by A J Waines
‘Scuff marks?’
‘Made by a zip, apparently. Also, we’ve found fibres now in two of the girls’ hair - that PEVA, I told you about - it’s a match for a certain type of body-bag. It looks like the killer put the women in body-bags after he strangled them. In each case, the pathologists noticed that body fluids were concentrated in patches, consistent with being wrapped up, before being left in the water.’
‘Body-bags?’
‘We’re trying to identify the exact make…see if it’s a common type used in mortuaries and funeral parlours in the area. It could be a useful lead. Leyton Meade, aside, the killer might be an undertaker.’
‘Or anyone could have bought them on the net,’ I said.
‘Little Miss Optimism today, aren’t we?’
I felt sick and knew it was nothing to do with the rancid smell of black-pudding.
Brad soldiered on. ‘It helps explains why the bodies were so free of contaminating evidence.’
‘Any more on Charles Fin?’
He got up from his haunches and winced, pulling over a chair instead. ‘He’s an attention-seeker, that guy. He was leading us up the garden path giving his mother as an alibi. You’re right, she died a couple of years ago.’
‘So, he’s still in the frame?’
‘At the time of the first murder, he was at a women’s wrestling match, the second, he was refereeing a women’s football tournament and for the last…wait for it…he was at Lou-Lou’s massage parlour in Soho. We’ve crossed him off the list.’
I smiled to myself. Cheeky Charlie Fin. Surrounding himself with women all this time.
‘We’re going to knobble him for wasting police time,’ he said. I had the feeling he’d been wasting mine, too. I wanted to ask about Andrew, but I thought Brad would have said something by now, if he’d been cleared. The plastic clock above the counter said it was 12.20. We stayed there, sharing a forced idle chatter as the minutes ticked by and the nervous tension settled on my skin like a jungle sweat. At 1.10am, Brad switched up his radio, plugged in the earpiece and then beckoned me outside.
‘I need some air,’ he said.
‘Where do we go?’
He led me to the river path and we started walking slowly away from the bridge. The water was coming in by now, but black and almost invisible except for the occasional ripples that flashed white when they caught the street lights. A swirling fog was descending, wrapping itself around us.
‘That’s not going to help,’ he said, peering back at the bridge.
I remembered seeing small rowing boats left chained into the mud banks along this stretch. I’m sure many were left there for months, going through their tidal ritual of being set free into the river, then pulled back down in the mud again. I couldn’t see any of them under the smoky whitewash, but I knew they were there.
Brad had said there were police divers on boats, but I couldn’t see or hear any of them, either. It was like staring into a pot of grey tar, as we walked further away from the street lights. I could hear the water, inexorably making its way in. I wondered what it might be bringing with it; whether soon a cry or a whistle would shatter the quiet and a mound of wet clothes would come into view under the bridge.
Unexpectedly, Brad took my hand. It was warm, solid and it wrapped right around mine.
‘You’re freezing,’ he said. ‘Do you want to go back?’
‘No. I’m just scared.’
He guided my hands into his pockets. ‘I’ll have to go in a minute. I need to be by the bridge, making sure there are no last-minute hiccups.’
I admired his optimism; the term ‘last-minute’ implied nothing terrible had already happened. ‘You can come as well. Can’t leave you out here on your own.’
We turned and retraced our steps, then wandered over the bridge. We must have looked like lovers lost in the solitude of a romantic stroll. We stood leaning over the cold stone. There was no one else on the bridge now, just the odd passing car. When we got to the other side, an arm came out of a bush and offered Brad some night-vision binoculars. He climbed down to the water’s edge and pulled me after him. After he’d done a 360 degree check himself, he let me try them. Through the lenses, the river turned lime-green and I could see black outlines around branches and several sets of steps leading into the water. I could also make out two short piers and the boats I’d known were tethered to the bank were bobbing around, innocently.
‘Where are the police boats?’ I asked.
‘They’re well-hidden, in banks and behind trees.’
‘I can’t see any of them.’
‘Good,’ he whispered. ‘Hopefully, the killer won’t spot them either.’
Without the special night-vision lenses, the fog was dense now, like clouds that had accidentally slipped down from the sky. I held the binoculars to my eyes again and thought I saw something. I stood upright, squinting, wondering if it was just the hazy mist creating shadows. No, I was right. In the distance, in the middle of the river, something was breaking through the white billowing curtains and floating towards us. Oh, God, No! Not a body.
I had to hand back the binoculars. ‘What is it?’ I hissed, trying to keep my voice down. ‘What’s in the water?’
He waved me away and took several steps closer to the river. From nowhere a huge search light came on, like the ones you see on Hollywood film sets. Other lights came on, one by one, forming clusters in the water, as officers started switching on their torches. An officer directed me away from the water’s edge and I moved on to the bridge, unable to take my eyes off the shape that was heading our way.
Men in wading gear were entering the river, but the current was flowing fast now and they were forced to stay near the bank. Several divers formed a little reception party to meet the shape as it drifted towards them. I could now see what it was. A small wooden rowing boat.
