‘Right,’ Jane repeated and pretended to hand the bouquet back.
Jane and her mother walked home as it wasn’t very far. Mrs Tennison slipped her arm through Jane’s. ‘You should have gone with your sister and the other bridesmaids – a few of the girls from the salon are joining them later as well for her hen night.’
‘Well, for one she didn’t ask me. Anyway, I doubt they’d appreciate me being in uniform, unless they were having one of those silly, haw-haw, dress-up-as-policewomen henparty evenings.’
‘No. She’s booked a table at the Clarendon and Daddy’s paying. I hope Tony doesn’t let him have too much to drink, you know how belligerent he can get when he’s two sheets to the wind, insisting on doing his Greek-dancing routine.’ Tony, rather ill at ease, had asked Mr Tennison to join him and the best man for a few beers.
Jane laughed, recalling how much her father had enjoyed his holiday in Corfu a few years ago. She couldn’t picture him with his soon-to-be-son-in-law doing something so frivolous.
‘How was the lecture? Run over, did it?’ her mother asked pointedly.
‘Dr Harker was absolutely fascinating and I learnt so much. The case was a vicious double murder where a—’
An anxious-looking Mrs Tennison interrupted. ‘Yes, well, I’m glad you were in a classroom and not out patrolling a rough area like Hackney where vicious crimes like that happen.’
‘The murder took place in a cottage in Biggin Hill. That’s in the Kent countryside, Mum.’
When they arrived home Mrs Tennison hung up her coat alongside Jane’s uniform jacket.
‘Let me see you in the dress, Jane, because you know Pam will have a fit if it doesn’t look perfect.’
Jane reluctantly went to her bedroom, took off her uniform shirt and looked at the black zip bag hanging ominously on the back of the bedroom door. It reminded her of a body bag as she slowly unzipped it to reveal the bridesmaid dress. The layers of salmon-pink taffeta burst out again below the corseted waist. Taking it off the hanger she unpinned the wide cummerbund-style belt that had an over-large satin bow round it, but worse still for Jane were the dreadful puff sleeves. ‘Oh my God,’ she said to herself as she held the dress up to her body and looked in the mirror.
Her mother walked in and clapped her hands together with a delighted smile. ‘Oh isn’t it beautiful? You and the other bridesmaids are all in identical dresses, and wait until you see Pam’s wedding gown! Come along now, put it on, let me see you in it. I hope it won’t need any last-minute alterations. I’ll just put our supper in the oven and be back in a minute,’ she said and picked up Jane’s dirty work shirt to put in the laundry basket.
Jane closed her bedroom door then billowed out the skirt before unzipping the back of the dress to step into it. With trepidation she pulled it up; thankfully it was the right length. She twisted the bodice round and zipped it up as best she could before putting her arms through the awful puff sleeves. She looked in the mirror. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, noticing the sweetheart neckline was embarrassingly low and the corset pushed up and accentuated her 34DD breasts. She sighed: there was nothing she could do about it now. She held her hands up in front of her breasts as if holding the imaginary bouquet and thought the flowers might just cover the revealing neckline. She really didn’t want to go to the wedding in what she considered a monstrosity of a dress, and all she could hope for now was that all police leave would be cancelled that day. She had to twist the dress round to get out of it. She hung it up, pulled on her old dressing gown and left the room, calling to her mother,
‘It’s a perfect fit, Mum. Nothing needs to be done.’
CHAPTER TEN
Bradfield was putting on his suit jacket, ready to call it a day, when he heard the knock at the door and Sergeant Harris entered.
‘Sorry to bother you, but I’ve just had the control room from the Yard on the blower. There’s a possible crime scene at Regent’s Park and—’
‘That’s not even on my patch. Tell them to call the local DCI out,’ he said tersely as he put on his coat.
‘Sergeant Paul Lawrence, lab liaison, has requested you attend. Apparently a woman walking her dog along the canal towpath saw a body in the water trapped between two stationary barges.’
‘What the hell has that got to do with me?’ Bradfield snapped.
‘DS Lawrence fished the body out and thinks he might be that Eddie Phillips bloke you were looking for.’
