Woman in the Water

by Katerina Diamond

  ‘I don’t know what we’ll do if he’s not one of these men. Back to CCTV from the quayside, I guess, see if there is anything. There must be something we are missing.’

  Adrian looked through the faces one more time, thinking about the faces he had already discarded. Who was going to look for them? The idea that every single one of those people had someone who cared about them enough to notice they were gone, to report them missing, was distressing. Growing up with an addict for a father meant Adrian was no stranger to living with someone who was in and out of your life. Charlie Miles came and went as he pleased, and they never reported him missing. Maybe it was the same for some of these people.

  He couldn’t get bogged down in what their stories might be, though. They might not all be sad stories. The truth was, he didn’t know and it was no use speculating; he couldn’t think about them right now. They weren’t all dead – some were probably homeless, some may have just felt suffocated in their lives and needed a new start elsewhere. It was common for people to disappear after a bad break-up. Sometimes the police would track them down and the missing person wouldn’t want to be found; it was their right to leave in the first place. Occasionally, they were fleeing abusive situations.

  Adrian couldn’t imagine that, just dropping everything and moving away, but then he had his son, Tom, to think about, so he was tethered. Even when things had got really rough with his ex – Tom’s mum, Andrea – Adrian wouldn’t have thought about leaving; it didn’t even occur to him.

  A notification sounded on Gary’s personal laptop and he rushed back over to the seat next to Adrian with it under his arm. Within seconds, Gary had the image on the screen of the reconstructed face.

  The man looked quite young. He had the slender, angular face of a man under thirty. His cheekbones were prominent and he had a fairly square jaw. He didn’t quite have superhero looks, but there was something so everyday and inoffensive about him. Even Adrian could see that he was a decent-looking guy, the right side of average, symmetrical in all the right places.

  Adrian started at the beginning of the MisPers list again. It was easy to see which faces didn’t belong to the man in the clay reconstruction. As he looked through, he tried to commit each face to memory so that if he ever saw them in the street, he would be able to remove them from the list. He knew he wouldn’t remember, though. Each face was replaced immediately with a new one before he really had a chance to study it. They went through the faces over and over again, whittling them down further and further each time until they had just seventeen faces left.

  Some of the photos supplied by the people who had filed the report had been less than clear, but Adrian found himself drawn to one particular image. The man was smiling in the photograph, standing on a jetty overlooking one of the major lakes in the Lake District. He had his arms outstretched and was wearing an orange beanie. Simon Glover.

  Simon Glover was reported missing from Charmouth in Dorset just a week earlier by his sister, Fiona Merton. The more Adrian compared the image of Simon to the clay model, the more he was convinced they were the same person.

  ‘It’s this guy. Simon Glover. Can we get any better images of him?’

  ‘He’s probably got some form of social media profile; most people have. I’ll look him up,’ Gary said as he opened various tabs and typed into each one at a speed that seemed inhuman to Adrian.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘This is him, I think.’ Gary said, spinning the screen towards Adrian.

  A Facebook profile, current job listed as working in Weymouth. It was him, though; a more serious picture of his face, but it was uncanny how much he looked like the clay sculpture. It’s not as if Adrian didn’t believe in the science of it, but this confirmed it in a way that couldn’t have been done any other way. He could see it with his own eyes. Simon Glover was John Doe.

  ‘Gary, I could kiss you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, mate, I’m taken.’

  ‘Talking of which, is he married? Is our Jane Doe his wife?’ Adrian said, remembering the wedding ring Jane Doe was wearing.

  ‘His relationship status on this is listed as single.’

  ‘So, whoever Jane Doe was, she wasn’t Simon Glover’s wife. What was her connection to him, then? How did they end up in the river together? Are there any pictures of Jane Doe on his profile?’

  ‘In all of his public photos he’s alone. We can put in a request to gain access to his account, but Facebook are notoriously slow for granting these requests, so I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

  ‘Do you have an address for his sister? I’m going to grab Imogen then we can head on over there.’

