Wheel of Fire Page 13

  ‘It’s a body, Leon,’ said Bill, a trifle indignantly. ‘A man, and he didn’t look as if he’d been in the water for long. Couldn’t have been that long, anyway, or we’d have found ’im floating on the surface. As it was, he sank right down again when I let go of …’

  ‘Now, you didn’t touch anything, did you, Bill?’ interrupted Knott.

  ‘Touch anything? The poor bastard sunk down to the bottom again. What do you think I did? Jump in along with him?’

  ‘OK, Bill, take it easy,’ responded Leon Knott. ‘Let’s have a closer look, shall we?’

  He approached the lock side, at the same time asking the small group of people standing around to vacate the immediate area.

  Knott and Faraday both lent over the lock and peered into the murky water. Knott knew that the lock was about twelve feet deep, and the water level was probably halfway up the sides. He couldn’t see anything below the surface.

  ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get your body out of there, shall we, Bill? How many boat hooks have you got?’

  Bill produced three long boat hooks and agreed to help the two policemen locate and remove the body from the lock. Bill was well built and fit for a man in his early sixties, but Neil Faraday was a rugby-playing thirty-something, an exceptionally big strong lad, and he took the brunt of the dead weight when it came to hauling the body out, and laying it, face up, on the ground.

  Sergeant Knott looked down at the dead man with some reluctance. In spite of Bill’s almost certainly correct assertion that he had not been in the water for long, one of his open eyes appeared to have been eaten by something already. It was not a pretty sight.

  Knott also immediately noticed the state of the man’s upper left leg, which appeared to have suffered several wounds that had clearly been stitched up by medical professionals. His trousers, blue jeans, had fallen down, revealing the extent of his injuries, and were rolled around his lower legs, something which could presumably have been caused either when he entered the water or during the operation to recover his body. In spite of the time of year the man was not wearing a jacket, although this also could have been removed in a similar fashion.

  There appeared to be bloodstains on his shirt, around the area of his right shoulder and on his jeans, another indication that he could not have been in the water very long. In cool British waters a dead body might remain below the surface for a week or even two, Sergeant Knott reckoned, but, as Bill had so long-windedly pointed out, vessels did pass through Thames Lock at all times of year, albeit not as frequently as they once did. It was possible that the body may have lain at the very bottom of the lock for a couple of days, perhaps, without discovery, but certainly unlikely that it had been there much longer than that.

  Bill Cox, in spite of looking slightly nauseous, was also studying the corpse.

  ‘Poor bastard fell in, I suppose,’ he commented. ‘How we don’t get more accidents with folk winding their way back into the Dock estate from the Brewery Tap, is beyond me. I’ve never known a fatality before, though. Not in my time. Never.’

  Leon Knott was only vaguely listening. He suspected Bill Cox might well be right in his assumption. Between eighty and 100 people were found dead in the River Thames every year, mostly suicides, and almost all of the rest accidents. Cases of murder or manslaughter were rare, extremely rare. And it was, of course, unlikely that anyone would attempt to commit suicide by jumping into a lock. Not unknown. But unlikely. Most river suicides took the form of the poor unfortunates throwing themselves off one of the 214 bridges which cross periodically along the length of the Thames.

  Leon leaned over and checked the dead man’s trouser pockets looking for any signs of identification. He was already wearing the gloves, which, like all modern police officers, he always carried. He knew better than to touch the corpse with his bare hands even though the chances of much forensic evidence remaining on a body pulled from the murky depths of Thames Lock were pretty slim.

  There was nothing.

  Neil Faraday was still poking about in the lock with his boat hook.

  ‘I’ve got something,’ he called out, and brought his hook up with a beige coloured jacket on the end of it, which he let fall to the ground.

  Eagerly Leon stepped forwards and with his gloved hands went through the pockets. Still no wallet, or anything else for that matter. Every pocket was completely empty.

  Leon stared at the man’s face, then let his gaze wander again over the bloodstains on his shirt and the wounds to his legs that had so clearly been stitched up by a professional.

