Dead Image

by Joan Lock

  ‘None of them would be working for you, of course?’

  Thornley looked uneasy. In fact, there was a permanent feeling of unease about the man as though he was always expecting something unpleasant to happen. ‘Well, not all the casuals are like that. Some are a lot better than others. Regular casuals you might say – an’ our captains would take these sort on as crew.’

  ‘There aren’t really many boat people who can read and write, are there?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Thornley admitted. ‘Most all of them is illiterate. That’s why they can’t never get off the boats. Mind you, some of them would like to read and write and they try to get their children taught a bit.’

  Best had also heard that the boatmen had a reputation for stealing produce and game from the properties they passed through. But he felt there was not much point in bringing that up. Anyway, there wasn’t that much harm in poaching from the rich, and generalizations, like those about ice-cream-selling, organ-playing Italians were likely to be true only in part.

  ‘Many outsiders work the boats?’ he asked instead. ‘Railway navvies and the like?’

  He shrugged. ‘Scarce any. Even the Rodney men have usually grown up near the canal and, you know, done a bit of casual work on the water as kids; then, maybe, run away from home when they was lads. No, there’s not many outsiders. Very tight bunch, canal folk.’

  ‘What about the workmen in the yard?’

  ‘Oh, them! Them’s just your usual Londoners. You know, come from everywhere!’ He laughed and instantly looked ten years younger.

  ‘Paddies?’

  ‘Yes, one or two. Let’s see, our regulars are Mickie Rourke and Jamie O’Donnell – they’ve been here a few years. But there could be more among the casuals.’

  ‘Any American Paddies around, are there?’

  He looked puzzled again. Then it dawned. ‘Oh, you’re thinking of them Fenians. The others asked me that. Like I told them, never seen any – not that I know of that is.’

  Best nodded ruefully. As he and his colleagues had already learned, these days not all Irish Americans made it easy for them with tell-tale accents or fancy clothes.

  On his way out through the bustling yard, Best was halted by a shout, ‘Hey, there!’ A vaguely familiar figure approached with hand outstretched. It was George Grealey, the friendly and garrulous loader from the inquest.

  Best was surprised that a company employee should be so openly friendly to a detective officer, given the circumstances, until he remembered that Grealey did not know he was a policeman.

  ‘Been doing a bit of business?’ The loader seemed proud to greet his dapper acquaintance, but abashed about proffering his grubby hand and made vain efforts to wipe it with a filthy handkerchief.

  ‘A little,’ Best grinned and tapped his nose conspiratorially. The loader’s grip was painfully strong, all that lifting and humping doubtless. The shoulders, too, seemed more formidable now he was in shirt sleeves and he was perspiring heavily. ‘Working hard, George?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he grinned, pleased that Best had remembered his name, but now that he was close up to that pristine presence, suddenly even more self-conscious about his appearance. He began dabbing ineffectively at his glistening face with the handkerchief and vainly straightening his neckerchief. ‘I was just off for a break. Time for a smoke with me?’

  They settled down on some boxes at the back of the yard and Best got in first to forestall any more questions about the ‘business’. ‘What are you loading this evening then, George?’

  ‘Oh, same as always, mixed stuff. Always mixed stuff on the fly runs,’ he explained, unwrapping a none-too-clean cloth bundle and taking out a large meat pie which he began hacking up with his clasp knife.

  ‘Your boss keep you hard at it, does he?’

  ‘Thornley? Nah, I never see ‘im, do I?’

  ‘No, I mean that other bloke. The miserable one sitting next to you at the inquest. Can’t remember his name.’ He could, it was Minchin, Joseph Minchin.

  ‘Oh, ‘im,’ Grealey laughed, ‘old Joe. Naw, ‘e’s all right really. Didn’t like bein’ there, that’s all.’ He proffered a piece of the pie.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Best with a regretful sigh. ‘Just going for my supper. Daren’t arrive without an appetite!’

  Grealey grinned sympathetically at this typical picture of cosy domestic tyranny. ‘Wise fellah.’

