Читать книгу Where the Devil Can’t Go - Anya Lipska, Anya Lipska - Страница 9

The sky over the Thames was a milky, benevolent blue, but a freezing wind raked Detective Constable Natalie Kershaw’s face as the fast-response Targa tore over the steely water. As the speedboat swept under Tower Bridge, engine noise booming off the iron stanchions, the uniformed helmsman sneaked a sideways look at her profile, the blonde hair scraped back in a businesslike ponytail. He wondered if he dared ask her out. Probably not. She might only come up to his armpit, but she looked like a ball breaker – typical CID female.

Kershaw was miles away, thinking about her dad, scanning the southern bank for the Bermondsey wharf where he had hauled coke as a warehouseman in the sixties – his first job. He’d pointed it out to her from a tour boat – an outing they’d taken a couple of years ago, just before he’d died. She finally clocked his warehouse – harder to recognise now its hundred-year-old patina of coal smoke had been sandblasted off. Fancy new balconies, too, at the upper windows: all the signs of the warehouse’s new life as swanky apartments for City bankers – Yeah, a right bunch of bankers, she heard him say. He’d be pleased as punch to see her now, a detective out on her first suspicious death.

When her DS had dropped it on her that morning she’d been a bit hacked off – she already had to go up west for a court case, and this job meant her racing straight back to Wapping. Anyway, surely a floater pulled out of the Thames was a job for a uniform? But telling the Sarge that, however diplomatically, had been a bad move, she realised, almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Worse, she was on early turn this week, so this had all gone off at 0730 hours, and DS Bacon, known to his constables, inevitably, as Streaky, was not a morning person. He had torn a big fat strip off her in front of two of the guys.

‘Let’s get one thing straight, Kershaw – you’ll do whatever fucking job I throw at you and say thank you, Sarge, can I get you a cup of tea, Sarge. If I hear any more of your cheeky backchat I’ll have you back on Romford Rd wearing a lid faster than you can say diversity awareness.’

Streaky was in his fifties, old-school CID to his fag-stained fingertips, and Kershaw suspected that in his book, female detectives were good for one thing: interviewing witnesses in rape, domestic violence and brokenbaby cases.

Of course she could complain to the Guv, DI Bellwether. Streaky’s Neanderthal management style – the swearing, the borderline sexism, his old-school insistence on addressing DCs by their surnames – it was all a total no-no these days, but she’d rather keep her mouth shut and get on with it. You needed a thick skin to be in the job. If she got stick now and again for being a young, blonde female – and therefore brainless – she could give as good as she got. Anyway, everyone copped it for something. Being fat, thin, Northern, ginger, having a funny name, having a boring name, talking posh, talking Cockney, anything. At her first nick, one poor bastard had made the mistake of letting on that he did karate, and the next day his desk disappeared under a deluge of Chinese takeaway menus and house bricks. She couldn’t even remember his real name, because after that everybody – even the girls on switchboard – called him Chop Suey.

Giving – and taking – good banter was about bonding, fitting in, being part of a unit. If you couldn’t take friendly abuse from fellow cops you were finished, game over. One thing she was sure of: Natalie Kershaw wasn’t going to end up one of those sad cases moaning about sexism at an employment tribunal. If she hadn’t made Sergeant by the time she turned thirty, in three years’ time, she’d pack it in and do something else.

Anyway, once she’d had a proper look at the job Streaky had thrown her, she thought maybe it wasn’t so lame after all. The floater had come up naked, and you didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that suicides don’t generally get their kit off before chucking themselves in the river. So maybe it was a good call to send a detective to have a look before the pathologist started slicing and dicing – Streaky might be a dinosaur in a bad suit, but occasionally he showed signs of being a good cop.

The Targa overtook a tourist boat – the occupants craning to check out the cop at the helm and his attractive plain-clothes passenger – and within seconds, they were pulling up at a long blue jetty on the north shore in front of Wapping Police Station. Kershaw gave the uniform a smile, but ignored his outstretched hand to step down from the bobbing boat unaided. She headed for the nick, a Victorian building with more curlicues and columns than a footballer’s wedding cake, but after a few steps his shout made her turn. Grinning, he pointed across the jetty to an oblong tent of blue tarpaulin, then, revving the Targa’s engine unnecessarily, he sped off.

He was cute, she thought. Why don’t guys like that ever ask me out?

She pulled the tarpaulin flap open and ducked inside. Just at that moment two river cops were unloading the contents of a black body bag into a shallow stainless steel bath, about twice the size of the one in her flat. The darkly slicked head of a girl, followed by her naked body, slithered out of the bag in an obscene parody of birth.