‘Jesus Christ, that’s all I need. Can you arrange for a blues-and-twos car to run me to the scene?’
‘Already have, they’re waiting in the yard.’
Bradfield was so tired that he fell asleep in the back of the car, even with the siren blaring away. When he arrived a uniform officer took him down to a stretch of the canal towpath between Regent’s Park Road and Gloucester Avenue. The area was dimly lit with towpath lights. As Bradfield approached he saw DS Lawrence holding a clipboard and writing some notes. He was standing beside the body which was face down on a large white plastic sheet and still dripping wet.
‘Sorry to call you out to this, guv. I’m not sure if it is your boy – his face is a bit bloated so I’d say he’d been in the water for a good few hours – but there are similarities to the description you put out for Eddie Phillips. Luckily for us he was wedged between two barges otherwise he’d have sunk to the bottom and probably not surfaced for a few days, and then he would have been totally unrecognizable.’
Bradfield looked around, sighing. ‘It would help if we had a bit more light for a start – you need to turn him over and shine a torch on his face.’
‘I was just making a sketch and some notes about the injury on the back of his head – there’s a big lump and cut.’
Bradfield borrowed a torch from a uniform officer, then knelt down and closely examined the injury wondering if it was from an intentional blow or accidental fall. DS Lawrence shone his torch onto the shirt. Bradfield followed suit and they could both see that it was pale blue with a floral print and frilled cuffs and had water-diluted bloodstains on the collar and some drops down the back.
Lawrence shone his torch further along the body and Bradfield saw that the trousers were purple velvet and the shoes suede and high-stacked.
He looked up at Lawrence. ‘Well, that’s a relief.’
‘What is?’
‘I don’t think this is Phillips as he doesn’t wear this type of poncey gear. Last time I saw him he was dressed in shitty, puke-stained clothes and dirty scuffed boots.’ He folded back the collar to see the make of shirt and Lawrence peered over his shoulder.
‘It’s a Mr Fish, they—’
‘I’m not in the mood for silly ironic water-related jokes after schlepping all the way out here for nothing.’
‘I’m being serious. Mr Fish makes and sells upmarket, fashionable clothes for elite customers like Mick Jagger and David Bowie. He’s got a boutique in Clifford Street, Mayfair. That shirt would probably set you back fifty quid and the velvet trousers at least forty.’
‘How do you know these things?’ Bradfield asked, still wondering if Lawrence was having a laugh at his expense.
‘I’ve dealt with a few rich people in my time. A Mr Fish suit would set you back over a hundred or more, unlike an off-the-peg from Horne Brothers for a few quid.’
Bradfield shook his head and sighed. ‘Can we just get this over and done with so I can get a pint before the pub closes? Flip him over so I can see his face.’
DS Lawrence grabbed the feet and asked the uniform officer to help. Together they slowly turned him over. Bradfield noticed there was also a frill down the front of the shirt. He moved the torch light towards the face. It was slightly bloated, with long, shoulder-length wet hair, and there was a fine white froth covering the mouth and nose. He knelt down again to get a closer look.
‘What’s that stuff round his mouth?’
‘The frothy foam is a mixture of water, air and mucus, whipped up by respiratory efforts to breathe, and indicate
s that the victim was still alive when he went in the water.’
Bradfield rolled up the left sleeve of the frilled-cuffed shirt and saw the faint injection mark.
‘Fuck it, this is Eddie Phillips,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘I’m glad I called you then,’ Lawrence remarked with a sigh of relief.
Bradfield looked puzzled as he stood up and looked at Lawrence. ‘Baffles me where he got this expensive gear from when he hasn’t got a pot to piss in. And what’s he doing over here in Central London?’
‘Maybe he was doing a bit of dealing,’ Lawrence suggested.
‘Was there anything in his pockets?’
‘Loose change and a soggy bus ticket from Hackney, dated yesterday,’ Lawrence said, holding up a clear plastic property bag with wet items inside.
‘Have you any signs as to where he might have gone into the water?’