  Leon was a methodical policeman, a stickler for detail. He always liked to begin a spell on duty, if he could, particularly if he was going out on patrol, by quickly checking the latest notifications on the PNC, the police national computer. And every police station in the country received missing person alerts, which would be flagged as being of special interest if the subject of that alert was suspected of involvement in a crime, and even more especially if that crime was murder.

  ‘That’s it!’ Leon Knott shouted, causing Bill Cox, who still looked as if he might be sick at any moment, to jump half out of his skin.

  ‘That’s it,’ the sergeant repeated. ‘I think I know who this is.’

  He stared at the face again. He couldn’t say for sure that he recognised the dead man from the picture he’d been looking at the previous day, but people always looked different when they were dead in Leon Knott’s opinion. And Sergeant Knott had witnessed more than his fair share of death. Before joining the force he’d been a squaddie, and he’d seen a fair bit of action too. More than he’d ever wished for.

  ‘I can’t say for certain,’ he said. ‘But I think this is a runaway the Avon and Somerset are looking for. They want him in connection with suspected arson. And not just arson. Two people died in a fire in a country house down west somewhere, and I reckon this is their suspect. Can’t quite remember his name. Greg, Gary … no, I think it was George something or other.’

  Leon stood up. Even Bill Cox was looking a tad interested, and not just plain sick any more.

  ‘I think we may have found ourselves a murderer, boys,’ said the sergeant.

  He immediately made a call back to his Chiswick base, and was patched through to the HQ of the Met’s Major Incident Team.

  The young DC he spoke to quickly recognised the possible importance of Leon Knott’s report. If the dead man found in the canal really was the character wanted by the Avon and Somerset on suspicion of involvement in double murder, then his death took on immediate significance, and would more or less automatically be regarded as suspicious.

  ‘Hang on,’ said the DC. ‘I’ll put you through to the boss.’

  Detective Superintendent Nobby Clarke was just leaving her office when her desk phone rang. She had a meeting with the deputy chief constable that she really shouldn’t miss. But she never could walk away from a ringing phone.

  She returned to her desk and answered the call. She listened intently to all that Leon could tell her. And whilst doing so she logged into her computer and launched a search for the missing persons order put out by the Avon and Somerset.

  ‘George Grey,’ she said, as soon as there was an appropriate pause in Leon’s narrative. ‘Suffered stab wounds at the time of the fire which destroyed Blackdown Manor, home of Sir John Fairbrother who was killed in the fire along with his nurse. Suspected of possible involvement in the fire which is believed to be arson. But walked out of Taunton’s Musgrove hospital whilst police were still investigating him. Is that your man, Sergeant Knott?’

  ‘I think so, ma’am,’ replied Knott. ‘I can’t be sure, of course. And he was carrying no identification, or none that we’ve found so far anyway. But he has recently stitched wounds to his leg and one shoulder, which I thought was a bit of a clincher. And he looks pretty much like the photo I saw in Chiswick nick – as far as I remember anyway.’

  ‘OK, I’ll send the pic to you straight away, so you can have ano
ther look,’ said Clarke. ‘Right. I’ve texted it. What do you think?’

  ‘Give me a second, ma’am,’ said Knott, holding the phone away from his mouth and manoeuvring his screen into text mode.

  He studied the photo for a few seconds, looked again at the body lying on the canal bank before him, and back at the picture on the screen one more time.

  ‘It’s him, boss, I’m almost certain of it.’

  ‘Right. Any immediate indication of what may have happened?’

  ‘Nothing obvious, boss.’

  ‘So, he could have just fallen in,’ continued Clarke.

  ‘Maybe, but why here? Why was he in Brentford? He must have had a reason for coming here, walking out of a hospital like that. If it’s just an accident, well boss, there aren’t half a lot of questions need answering …’

  ‘You are absolutely right, sergeant,’ responded the super. ‘Have you contacted CSI and pathology yet?’

  ‘Yes, of course, boss. Did that first, just in case.’

  He paused looking up across the canal to Dock Road. A car had just been parked as close as possible to the lock. He could see Patricia Fitzwarren, the regional Home Office pathologist, stepping out of it. And, just beyond, a Crime Scene Investigators’ van was approaching from off the high street.