  ‘I’ll send all the details to your phone.’

  Adrian rushed out of the room. Finally, a break in the case. It was horrible to think of unclaimed victims, that somewhere out there their unsuspecting family members were just carrying on with their lives. Simon Glover was the first real name they had. Even though Adrian wasn’t relishing telling his sister the news of her brother’s passing, it was worse when you couldn’t find the family to notify them. Now that they had somewhere to start, it was only a matter of time before they got the whole picture, a matter of time before they found the woman again and made sure she was safe.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fiona Merton lived in a modest bungalow at the top end of a shallow hill in Bridport, Dorset. The low-level buildings allowed the vista of the patchwork hills behind them to be seen in all directions, broken only by the square orange roofs peppered in between. She opened the door as Imogen and Adrian walked up the driveway; they obviously looked like police.

  ‘Are you here about my brother?’ she said, arms folded as though cold, even though the summer heat was starting to build.

  ‘I’m DS Imogen Grey and this is my colleague, DS Adrian Miles.’

  ‘Is this about Simon?’

  ‘Can we come in?’ Imogen asked.

  Fiona Merton walked back inside the house, leaving the door open for them to follow. Inside, it felt like a home that belonged to a much older woman. The curtains were mustard-and-terracotta stripes, very dated, and they looked like they had been there as long as the house. The sofas were large and almost cartoonlike, with a floral chintz in autumnal colours. Fiona Merton was no older than thirty and so Imogen assumed that she must have inherited the property.

  ‘Well? Where is he? Have you found him?’

  ‘I’m going to show you a photograph,’ Adrian said, pulling out his phone. ‘I want you to prepare yourself.’

  ‘Prepare myself for what?’ she said, clutching herself even tighter.

  ‘We recovered the body of a male who matches your brother’s description and we have reconstructed an image of his face to show you. Maybe you can identify him from it.’

  ‘Reconstructed? What was wrong with his face?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind taking a look at this. Are you ready?’ Adrian said, avoiding the question.

  Fiona nodded and Adrian showed her the clay reconstruction. She looked confused at first, but then her face settled and the tears came.

  ‘Yes, that’s him, that’s Simon. He’s dead? What happened?’ Fiona said, crying but still somehow composed, cold even.

  ‘Was Simon in a relationship?’ Imogen said.

  ‘No. He works a lot; doesn’t have time for a relationship. His time’s divided mostly between the construction site and an evening class. Didn’t want to work on a building site for ever.’

  ‘What was he studying?’

  ‘He wanted to be a teacher. He’s been studying English literature so he can teach English in secondary school. He was a bit of a romantic.’ Fiona struggled to speak, her breath shortening as the impact of the situation hit her.

  Imogen put her hand on her shoulder to try to impart some kind of empathy.

  ‘Do you recognise this woman at all?’ Adrian said, showing Fiona a picture of their Jane Doe.

  She shook her head.

  ‘We’re sorry for your l
oss,’ Imogen said as Fiona looked up at her. What else was there to say?

  ‘How did it happen?’ Fiona said, wiping her cheeks, clearly unaccustomed to vulnerability.

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Adrian said. ‘We recovered him from a river last Sunday morning.’

  ‘What was he doing in the river?’

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t know that yet,’ Adrian said.

  ‘Did he drown? He was a really good swimmer. He’s the only family I have … had left,’ she sobbed.

  ‘We are investigating what happened to Simon. At this point, we don’t believe he died of natural causes. If possible, would you be willing to give us a DNA sample so that we can confirm the person we have is in fact your brother?’

  ‘Why can’t I see him? Why won’t you answer my questions? Where did you say you found him?’

  ‘We really don’t know anything yet. The body was recovered from the River Exe in Exeter.’

  ‘What was he doing there? You don’t think he died of natural causes. So, you think he was murdered?’