DS Lawrence pointed to two barges a few yards away. ‘He was wedged in there and a bit further up by the bench under the bridge I found some blood drops, and these.’
He held up another property bag and shone his torch on it. The bag contained the paraphernalia used to inject heroin; a syringe, a darkened burnt spoon, lighter and a trouser belt. Lawrence took Bradfield over to the bench where he’d found the items and suggested a possible-case scenario was that Eddie sat on the bench, shot up, and once the drug kicked in fell, hitting his head on the ground. He shone his torch on the concrete pavement before continuing.
‘As you can see there are some blood drops in one area, then a trail towards the canal. Those coupled with the blood on his shirt collar and back suggest he might have fallen, banged his head, stood up then staggered forward and fallen into the water between the barges.’
Bradfield said nothing as he followed the blood trail, shining his torch onto the murky water between the barges. He then returned and looked at the body’s arms.
‘I hear you, but I can’t see a clear fresh injection site and there’s no empty heroin bag, which could mean he got a whack round the back of the head and was dragged over to the canal and thrown in.’
‘Yeah, that’s possible. But the empty bag could have been blown into the canal and if he was dragged on his back I’d expect to see a smear of blood on the pavement. Any fresh needle marks would be hard to distinguish on a dead body, especially in light like this,’ DS Lawrence explained.
‘Shit, I need this like a hole in the head.’
‘Sorry to spoil your evening, guv, but it could turn out to be an accidental OD that caused the chain of events leading to his death.’
‘I bloody well hope so, Paul, but I need to bottom this out quickly so get his body taken to Hackney Mortuary and call out Prof Martin. I want a full post-mortem done tonight and toxicology done asap.’
‘I don’t think he’ll be pleased. I’ll see what I can do about the tox results, but usually it’s at least two weeks.’
‘I couldn’t give a toss about Martin. If he gets bolshie find another pathologist.’
Bradfield contacted DS Gibbs from a payphone near the scene. He told him to visit Nancy Phillips with WPC Kath Morgan to inform her that Eddie’s body had been found in the Regent’s Canal. He also instructed him to bring her down to the mortuary to do a formal ID before the postmortem began.
‘Bloody hell, guv, you know what time it is an’ I got a gig with me band over at Greenwich.’
‘Can’t you get someone else to do it?’
‘I’m the singer and—’
‘Just effing get on with it, Spence.’
‘OK, never mind – it’s just a poxy gig in a pub anyway.’
It was nearly eleven o’clock when a rather irate Professor Martin began the post-mortem on Eddie Phillips’ body. He wasn’t at all pleased about being called out so late at night, but made out he was doing everyone a favour. However, Bradfield suspected he hadn’t attended out of interest in the case, but rather for the extra money involved in an out-of-hours PM. Bradfield and Lawrence both noticed Martin smelt of whisky and was slurring his words. They knew Martin had a reputation for liking a drink and Bradfield would have been within his rights to get a replacement, but he didn’t want a stand-up argument and calling out another pathologist would delay everything.
Martin was given some strong black coffee as the body was washed and prepared for the autopsy. It was a long PM, as Martin took short breaks during which he consumed more coffee and a packet of ginger nut biscuits. It was over half an hour before Martin finally cut the body open to examine the internal organs. A short while later he looked up at Bradfield and Lawrence.
‘Right, my friends, there’s a considerable amount of water in the lungs and stomach of our chappie, which is obviously consistent with drowning. I would estimate, from body discolouring and slight bloating, that he’d been in the water since early morning.’ He burped loudly and excused himself with a loud, ‘Beggin’ your pardon, gentlemen.’
Bradfield was becoming irritated: he’d had a long, tiring day. ‘How could it take so long for anyone to notice the body?’ he asked DS Lawrence.
‘Well, because it was trapped and partially hidden between the two moored barges,’ Lawrence said, yawning.
Growing ever more impatient Bradfield lit another cigarette and looked at Professor Martin.
‘How do you think he got the injury to the back of his head?’
‘Well, in my opinion it occurred shortly before death and he may well have been unconscious when he hit the water. However, as we sometimes have to say in the trade . . . I can’t give you a definitive answer as to the exact mechanism of injury, but I can say he drowned.’