  Sharing exasperation with the ways of the fair sex gave Best a lead-in. ‘Joe sorted out his love-life yet?’ he asked, casually.

  Grealey laughed, ‘Shouldn’t think so!’ At their inquest chat Grealey had confided that Minchin was trying to keep the sides of his love-triangle apart, but his ladyfriend was becoming difficult and the wife increasingly suspicious. The scenario was only too familiar. Best couldn’t quite see the beaky, taciturn Minchin as the great lover, but you never could tell about these things.

  ‘His scratches had nearly healed last time I saw him, though.’

  When Grealey dropped this bombshell Best’s head had been down, his gaze quietly contemplating the mud now clinging to his once glistening toe-caps. As the statement sank in, his head began to shoot up in response. He put the brakes on just in time, slowing the movement and wiping the startled look from his face, replacing it with one of polite interest.

  ‘Got that bad, had it?’

  ‘Not ‘alf. Mary’s a right fiery one, he says.’

  ‘She the wife or the—?’

  ‘Oh, the filly.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Must say I don’t remember seeing any scratches on him. Must have got them since I saw him.’

  ‘Oh, no, he had them then. Down here.’ Grealey drew his black-nailed index finger down his lower right cheek and neck. ‘Tried to cover them up a bit with a scarf, but it weren’t no good.’

  Best had seen only the left cheek and the man had not turned his head. Damn, he should have persisted with Mr Minchin.

  ‘Bit embarrassed, was he?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Grealey spluttered out flakes of pastry, ‘Dunno why. I think it’s something to be proud of – having two women fighting over you!’

  With a show of reluctance Best took out his watch, looked suitably concerned at what it told him and said, ‘Well, I’d better be going.’ He stood up. ‘Good to see you again.’

  ‘Yeah – good to see you too.’ Grealey began struggling with his cloth and pie as he tried get up but Best stayed him with an outstretched hand which turned into a friendly, farewell salute. One handshake had been above and beyond the call of duty. A second, with grease from the meat pie added, was more than could be expected.

  ‘See you again.’ He turned away, then as an afterthought said, ‘Oh, is Minchin about, might as well have a word.’

  ‘Oh no,’ replied Grealey. ‘Didn’t you know, mate? He’s gone.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘Gone!’ exclaimed Cheadle. ‘What the hell do you mean, gone?’ Best had never seen him this angry.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Oh, is that right? A prime suspect departs from right under our noses and you tell me it’s not so bad! Playing with words again, clever dick?’

  Best refrained from mentioning that Minchin had only become a prime suspect by dint of his enquiries just before he learned of the man’s departure. But he was angry with himself for not homing in on the man earlier. At least he would have seen the scratch marks. However, frantic enquiries with Thornley had established that Minchin had not disappeared into the unknown, merely grabbed the chance to earn a little extra money by replacing one of the still-injured boatmen on the fly run.

  ‘He’s due back in three days,’ he pointed out. But they both knew that by the time he returned his scratches would have healed, the trail grown that bit colder and heaven knows what incriminating evidence disposed of on the journey.

  ‘I could telegraph the local police and get them to stop him.’

  ‘An’ warn him he was und
er suspicion? Very bright idea.’

  Best knew he was right. Please God the attraction of navvying on some obscure railway cutting was not beckoning the load-checker.

  ‘You spoken to his wife?’

  ‘No, I thought she might have some way of contacting him and warning him.’

  ‘At least you did something right. Here,’ – Cheadle thrust a thick file at him – ‘Thames case, catch up on it. Might be some tie up.’

  Best thought that would be a waste of time. The everlasting Thames case enquiry had been carried out by Inspector Sayer with Best’s assistance some of the time and had got nowhere. ‘Good idea, sir.’