  ‘Actually, Dr Fitzwarren has just arrived, and so have CSI,’ he continued.

  ‘OK, they’ll make sure the scene is secure, and that’s the main thing right now,’ said Nobby Clarke. ‘I’ll get a team together, and we’ll be with you as soon as we can.’ She paused. ‘Oh, and good work Sergeant Knott,’ she added, as she ended the call.

  Dr Fitzwarren was still at work when Nobby Clarke arrived at Thames Lock with DC Lloyd Springer. According to protocol, as a superintendent with overall responsibility for a number of MIT teams, Clarke was far too senior to take part in a first-response call like this. However, Nobby didn’t really do protocol, as everyone who worked for her, or with her, knew only too well.

  The CSI boys had already cordoned off the area around Thames Lock, and blocked off Dock Road – which in any case had a semi-permanent barrier across it, providing only alternative access to Brentford Dock if the main access road, Augustus Close, were for any reason impassable. DC Springer parked as close as he could to the scene of the crime, and the two officers approached the nearest CSI vehicle in order to equip themselves with Tyvek suits and protective shoes.

  Det. Supt Clarke knew the place a little. She had a friend who lived in the Dock whom she occasionally visited. Thames Wharf – the basin behind it where a number of river and canal boats had residential mooring, the remains of what had once been a major London boatyard – and Johnson Island, home to a community of artists, were all linked by a little network of paths and bridges. The existence of all of this was effectively screened from the nearest through road, Brentford High Street, and anyone shopping on the high street or visiting a pub or restaurant – other than perhaps the Brewery Tap, which in any case was very much a local – would be totally unaware of the existence of what was, surely, in the modern world, a most improbable convergence of people and place. If this were indeed a murder, considered Nobby Clarke, then it seemed likely that the perpetrator was someone with local knowledge.

  The CSI team, assisted by local police, were scouring the area for any further evidence. A sergeant, probably the officer she had spoken to earlier, Clarke thought, was standing just outside the cordon, still in his unprotected blue uniform.

  Dr Fitzwarren, also clad in the compulsory Tyvek suit, was crouched alongside the body. She looked up as Nobby Clarke and DC Springer approached.

  Patricia Fitzwarren was relatively young for her job, in her mid-thirties. She was an attractive young woman, but, certainly when she was at work, her somewhat elfin features clearly bore the mark of what she had already seen in her life. She was also pretty acerbic when dealing with police officers, or anyone else who might feasibly hinder her at a crime scene. Nobby thought this sort of attitude was almost obligatory for pathologists. Sometimes she wondered if they were born that way.

  ‘Good afternoon, Pat,’ said the super.

  ‘Nothing very good about it for this fella,’ muttered Pat Fitzwarren, swiftly returning her attention to the dead man.

  Here we go, thought Nobby.

  She had brought with her a print-out of the photograph the Avon and Somerset had circulated of the man they were looking for, and carefully compared it with the dead man lying before her. Sergeant Knott was quite right. This was almost certainly George Grey. He would have to be formally identified, of course, but there wasn’t much doubt. And there was the evidence of the freshly stitched-up stab wounds to add to the obvious visual resemblance.

  ‘What can you tell me, Pat?’ she asked.

  Patricia Fitzwarren stood up and took a step away from the body. ‘It’s more what I can’t tell you, I’m afraid,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry?’ queried Nobby.

  ‘Well, I know what you want to know,’ continued the doctor. ‘Did he jump, did he fall, or was he pushed?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Clarke replied.

  ‘Ummm. And that’s what I can’t tell you, not at this stage anyway. There are no overt signs of any injury, except the cuts to his shoulder and leg which had clearly been sustained prior to the incident which caused his death and had already received medical attention. No immediate evidence of a bang on the head or anything like that, but I can’t be sure until I get him back to the mortuary. I can’t even tell you whether he was dead or alive when he entered the water. From the look of him I suspect he was alive and that he drowned. But that’s only a guess at this stage. I’ll be able to ascertain that, of course, from whether or not there is water in his lungs when I cut him open.’