‘Fuck,’ muttered Kershaw, caught unawares. It wasn’t her first stiff – as a probationer she’d been sent on a call to a tower block in Poplar after some neighbours reported a foul liquid seeping through their ceiling. In the upstairs flat she’d found the remains of an old guy who’d been dead in his armchair for two weeks in front of a two-bar fire. He looked like a giant half-melted candle.

But she had to admit this one was a shocker. The girl’s skin was purplish and mottled, the breasts and stomach bore gaping slashes, and here and there were raw patches the size of a man’s hand, as though someone had taken a blowtorch to the body. The face was fairly intact, except for the eyes, which were now just two blackened empty pits.

One of the PCs left, and the other gave her the rundown.

He was a middle-aged, lifelong-plod type: a bit world-weary, but straight as a die, which was a relief, because she hadn’t anticipated the sheer embarrassment factor of looking over a naked female with a guy old enough to be her dad.

‘A runner spotted her on the foreshore at low tide,’ he told her. ‘Just this side of the Thames Barrier. We get quite a few floaters washed up on the sandbank there.’

Kershaw pulled out a notepad and pencil. ‘She didn’t necessarily go in the water round there, though?’

He shook his head. ‘Could have drifted anything from fifty yards to ten miles downstream – all we can say is she went in somewhere on the tidal section. They can travel a mile a day, or more,’ giving her more than he needed to, info she could file away for future use.

‘What about the eyes,’ she said, nodding toward the empty pits. ‘I’m guessing … rats? Birds?’

‘Eels, probably,’ he said. ‘Greedy buggers. The type people eat jellied. Personally, I prefer a prawn cocktail …’

They shared a grin over the eyeless head.

‘And the injuries?’ asked Kershaw. ‘Any chance they could be pre-mortem?’

He bent to examine the deepest wound, through which the pale glimmer of the girl’s ribcage could be seen, and twisted his mouth sceptically: ‘Hard to say. Boats and barges can do a lot of damage, and she’s probably been in over a week. When it’s cold they stay under longer – the stomach gases take more time to build up.’

Moving up to the head, Kershaw bent to study the girl’s face, trying to ignore the yellowish foam bubbling out of her nostrils. The skin was puffy from prolonged immersion, which made it hard to tell what she might have looked like in life, but from her slim figure Kershaw guessed she was in her mid to late twenties – making them round about the same age. She was seized by a sudden need to know the girl’s identity.

‘Will we get prints off her?’ she asked the PC.

With a latex-gloved hand, he turned the girl’s left wrist palm-upwards to reveal the underside of her fingers, which were bloated and wrinkled, the skin starting to peel.

‘Washerwoman’s hands,’ he said, with a shake of the head. ‘You’ll get bugger all off them. We’ll take DNA samples, though – maybe you can get your budget manager to approve a test. The reference is DB16.’

Kershaw scribbled on her pad. ‘The sixteenth dead body you’ve found this year?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. And we’re not even four months in yet.’

The smell emanating from the body filled the tent now. A not-unpleasant riverine tang, but with a darker undernote that reminded Kershaw of mushrooms left in the fridge too long. She felt deflated, disappointed not to find something more … concrete. But then she thought: don’t be daft, Nat, did you really think you’d pitch up and spot something to solve the case, Prime Suspect style?

‘There’s no way she’d be naked, is there, if it was just suicide?’ she asked, suddenly anxious that the girl might turn out to be just another random jumper. ‘I mean her clothes, they couldn’t have come off by themselves, in the water?’

He turned his mouth down at the corners. ‘I’ve never heard of a current removing a bra and pants.’ They avoided each other’s eyes. ‘No, I’d say she was definitely naked when she went in,’ he went on. ‘And this time of year, I shouldn’t think she was skinny dipping.’

He bent to reach into a bag at his feet. ‘I’d better get on with the samples while she’s fresh,’ he said, and started to line up plastic vials on a nearby trestle table.

Left alone with the body, Kershaw noticed that the girl’s shoulder-length hair was drying at the ends, turning it a bright coppery gold. It was a shade her dad used to call Titian, she remembered, out of nowhere.

Her gaze fell on the girl’s left hand. It lay as the cop had left it, palm-up on the stainless steel, fingers slightly crooked, suggesting helplessness – or entreaty. A gust of wind whipped the tarpaulin flap open with a crack, making her jump.

‘I almost forgot,’ said the cop, returning to Kershaw’s side. ‘There is one bit of good news.’ Cupping his gloved hand under the girl’s hip, he tilted her body.

Near the base of the spine, just above the swell of the girl’s buttock, Kershaw could see what looked like a stain beneath the waterlogged whiteness of the skin. Bending closer, she realised it was a tattoo – an indigo heart, amateurish-looking, enclosing two names, obviously foreign: Pawel and Ela.

‘Gives you a head start on ID-ing her,’ the cop said, setting the body back down with surprising gentleness.