  The writing on the blue pages of the Detective Officer’s Special Report began in the usual formal fashion:

  I beg to report that, assisted by Sergeants Lansdowne and Best, I have made enquiry respecting the portions of human body found in the River Thames the particulars connected with which are as follows:

  Best gazed out of the window of the Sergeants’ office on to Great Scotland Yard before reluctantly dragging himself back to the gruesome contents of the Thames case file. First came the details of the finding of the ‘left upper quarter’, then of the right upper quarter, then two ‘sets of lungs’. One of these had been presented to Best by Inspector Marler of Thames Division who had found them floating under the second arch of Battersea Bridge. That had been a shock. They had thought they were dealing with only one body. But the second set of lungs did seem rather large. Indeed, they had later been found not to be human. Best spared himself the details as to how that conclusion had been drawn but could not avoid Inspector Sayer’s gruesome postscript to his initial report:

  Since writing the foregoing, the scalp and face of a woman have been found on Dukeshore off Limehouse and, as this portion appears to be the only one likely to afford any means of identification (although slight), I would beg to suggest that Dr Lemp be consulted as to the advisability of its being at once placed in spirits.

  At least he hadn’t said pickled. Best already knew that had been done and that in fact all the segments had been so treated. Fortunately, the unpleasant duty of screening out the morbidly interested from the genuinely concerned members of the public come to view had been left to Mr Haydn, the medical officer at the Clapham and Wandsworth Workhouse. Also that Mr Hadyn had arranged the segments in some semblance of human order so that a photograph might be taken. A photograph which, Best was all too painfully aware, was lying in wait for him among the reports he had yet to read, and the perusal of which, he was trying to persuade himself, was unnecessary to the efficient dispatch of his duties.

  But what really brought him up sharp was the fact that the latest portions had been found at Limehouse. The Limehouse Basin was where the Regent’s Canal began its journey. Ships entered the basin from the Thames, near Dukeshore, and unloaded their goods on to various canal boats. Admittedly, the Tilbury’s flotilla began its fateful journey from further up the canal, at the City Road Basin, but it was a connection nonetheless. Small but possibly vital.

  The remains had been found scattered over a long stretch of the Thames, running from Chelsea to Woolwich, but Limehouse was right in the centre of that stretch – and the remains could have been swept both ways by the tides from that point.

  Dr Lemp’s report on the latest remains revealed that the woman was about forty years of age, had short, dark hair and eyebrows, a short, thick nose which was round at the extremity, and somewhat large and coarse-looking ears which had been pierced for earrings ‘which have not been torn out’. Best knew that, had they been, robbery was a likely motive. This body could hardly be more different from their fair and fragile canal victim. The apparent cause of death was a blow to the temple from a blunt instrument.

  Next in the file came a flurry of telegrams from Sayer and Best to the head of the Detective Branch. These reported on progress with various identification claims. First, a Mr Woods thought the remains could be those of his daughter, Eliza, a 25-year-old tailoress who had been seduced by her uncle before leaving home a year earlier. Sayer saw the uncle and was not impressed, deciding he was both untruthful and of unsavoury character. He had ‘quiet observations’ kept on the man, despite the fact that he thought Eliza probably too young to be the victim.

  They telegraphed all divisions asking enquiries to be made at tailors’ workshops. This had turned up two Adelaide Eliza Woods, one who had departed for America, and the other who was still working for a Mr Nash, Draper, High Street, Bromley in Kent. Mr Wood went down to Bromley and found that the second Adelaide Eliza Wood was not, in fact, his daughter and decided that the Eliza who had emigrated across the Atlantic did not sound like her either.

  Just then, the master of Brunswick Wharf (where the right upper quarter had been found) called in at Clapham Police Station. He reported that a woman on a brick-carrying barge, which called in at his wharf, had told him that she was afraid of her cohabitee, a bargee, whom she thought was mad. Her description bore some resemblance to that of the victim. Best and Lansdowne had chased down the Thames to the barge’s likely destinations, Rochester and Gravesend, only to be saluted at dawn by the supposed victim from the prow of her barge. Even the ebullient Best was crestfallen then.

  And that had only been the beginning. A constant stream of claims followed, with relatives or friends in many cases becoming strangely insistent that, despite the body parts not having the requisite smallpox scars of the missing person, or the missing person not having the burn scars present on the remains, the remains must be those of their wife, their daughter or their lodger.