  Clarke nodded. She had a strong stomach. The picture created of the man before her being sliced and sawn open by the diminutive Dr Fitzwarren did not unduly disturb her. Unlike DI Vogel, she reflected fleetingly and not unaffectionately. Many times, she had seen him turn vaguely green and walk away from a post-mortem examination in order not to throw up over the evidence.

  ‘What about time of death?’ she asked. ‘Or should I say date of death. Any idea how long he has been in the water? If this is the man Avon and Somerset are looking for, and I am now pretty certain it is, then it can’t have been more than twenty-four hours or thereabouts.’

  The pathologist nodded. ‘Certainly not more than twenty-four hours, I wouldn’t think,’ she said. ‘There is no real sign of decomposition yet, but something’s been nibbling at him already. So probably not much less than that.’

  Det. Supt. Clarke averted her glance from George Grey’s rather gruesome left eye, thanked the pathologist and stepped back. She wasn’t going to learn much more from this scene, or from standing looking at the dead man. Any secrets he may yet be able to share would, as Dr Fitzwarren had doubtless correctly indicated, not be revealed until the post-mortem operation.

  She looked around her again, at the housing complex beyond the lock, the lock itself, its steep drop unprotected by any kind of fencing, and the narrow bridge leading to Catherine Wheel Road. A well-built man wearing a high-vis jacket, the logo of the Canal and River Trust just visible beneath his lifejacket, was now standing next to the sergeant she presumed to be Leon Knott. With Lloyd Springer at her side, Nobby Clarke stepped over the cordon protecting the crime scene and approached the two men.

  ‘You must be the lock-keeper,’ she said, addressing the man in the high-vis coat.

  The man nodded.

  ‘And Leon Knott?’ she queried, turning to the uniformed sergeant.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Knott. ‘And this is Bill Cox.’

  Nobby Clarke noticed that, in spite of his heavy clothing and the coolness of the day, beads of sweat were visible on the lock-keeper’s forehead.

  ‘Had a bit of a shock, I expect,’ she commented, not unsympathetically.

  Bill nodded. ‘It’s the first body I’ve ev
er found in my lock,’ he said. ‘Or anywhere else, come to that,’ he added, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘How long have you been lock-keeper here?’ asked Clarke.

  ‘I’ve been doing it for nearly five years now, ever since I retired from BA. Ground staff at Heathrow. I’m a volunteer, of course, they don’t pay us nowadays. One of a team who work in shifts. I’m just lucky I’ve got enough of a pension that I can do it. I love it, being outdoors, watching the river craft pass …’

  He paused. ‘Well, most days I do.’

  Nobby Clarke nodded her understanding. ‘And do you live locally, Bill?’

  ‘Yes. Almost on site. Got a flat in the Dock, right on the river, and a little Shetland two-berth moored in the marina. After I retired we sold up the family home in Boston Manor and moved down here. Bit of a dream for me, to tell the truth …’

  ‘So, you know it well around here then. That pub over there,’ she said, pointing across and beyond the lock. ‘The Brewery Tap isn’t it …?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ responded Cox.

  ‘Good little boozer too,’ interrupted Sergeant Knott. ‘Popular with a lot of people who live in the Dock.’

  The sergeant gestured towards the housing estate which sprawled across a triangle of land flanked on each of its three sides by the Grand Union Canal and the River Brent, The Thames, and Syon Park.

  ‘Bit of a precarious walk home, isn’t it?’ continued Det. Supt. Clarke.

  ‘Bill thinks a miracle more of ’em who use The Tap as their local don’t end up in the drink around here,’ agreed Knott. ‘And I’m inclined to agree with him. I mean, look at that bridge.’

  Nobby Clarke looked. ‘I see what you’re getting at,’ she said. ‘And our friend wasn’t a local. He would have been unfamiliar with the layout here. The steps. The bridge. All of it. And if it was after dark, well, he could easily have fallen in, I suppose. Particularly having just walked out of hospital, and with those wounds. He would have been heavily sedated before they were stitched up too, I reckon.’