  ‘It seems your brother sustained some serious injuries before he died, probably from a physical assault.’

  ‘Who would do that to him? Everyone liked Simon; he was a good man. Honestly, you would be hard pushed to find anyone who had a bad word to say against him.’

  ‘We don’t know who yet, but we will find out. Did your brother have a mobile phone?’ Adrian asked.

  ‘Of course he did. What kind of question is that? Who doesn’t have a bloody mobile phone these days?’

  ‘It would have been on him?’ Imogen said.

  ‘More than likely.’

  ‘Your brother lived in Higher Sea Lane in Charmouth, correct? Do you have spare keys for his property?’ Adrian said.

  ‘Yes, I’ll get them for you.’

  She stood and walked over to a sideboard, where she opened the drawer and pulled out some keys, which she held in her hands tightly. Imogen could see the woman’s knuckles whiten as she squeezed.

  ‘I was close with my brother; he came here every week for Sunday dinner. When he didn’t turn up last week, I knew something was wrong. He was secretive and I know there was a lot he never told me about himself, but he wasn’t a bad person. I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt him.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason your brother would be in Exeter?’ Imogen said.

  ‘He used to work there until about six months ago.’

  ‘Where does he work now?’ Imogen said.

  ‘He’s an Assistant Site Manager for the Sigma construction company. He’s working on a flat development on the front in Weymouth.’

  ‘Does he have any close friends we can talk to? Someone who might be able to shed some light on your brother’s activities?’ Imogen said.

  ‘He’s worked with a guy called Leon Quick for the last couple of years; Leon got him the job at Sigma after he left the last place.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Miss Merton. Again, we are sorry for your loss and we will let you know as soon as we have any information for you. Is there anyone you need us to call to come and be with you?’ Adrian said.

  ‘Thank you, DS Miles, I can call my neighbour, don’t worry,’ she said, arms folded as they walked to the door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I gain entrance to the house by the patio door, which is always left unlocked. I go to the shower and wash the smell of hospital off me. I add make-up and put on a dress. Then I go into the kitchen and start dinner. He gets home and hangs his coat up. When he smells the food cooking, he’ll know I am back. The table is laid and there is a cup of tea waiting for him, his newspaper to the side of it. Everything is just the way he likes it.

  He walks in and kisses me on the forehead. He tells me he knew I would be back before sitting at the table with his cup of tea and the paper. I tip the carrots into the pan of water and we both carry on as though we live a perfectly normal life.

  Chapter Twenty

  Imogen and Adrian walked into Simon Glover’s flat. It was a nice place looking out towards the horizon, probably quite pricey. But it was empty. Bed stripped, no electricals or soft furnishings, no sign of human habitation. The walls had been freshly painted, the doors and woodwork, too. It smelled clean, too, but not polish clean, bleach clean, ammonia clean, sterile and medical. Unnatural. It looked like it had just been built.

  ‘We should call this in before we look around,’ Imogen said.

  ‘Presumably, Fiona Merton has no idea that Glover’s flat is like this. She would have said something if he was moving out.’

  ‘Unless he didn’t tell her,’ Adrian said, shrugging.

  He could be right; they already knew Glover kept secrets from his sister.

  ‘Where are all of his clothes? His things? Did he do this?’ Adrian said.

  ‘You think this is the crime scene?’

  ‘I would put money on it.’

  ‘If that’s the case, then this has been professionally cleaned, which is concerning,’ Imogen said.

  ‘Concerning, how?’

  ‘Who cleaned it? I’m going to assume there was some blood, which would correlate with Simon Glover’s murder having taken place here. And who painted this place? It’s not as if Glover was disposed of particularly carefully. But this level of work and attention to detail means that more than one person was involved. Cleaners, painters, movers.’

  ‘This seems highly organised. Is this something they have done before? Something they do regularly. Not to mention the distance from the original crime scene. We are at least an hour away from where the body was found.’