The violent pounding, as my blood bolted through my body, didn’t ease up. I squashed my scarf into my mouth, shivering in spasms. What’s inside the boat? I said, over and over to myself, pacing from side to side.
I strained to see over the edge of the bridge, dodged around, trying to get a better view, but the divers were in the way. Was there a body inside? Had we been too late, after all?
Everything was taking longer than it should. I could hardly bear it. My vision began to swim around the edges and I had to grab hold of the bridge. I checked my watch - it was nearly 3am. High tide was due at 3.02. The timing was spot on.
The officers dragged the boat on to the bank and I could see now what was inside.
Chapter Twenty-two
I looked down into the shadows of the boat, hardly daring to allow my eyes to settle on what was inside. I saw the curve of the bare planks, running under the seat; the clean lines of the wood. What else? I edged closer trying to survey every inch as the divers steadied the boat on the grass. They were leaning over it making it difficult to see. I moved to get a different angle, but figures still blocked my view. Officers were shaking their heads. In shock? I couldn’t see.
Then the officers cleared away. There was nothing there. Where was she? Did I miss something? Had the police removed the body already? Not trusting my initial examinations I went right down to the grass. Sure enough, no shapes or shadows. Not even an oar. Or an empty crisp packet. Nothing. The boat was completely empty.
I was ushered away so I returned to my original vantage point. I leant with my back against the crusty bridge for support, questions leaping back and forth in my brain like the filaments inside a plasma ball. Had we prevented a murder? Or was the boat part of the plan? Was the killer trying to tell us something?
Men were dragging the boat up the ramp and away from the river. I could see Brad waving instructions to two officers and then the boat went out of sight behind parked cars.
‘There’s nothing in it,’ he said, jogging towards me, ‘but we’re taking it to forensics, in any case. We’ve all got to resume our positions and stay put - it doesn’t mean it’s
over.’
My stomach turned like a flipped pancake. He left me on the bridge and a woman came over asking me politely to make myself scarce. I went back to the café, my body dripping with exhaustion following hours of mounting trepidation.
It still wasn’t over.
The clock said 3.20am. The tide would be turning now and anything in the water would start flowing the other way. There was no body under the bridge. Didn’t the killer always leave them in position at high tide? Surely that meant it was over?
Against my better judgement, but driven by necessity, I ordered a coffee and watched the waitress prize open a large tub of instant. The best thing I could say about it was that it was hot. I spoke to a few of the plain clothes officers, started a crossword and then rested my head on my folded arms for a few moments. I thought about how Brad and I had walked along the river together like a courting couple. Did it mean anything, other than to provide convenient cover so he could check out what was going on?
And what did it mean to me?
I flashed back to the moment he cupped his hot hand around mine and the warmth flushed through my body again.
The musak faded in and out and so too did images of Brad, the river, the bridge. With no awareness of the passing of time, all of a sudden it was getting light outside.
The clientele in the café was changing again and the stiff white shirts and moleskin jackets went out into the street. It was 7am. The fog had gone.
‘You missed a stunning sunrise,’ said Brad, leaning over me. I could see he was running on overdrive; his shoulders were sagging and a prickly shadow was etched around his chin. The manic look about his eyes made me wonder how long it would be before he slumped into a heap.
‘Anything happened?’ I said, my mouth gluey with sleep.
‘Everything’s fine. But, we’ve taken a man in for questioning; a guy with binoculars we found loitering near the bridge, but there’s nothing in the water.’
‘Leyton Meade?’
‘No - a younger guy.’ He had the same look Andrew had when he’d received his prize; wide-eyed and triumphant. There was no woman tied to the chains under the bridge. No body facedown kissing the water. ‘Time you got home and had some sleep,’ he said.
‘You sure? Is it all over? Did we prevent it?’
‘It looks that way. We’re getting the boat to forensics and we’ve got the guy at the station. Something’s going to come of this. I just know it.’
I was too tired to share his elation and dragged myself back to my car.
I felt like I’d only just got my head down on the pillow, when the phone rang. I hauled my heavy body up, shocked to see the clock said it was 2pm.
‘Don’t you ever sleep?’ I said.
‘It’s the adrenaline,’ said Brad, trying to suck back a yawn. ‘Keeps everything switched on. We’re questioning the man we picked up at Kew. We wondered if you might recognise him. Any chance you can get over here?’
Moving was the last thing my body felt like doing. Getting up, getting changed and driving to the police station felt like nothing short of a miracle.
‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ I said.
On the way, I remembered the fretful dream I was having before Brad’s call. I was back at the house in Norwich, twelve years old, standing in my pyjamas leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. I was watching as Luke brought boxes and containers in from the shed through the back door. He was stacking them beside the oven. Boxes which had words like ‘butane’ and ‘propane’ on them with yellow drawings of flames on the side. He stacked box after box until they reached the ceiling.
