prison officers sitting with him. He was being escorted from the high-security wing of HMP Wakefield to HMP Spring Hill, an open prison in Buckinghamshire, to complete the last few weeks of his six-year sentence. They chatted about last night’s Manchester United game, the sending-off and the high tackle that caused it. The two officers, Steve and Aaron, new recruits to the outsourcing firm, were relaxed. It was the last trip of their working day and this pension-age prisoner handcuffed to Aaron wasn’t going to be any trouble.
Neil Wright was a wiry little guy with red Ferrari brand glasses, a soft white beard and just a few tufts of snowy hair. The paperwork gave his age as sixty-seven, but he looked well over seventy. He was described as a low-risk offender unlikely to reoffend. The crime he’d committed back in 2013 was listed as manslaughter.
He barely looked capable of swatting a fly.
Towards the end of the journey, Steve had asked him about the crime, something he wouldn’t have dared with a more intimidating villain. Wright took a while to reply. He eventually said he had accidentally killed his wife during an argument. She had threatened him with a kitchen knife, and during the struggle to disarm her she had tripped. She fell and banged her head on the stone-flagged floor of their cottage. Manslaughter. The two officers were quite understanding of Wright’s explanation and his regret for what he’d done. Steve, the older of the two, was divorced, and he admitted his own relationship had verged on violence during its breakdown. We’ve all been there, he told the prisoner. Could have been any of us. Wright smiled. Aaron, just twenty-two and unmarried, listened to the conversation. He was a tall, well-built lad, with a soft innocent face and a snub nose. The prisoner, sitting right next to him because of the cuffs connecting them, asked him a few questions and listened carefully to the answers. Aaron volunteered that he was a Crewe Alexandra fan, and lived just around the corner from the ground. He liked techno music. He admitted that he and a girlfriend had just broken up. The prisoner nudged his elbow and told him to cheer up. Plenty more fish in the sea, eh? Then the prisoner held Aaron’s lanyard, and commented on the picture. What a friendly guy, Aaron thought. He hadn’t expected how normal some of these prisoners would be.
The van arrived at the gatehouse of the new jail, Steve passing across a clipboard holding a stack of documents, including the prison escort record and its matching risk assessment document, all neatly filled out. After being checked through by the gate officer, the barrier was lifted and the vehicle made its way into the courtyard. Other more detailed documents had been emailed to the prison governor, ahead of the arrival. Everything appeared to be as it should be. Bureaucracy doing its job.
Almost every word of it was fiction.
The prisoner they were escorting was sixty-three, not sixty-seven. He had served thirty years, not six. He had not killed his wife.
Neil Wright didn’t exist. It was a pseudonym.
The prisoner was Neville Rollason, a notorious child-murderer. He had at the Old Bailey in 1989 been given an indeterminate sentence for the killing of at least five boys between the ages of ten and seventeen over a period of four years. The judge had described him as: ‘Perhaps the most wicked, bestial and cold-hearted killer ever brought before me.’ The decades in various segregation wings across the British penal system had gradually changed his appearance. The grinning, muscular, tousle-haired goblin of thirty-three, a staple of the 1980s tabloid press, had gradually transmuted. He had aged. Wiry now and almost bald, he affected a stoop that added more years. Only the dark watchful eyes, now behind the red-framed spectacles, were the same.
Only one thing on the false documentation was correct. The release date of Tuesday 2 July 2019, when this criminal, known in his heyday as the Bogeyman, would be released back onto Britain’s streets. He’d had more than thirty years away from his passion, and after working hard to fool the shrinks and officials on the Parole Board, he was anxious to get started again. He’d already started compiling a mental list, the most recent addition to which was the name of the young officer escorting him. Aaron Jenkins of Crewe. He’d read it from the lanyard. But that was for pleasure. All in good time. There was more serious stuff to be planned. Like revenge against those who had tormented him. The friends and families of his victims. And, of course, the young fit policeman who had chased him down in the street in Croydon on that fateful day in 1988. Drawing the knife, and getting it knocked from his hand. Inside, he had replayed that moment in his head a million times. An exaggeration? Not much. There are 950 million seconds, give or take, in a thirty-year sentence. That’s a lot of time to plot revenge. To envisage all the details of what can be done to a bound and helpless victim. Blades, acid, drugs. Eyeballs, genitals, fingernails.
It helped to have a fake identity.
Neville Rollason’s fake identity was neat and flawless, utterly professional. It was not the result of some cunning sleight of hand by the prisoner himself or any of his associates. It was far too comprehensive for that.