  But all was not dross here for Best. He noted with excitement that among these odd people, some of whom he had dealt with, was another with a Limehouse connection, one of the missing women having lived with her husband in the area. She had been reported missing by a neighbour, but the husband had said the body was not hers. Sayer’s enquiries were continuing on that one, even though the neighbour had also failed to identify the corpse.

  The file also held the usual wad of letters from the public and newspaper cuttings both containing helpful suggestions for the police. For example, that the victim must be a lunatic escaped from an asylum, or a visiting foreigner and therefore not missed – possibly a Dutchwoman from one of their trading ships which came up the Thames. Or it was a medical student’s jape.

  The last, a popular theory, was robustly refuted by those in charge of bodies at hospital mortuaries and college dissection rooms. Dr Lemp’s report put paid to that suggestion by declaring that the body parts had been separated with a knife and saw, in an unscientific manner, adding unequivocally, The body has not been dissected for anatomical purposes, but has been cut up immediately after death. The vessels are quite empty.

  Eventually, as one of The Times cuttings reported, ‘All the barge stories and many land stories have been investigated. The detectives,’ the newspaper conceded, ‘had enquired about numerous missing persons, some of whom had come from the most remote parts of the kingdom.’

  They could say that again. No wonder Inspector Sayer had looked so tired and even Best’s optimism faded. All their work had come to naught but contrary to Press reports, the Inspector was still doggedly searching, particularly for clothes. Now the waters had offered up another unidentified corpse of equally uncertain station in life.

  ‘There are so many possibilities!’ groaned Best as he gazed at the map of Britain’s interlocking canal system which grew even denser as it reached the Midlands. ‘She could have come from anywhere along here.’ He swept his hand over the route taken by the fly boats as it straddled north-west across London then turned right to join the main arm of the Grand Junction near Uxbridge before heading north. At Northampton, the Grand Junction divided, one fork heading east to Leicester, and the other, north-west. ‘Anywhere,’ grumbled Best, ‘Berkhamsted, Stoke Bruerne, Braunston – anywhere, anywhere.’

  PC Smith nodded sympathetically. He had already learned to let Best have his little momen
ts of despair without comment.

  ‘Or she could have been pushed in at the spot where she was found in the Regent’s Canal by one of the good citizens of St John’s Wood or – or … ‘ Best flung down his pencil. If only they could identify her. If only she had a tattoo or a scar. How could it be so difficult? Someone must miss such a young woman by now?

  He turned his attention to the fire insurance map. The City Road Basin was divided into neat boxes marked as timber yards, coal depots, iron works or miscellaneous warehouses. ‘Thornley is right. She couldn’t have boarded at City Road Wharf – it’s so busy there.’

  ‘She might not have been noticed among all the women from the family barges,’ Smith offered.

  Best shook his head firmly. ‘Family boats don’t load at the Grand Junction Company depot – which is here.’ He ran his finger in a semi-circle encompassing the end of the basin. ‘There are dozens of loading clerks, foremen, office workers, but only an occasional woman visitor. Bound to be noticed.’ He hesitated then exclaimed, ‘Unless of course,’ – he smacked his hands together – ‘unless of course she was dressed as a man!’

  They looked at each other excitedly, then Smith’s face fell.

  ‘What?’ demanded Best. ‘Tell me.’

  Smith grimaced. ‘What about the petticoats?’ He spread his hands apologetically. ‘Could she have tucked those into trousers? I mean she might have …‘

  They both realized she couldn’t have.

  ‘Right,’ said Best recovering fast. ‘Other possibilities. Places she could have boarded between here and Regent’s Park.’ He pointed at the arrow denoting the first lock, ‘I think we can safely disregard this one.’

  ‘Too near the wharf?’

  ‘Yes. Too many people about. Too busy. Too risky.’ He went back to the map. ‘Then we have this long tunnel.’ His forefinger traced westwards across Islington and lost its way in the jumble of squared-off streets west of the Agricultural Hall.