  ‘Maybe you do need to do a TV appeal for information. They love you at the moment.’ Imogen smiled, knowing Adrian hated being the centre of attention, but she loved to watch him squirm.

  ‘Seriously, though. If they have done this before then why was this job so sloppy? Why haven’t we been finding bodies in the river for years? Are they trying to send a message to someone else?’ Adrian said.

  ‘Sloppy, how?’

  ‘You know, body in the river, which is basically a trail of evidence. Not to mention the fact that they didn’t finish the woman off. Not quite professional, more confusing. I’m telling you, it’s a message. Judging by the way the woman behaved, I think she was probably the intended recipient of that message. She wasn’t beaten as badly. I reckon Glover was beaten as a lesson to her.’

  ‘You’ve been watching too much TV. People don’t do that in real life.’

  ‘Maybe not in your life. We’re missing something.’

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ Imogen said.

  ‘So, what now?’

  ‘Let’s go and see this co-worker of his and see if he can shed any light on what might have happened to Simon Glover.’

  Adrian pulled out his phone and called Karen Bell, the lead crime scene investigator and recently promoted head of the forensics department. Imogen knew that she and Adrian alone wouldn’t find anything here – not a fingerprint, a strand of hair or a speck of blood that would confirm it as the crime scene. They needed to call the crime scene technicians in to work their magic. Even the cleanest rooms aren’t forensically clean.

  They waited outside for someone to come and secure the scene; the smell inside was too chemical and overwhelming to stay there.

  ‘Do you think we will get any answers from the friend?’

  ‘I’m going to go with no. The secrecy and silence around this case is not only bizarre, it’s already pissing me off. There’s no reason to believe it’s going to get any easier.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ Adrian said.

  ‘So far, we have a dead guy and a missing woman who would rather risk her life and her health than tell us what’s going on. My guess is this guy we are going to see now is going to be equally unhelpful. We just need to figure out why.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The summer temperatures were starting to kick in after another unpredictable cold spell a
nd Dorset was a real suntrap. Leon Quick lived further away from the coast than Simon Glover, in a studio flat above the garage of his parents’ converted barn house. It was hot and stuffy inside and you could hear the clatter and clink of Leon’s father tinkering with something in the garage below.

  The flat itself consisted of a bed and an armchair, plus a small side table and a TV, with built-in cupboards either side of the dated tiled fireplace. In one corner were three kitchen units with a microwave and a kettle. He also had a small fridge. There was nowhere to sit, really, so Imogen just folded her arms and waited for him to speak.

  Leon looked shaken when his mother showed them upstairs and introduced them as police. Mrs Quick had given Leon a scathing look as she went back downstairs.

  ‘Leon Quick? I’m Detective Miles and this is my colleague, DS Grey. We are here to speak to you about your friend, Simon Glover.’

  ‘Is he OK? Did you find him?’ Leon said.

  Imogen noted he was tense, his eyes darting around nervously as he spoke.

  ‘You knew he was missing?’ Imogen said.

  ‘Fiona called me and I’ve been calling him. He hasn’t been at work and everyone’s really concerned about him. I told the boss he had flu, but I knew something was up.’

  ‘What do you mean, you knew something was up?’ Imogen probed.

  There was a twitchiness about Leon – she wondered if he was an addict of some kind.

  ‘He had been acting weird the last few weeks; he had a week off and when he didn’t come back I suspected something.’

  ‘Why would you suspect something? Was he in some kind of trouble?’ Adrian asked.

  Leon’s anxiety had spiked when they had turned up and Imogen noticed it growing by the second. He started to chew on the skin around his thumb.

  ‘Just tell me what happened to him. He’s dead, isn’t he?’ he said.

  Imogen could see he was shaking. Was it nerves or maybe withdrawal? For some reason, she suspected the former. Why was he so uneasy?

  ‘Why would you think that?’ Adrian said.