It was created by a senior officer in Special Branch, under instruction from the Home Office. The British state that had jailed him was now slipping him back, invisibly, into society.
Thank you.
Chapter Two
2 a.m. Saturday, 22 June 2019
Michael Jakes liked to cycle down to the river during the summer nights, but the summer solstice was always special. There were a lot of thoughts that he needed to get straight, and somehow he couldn’t make sense of them in the daytime. But in the coolness after midnight, with the shade of the trees above him, he’d pedal miles along the southern bank through Hurst Meadows park near Walton-on-Thames. Although it was part of London’s south-west suburbs, and still within the great arc of the M25, t
he park felt far more rural and tranquil than its location might indicate.
There he would lie down and listen to the sounds of the waters, the ripples and the rills, the raucous noise of the ducks and geese foraging on the grass. There were narrowboats moored here too. From them came the sound of laughter or music, muted lights, and often nearby the silhouettes of lovers, drawn to the water. Just before two, with the dew beginning to soak through to his back, he stood and clambered back on his bike. He set off to complete his circuit, riding past East Molesey Cricket Club, across Hampton Court Bridge, then along the north bank on Hampton Court Road, a permanent daytime traffic jam and never quiet even in the small hours. On a whim, he turned off across the narrow bridge to Tagg’s Island in search of solitude. He’d not been onto the private island for years, and was surprised that, beyond the houseboats that ringed the shoreline, there were many wooden homes, some quite luxurious. In the distance he could faintly hear many voices, laughter and music. A party. He abandoned his plans to explore any further, turned off his head-torch and sat on a small grassy hillock by the water’s edge. The sky was mottled with clouds but stars were faintly visible.
Perfectly peaceful.
A splash came from his right. A big ‘thwock’ like someone diving in from a high board.
Jakes stood up and looked towards the bridge in the direction from which it had come, a hundred yards from him. In the water he saw ripples, echoes of the disturbance, but there was no sound to disturb the distant rumble of the traffic. He turned his head-torch on and began to cycle up the gentle slope of the narrow road bridge until he got to the middle. In the distance were the faint brake lights and indicators of a vehicle turning right, exiting the lane that led from the bridge to the main road. Looking over the railings, he could see nothing in the water except a faint shadow, but the reflection from his head-torch dazzled any details.
Turning back towards the island, he saw a man walking towards him, silhouetted in the lights of a large two-storey houseboat. He was slim, with a long ponytail like frayed rope. Beyond him a woman was lit up in the doorway. ‘Did someone just jump in?’ she called.
‘I can’t see anyone,’ the man yelled back, then turned as he approached Jakes, his hand lifted to shield his eyes from the head-torch beam. ‘Was that you?’ the man asked. ‘Did you chuck something in?’
‘No. Not me. I just heard the noise and came to look. Maybe it was someone from a car.’ He pointed north towards Hampton Court Road. ‘I thought someone was going for a swim, but whoever it was hasn’t surfaced.’
‘Maybe that was the BMW that was parked here earlier with its stereo pounding out,’ the man said.
Jakes drew away from him, not wishing to be properly seen. He had learned not to approach others at night. People sometimes thought him strange, especially when they saw his eyes, afflicted by nystagmus. He was hard for some people to look at, he knew that. It wasn’t helped by his dark unruly hair and beard, often still spattered with plaster. Strangers had suspicions about him, he was aware of that, even though almost no one knew the awful truth.
He wanted people not to look at him, but at his work. The smooth, perfect finish, not the merest ripple, product of a steady swing of the forearm. Jakes could make a ceiling flatter than the Thames, a straight horizon in any dimension. An unconscious skill, honed over years. Other people had bad ideas about him. But then he had bad ideas about other people.
Bad ideas. Someone jumping in the water. And then not swimming a stroke. Not calling for help. Just ripples, disturbing the surface. Finally smoothed over by the flow of the Thames. Leaving one world and entering another. Insightful as ever, Nietzsche had once said: There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.
* * *
Elvira Hart loved living on Ash Island. She had bought a houseboat there years ago when she retired. The 260-yard-long teardrop-shaped mound was largely wooded, unlike its immediate upstream neighbour Tagg’s. She prized its seclusion. The only access was by boat or along the footpath along the top of the East Molesey weir to the southern bank. Unlike Tagg’s, there were few homes on Ash apart from the houseboats. It was a close-knit community and the only significant business there was a small boatyard on the southern shore.