Then he held up a red checked tea-towel and draped it carefully over two of the rings on the oven. I was trying to call out to him, but nothing came out of my mouth. I tried to move towards him. I wanted to snatch the tea-towel away from him, unplug the oven, drag the boxes away from it. I was fixed to the spot, already able to smell smoke, felt it curl into my nostrils, soak into my lungs. The last image I had was Luke smiling, unable to take his eyes away from the tiny flames starting to pucker into life on the oven rings.
I don’t know where the dream would have gone after that. I was only grateful that the phone had rung when it did and dragged me out of it. It left me with the same feeling I’d had when Dad had spoken to me: that same sense of disbelief that either Luke or my mother could have been so stupid.
But, what did I actually have to go on? What proof was there that the fire was anything other than a tragic accident? Only the word of an old man who thought he saw the windows open. I clung to that one outward sign that things were not as they seemed, because I knew - I just knew - that the fire was deliberate. It meant someone wanted to hurt our family then, twenty years ago, just as someone was trying to terrorize me now.
The massive downside was that I didn’t know how I was going to get any further with it. The police report was incomplete and inconclusive and everyone personally involved with the fire, apart from me, wanted to forget all about it.
An officer at the desk was expecting me when I got to the station. I was led through to a small room, no larger than a cupboard, alongside an interview room. There was a two-way mirror and I watched Brad get up, switch off the tape-recorder and leave the room. Moments later he came alongside me.
‘How’s it going?’ I said.
‘He’s very weird. Not quite all there.’ He tapped his head. ‘Name is William Jones. He’s thirty-three. Ring any bells?’
I tossed the name around in my mind but no lights were coming on.
‘Not yet…’
‘An officer has just taken him to the bathroom. When he comes back in, get a good look at him.’
‘Okay.’ I swallowed hard.
‘We’re going to run a voice-scan to see if it matches the phone-call you had. By the way, it was from a public phone box. Somewhere in Kennington.’
I sat with my knees together on the only chair, a wooden one that folded flat, feeling like a school girl about to recite a difficult poem in Greek.
‘I’m going back in,’ he said. ‘See what you make of his voice, see if there’s anything about his movements, his behaviour, that’s at all familiar. Think big, not just people you know now. Think back to all the stages of your life you told me about before.’
I nodded, chewing my thumbnail, and saw Brad re-enter the interview room, followed by another man, a demure looking woman, a police officer and another plain-clothed woman. I assumed the latter must be the social worker Brad said the solicitor had insisted upon.
‘So, tell me again Mr Jones, what were you doing by Kew Bridge, last night?’
‘Out and about. Nothing wrong. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
Brad gave the man’s solicitor, Ms Kemp, a weary glance. She was sitting high in her chair, as if pressed against it by a strong wind. Her red hair was pinned up in a severe chignon and a neck scarf was tied too tightly under her chin. If only she’d relax a little, I thought, she’d almost be pretty.
The man Brad was addressing looked agitated. His face was plump with no visible facial hair, making him look anywhere between twenty-five and forty. His hair was mousy and so thin his pink scalp was visible and his dark eyes shifted around the room as if he was following the path of a blue-bottle. There was something naïve and inexperienced about him; it was the way he avoided any eyes in the room and ran his fingers up and down the table, as if he was practising a few bars of a piano piece, over and over. My psychotherapist’s instinct told me straight away that he probably had some form of autism. Must be the reason Ms Kemp had called in the social worker.
He was wearing a sweat shirt with David Bowie printed on it, with grey combat trousers and he plucked the skin on his neck as he spoke, repeating the same statements again and again. I closed my eyes and listened to his voice. It was distorted and wiry through the loud-speaker in my little box-room. I couldn’t honestly say whether it was the same voice I’d heard on the phone or not. I hoped the voice-scanner would b
e able to do a better job.
‘What time did you get to Kew Bridge?’ asked Brad.
‘Six minutes past ten.’
‘That’s very precise.’
‘That’s the time it was.’
‘And how did you get there?’
‘On the number two bus from Brixton, number nine from Hyde Park Corner and then the number 391, then I walked. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
Pluck, pluck, pluck went his fingers at his neck. He had the look of someone permanently connected to a mild electric current.
‘That must have taken you ages.’
‘One hour and forty-two minutes.’
He hardly blinked and was finding it hard to make eye contact with Brad. It was as though he was talking to himself. Awkward, childlike.
‘And why did you go to the bridge?’
‘Out and about,’ he said, again. ‘Nothing wrong.’
‘But why there? And why so late?’
Ms Kemp suddenly spoke, her voice cutting through the stuffy room like cheese wire. ‘Don’t harass my client, DCI Madison.’
Brad caught her eye and paused to take a breath.
‘Okay, Mr Jones - just tell us why it was you went all the way over to Kew Bridge that night.’
‘I like the buses.’
‘And what did you do, when you got there?’
‘Watched the people. Trip out. Nothing wrong.’
‘Okay,’ said Brad. ‘Let’s leave it there for now.’
He jerked his head to one side indicating that the solicitor, standing officer and social worker should leave the room with him. William Jones was left on his own. Brad joined me. The two women must have been hustled elsewhere. ‘I want to see what he does on his own,’ he said.