‘You’ve already told me that, Professor, but I need to know if the injury was deliberate and led to him drowning. Have I got a murder or an accident?’ Bradfield said, beginning to seethe.
‘Well, he could have received a deliberate blow from a blunt object, but pathologically I have no bloody way of being sure.’
Bradfield clenched and unclenched his fists as Martin, slurring his words, sprayed him with ginger biscuit crumbs as he spoke.
DS Lawrence gestured with his hand for Bradfield to calm down.
‘Len, my theory from the blood trail is that Eddie shot up, fell backwards, cracked his head open, got up and staggered—’
Bradfield shook his head and interrupted. ‘But it doesn’t rule out somebody else picking him up and throwing him into the canal whilst he was unconscious or in a drug-induced state, does it?’
Martin gave a long sigh. ‘Looks like he tired of injecting in his arm, even though the vein’s not collapsed. I found an injection site in the boy’s left groin and have taken blood and urine samples for drug and alcohol testing.’ He wafted his hand towards his samples tray.
Bradfield remembered using Eddie’s recent injections in his arm against him during interview. He watched as Martin prodded the dead boy’s left groin with his finger.
‘It’s fresh and the only one in this area, so if injecting drugs caused him to fall over he had time to pull his pants up.’
Lawrence glanced at Bradfield as he squeezed his cigarette out and put the fag end into his pocket.
‘Then that fits with how I saw it happening at the scene. I know it’s all speculation, but it seems logical to me.’
Martin took off his apron and chucked it aside.
‘If you don’t mind I would like to go home to bed,’ he said, and walked out.
Lawrence put his arm around Bradfield’s shoulder.
‘You look knackered, Len. Why don’t you take off and get some shut-eye?’
‘I’ll grab some kip back at the station. I’m gonna have to get all this down in a report for Metcalf, who’s already breathing down my neck.’
‘You can handle him, Len.’
As they were leaving the mortuary assistant pulled the green sheet over Eddie’s naked body.
‘What are the odds Metcalf lumbers me with Eddie’s death investigation because of the connection to Julie Ann’s
murder?’ Bradfield turned, looked at Eddie and shook his head. ‘What a waste, and only nineteen years old.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Early the next morning John Bentley pulled up in a mark 1 white Ford transit van outside a row of garages off Masons Street at the far end of the Pembridge Estate. He unlocked the heavy-duty padlock he’d fitted to the garage door and, grabbing the handle, heaved it up on its metal rails. He had a quick look around before returning the few yards to his van and reversing it up to the open garage door. He got out and had another cursory look around before squeezing between the van and garage pillar. Opening the transit’s rear doors he removed a sledgehammer, pickaxe and spade, then placed them in a large empty metal storage box at the back of the garage. Returning to the van he leaned in and started to drag out a heavy-duty electric Kango hammer drill, which caused a loud scraping sound as it slid along the van’s metal floor. ‘Bloody thing weighs a ton,’ he muttered to himself as he decided to try and lift rather than drag it. He heaved for breath as he grabbed it with both arms and slowly walking backwards looked over his shoulder at the metal box and realized that it was too long to fit in. Unable to hold the Kango any longer he placed it on the ground and removed the concrete drill-bit so it was shorter. He lifted it into the metal box and stood with his hands on his hips, taking deep breaths before locking the box and covering it with an old tarpaulin. As he was closing the van doors he was startled when he heard a voice.
‘You heard what’s going down?’
John looked to the side of the van and saw his brother.
‘Jesus Christ, Dave, what you doin’ creeping up on me like that?’
‘I wasn’t creepin’, I just came to warn ya that the Old Bill’s been nosing round the Kingsmead Estate and Edgar House since that young girl got murdered in the playground.’
John glanced at his brother. He was using his walking stick, his twisted leg making him lean over at the waist.
‘I already know that, but if I’d known she was gonna get herself killed before I rented this poxy garage then I wouldn’t have bothered, would I?’ he replied sarcastically.
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