Ash Island was usually a peaceful place, but last night had been different. The party on Tagg’s she had been to earlier was still continuing, loud conversation and music drifting down. It was too hot to sleep inside the houseboat and she had considered sleeping on the deck. It was something she often did in the summer heat, lying naked on a beach lounger, with just a sarong over her to keep the midges away. But last night there had still been too much racket. She had decided instead to take a short run. Across the weir, along Hurst Meadows park to Walton and back again. She hoped it would restore her equilibrium.
If only she had known what she was to discover. She would have stayed at home.
It was four a.m. when she saw it. Just after dawn. She had stopped running at the weir, walking over to avoid generating a metallic thrum on the walkway that might wake others in their houseboats. She saw something bobbing between two of the boats. Going over to take a closer look, she did a double-take. And then screamed like she had never screamed before.
It was a body, a swollen purple-faced horror, with bulging bloodshot eyes staring back at her. It resembled nothing so much as a medieval demon. That it was a man, naked and dead, was in no doubt. She couldn’t imagine what had happened to him.
Stumbling backwards, she fell against a fence. Reached for her phone and, fingers trembling, tapped out three nines.
Chapter Three
There were several more calls in the next hour, from those whose homes backed onto the river. Surrey police were soon on the scene, the islands taped off, uniformed officers assembling by a van, getting ready to fan out for door-to-door. Standing away from the senior officers, PCs Jim Cottesloe and Andrew Wickens stood on the Tagg’s Island bridge, now blocked by their patrol car, and awaited a fire service recovery boat.
‘Looks like a lovely day to kill yourself,’ Cottesloe said, squinting into the sunrise. He was a thick-set fifty-year-old with a shaven head, twenty-seven years on the force.
‘Not a bad day to be murdered either,’ Wickens replied. He was thirty-two, a lean and angular individual, a keen runner. ‘Could be an accident though. Messing about on the river.’
‘You’re a bit young to remember the song,’ Cottesloe said, turning to him.
‘What song?’
Cottesloe didn’t reply but began to hum the tune.
Wickens checked his watch, and sighed. ‘CSI won’t be able to set up a tent, will they? They’ll just have to lug him aboard the boat and into a body bag.’
‘That’s right. No dignity or decorum for him, whoever he was. Poor sod.’
The call from the uniformed inspector brought them back to the group. A search for evidence along the shoreline. Wet feet guaranteed.
* * *
Detective Chief Inspector Craig Gillard was the overnight on-call detective. It was almost seven o’clock on the Saturday morning and, as he prepared to finish the shift, he reviewed the incident log: domestic abuse resulting in an arrest in Redhill, criminal damage at a car park in Woking, two road rage incidents and an aggravated burglary. No stabbings. He’d spent much of the evening on the Redhill case. The woman knocked unconscious by her partner, but so far refusing to press charges.
Averagely busy for an overnighter. But quiet by Midsummer Night standards.
One new report had come in since he last checked at four a.m. A body found washed up on an island in the Thames at East Molesey. It had already been transferred to the mortuary at Kingston Hospital. The CSI initial report included some rather graphic photographs. The man’s face was an extraordinary puffy purple, his eyes wide and bloodshot with swollen eyelids. It almost looked like one of the masks worn by the Indian Kathakali dancers he and Sam had gone to see a couple of weeks ago. The poor woman who found him must have been gi
ven a terrible fright.
After reading the CSI report Gillard rang Yaz Quoroshi. The CSI chief would be able to give him a heads-up if this death was an accident, or suspicious and thus likely to turn up in his in-box. After they’d greeted each other, Quoroshi said: ‘I’m no forensic expert, but something terrible happened to this guy before he fell or got chucked in the water. The cyanosis is so extreme. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Any ID on him?’
‘Nothing. Stark naked. If you’ve seen the pictures, it’s obvious he’s Chinese or some other East Asian. To me it looks like a case of massive high blood pressure. Maybe there’s some kind of drug abuse that does this to you, but if there is it’s not something I’ve ever come across.’
‘Well, it was Midsummer Night. People do a lot of strange things at the solstice, including consuming a lot of strange things.’
‘That’s certainly true.’ Quoroshi laughed. ‘One other thing – I’m sure Dr Delahaye will be fascinated by the strange impressions left in his flesh. It looks like the guy got trapped in a fishing net.’
Gillard clicked through the photographs until he saw what Quoroshi was referring to and agreed the Home Office forensic pathologist would be captivated by these unusual injuries. There were two or three images of a kind of a mesh pattern, pressed deeply enough into the corpse’s shoulders, chest, buttocks and legs to leave deep bruises. Quoroshi’s idea about a net was compelling. The impressions were all across the man’s body, even on his sides. It was as if he’d been wrapped tightly. Gillard could buy that – except for one thing.
