At the bow was Constable Finn Turner, mid twenties, six foot five, whose gaunt face and thin body fell just a raised eyebrow short of male-model gorgeousness.
Lacey caught hold of the rope-grip as the dinghy was tossed up by a wave. Being aboard small craft always gave her the feeling of being thrown around in a washing machine. On top of that, she was hot. The drysuits worn by the Marine Unit on wet operations were designed to keep their wearers warm. Out of the water, on hot days, warm became drippingly hot.
‘Not claustrophobic, are you?’ There was sweat beading at Wilson’s temples and his face was even redder than normal. As a child, he would have been covered in freckles. In his mid fifties those freckles had merged into a tan.
Over Turner’s shoulder, Lacey looked at the gaping hole in the river wall and felt a tickle of anticipation. ‘I guess we’re about to find out,’ she said.
Wilson revved the engine, turned sharply towards the wall, and then Lacey and her two companions entered a long, narrow tunnel that ran under the City of London. The sounds of the Thames on a summer day faded as quickly as the heat and the light. As Wilson cut the engine to an idle, the three officers travelled further into a world few people in London knew existed, even though it was directly below their feet.
A world of strangely distorted sound, of darkness so intense as to be almost tangible, a world in which only your long-dormant sixth sense might tell you that danger was creeping up behind. The world beneath.
To her surprise, Lacey realized that something was gripping her chest, her breathing speeding up. Was this claustrophobia? Or just the hangover of a memory that needed a little longer to fade? Few people knew this twilight-coloured, subterranean London better than she. There had been times when beautifully engineered, brick-lined tunnels with decorative archways had been as familiar to her as streetlights and traffic signs are to most people. And then, not quite a year ago, in a tunnel very like this one, she’d almost lost everything.
She closed her eyes for a second in an attempt to throw off the sudden urge to jump from the dinghy and swim back towards the sunlight. When she opened them again, it was to see that, behind the sergeant’s solid frame, the world they’d left had become a small, hazy circle of light.
Turner turned on a powerful torch at the bow and then, taking that as a signal, all three officers switched on their helmet lights. Being able to see again helped.
At high tide the tunnel they were travelling along would be almost submerged, leaving no room for a boat with three living, breathing occupants. At low water, the river would retreat back down the beach, leaving just a trickle of water flowing from the outlet. This was the optimum time to come in here.
On either side, low down on the arched walls, ran a narrow ledge that was just wide enough to walk along. Beneath them, the water was black, topped with foam, and it smelled of oil, of abandoned cellars, of the trapped water at the far corners of busy harbours.
‘I’m guessing trailing my hand over the side at this point probably isn’t the best idea,’ said Lacey.
‘The water in here won’t be any worse than the main river,’ the sergeant told her. ‘This is a storm drain, remember? We don’t discharge sewage directly into the Thames.’
‘Unless there’s been heavy rain,’ said Turner, ‘when all bets are off on what comes pouring out of here. You should probably wash your hands before you make the tea.’
‘What are we looking for, exactly?’ Lacey looked up at the perfect arch of the tunnel roof, seeing strange patterns formed by algal growth.
‘Items of a suspicious nature,’ said Wilson. ‘An explosion down here could take out half the financial district.’
‘Not everyone would see that as a bad thing.’
‘Ladder just ahead on the right, Sarge,’ said Turner.
Wilson slowed the boat to a halt. ‘You up for this, Finn, or do you want to send Lacey up?’
‘If she were wearing a skirt I’d be tempted, Sarge.’ Turner stood and reached for a narrow iron ladder that ran up the tunnel wall. ‘As it is, I don’t want to hang around while she gets an attack of the vapours.’
‘You do realize officers have been sacked for less than that?’ said Lacey, as Turner sprang from the boat. About ten feet above water level, the ladder disappeared into a narrow chimney. Soon they could only see the lower part of Turner’s legs.
‘What’s he doing?’ said Lacey.
‘Checking the manhole cover is still in place. Looking for any sign of it having been disturbed recently. Probably pushing it open an inch or so, just to make sure it’s still in working order.’
Lacey suppressed a giggle. ‘So right now, someone above us could be treated to the sight of Finn popping up like a meerkat?’
‘We’ve just got to hope he doesn’t get flattened by a passing car. You heard from our mutual friend lately?’
Lacey felt the familiar stab of excitement. Christ, just the mention of his name. Wilson was talking about Mark Joesbury, his nephew, Dana Tulloch’s best friend, and her – what exactly? She was still trying to figure it out.
‘Not since early April, Sarge. He’s away.’
Wilson gave a quick nod. He knew what ‘away’ meant. ‘Well, when you do hear, his mum wants to know where he put the barbecue tongs last time he was round and his brother needs a word about Lex Luthor.’
It was still something of a novelty, hearing about Joesbury’s family. ‘Lex Luthor?’
Wilson gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Don’t ask me, some daft code they invented when they were kids. Probably something to do with cash, given how rich Lex Luthor supposedly was.’
They heard the loud, dissonant clang of iron falling on to stone and Turner jumped back down. ‘Hasn’t been touched, Sarge,’ he said. ‘Had to give it a bloody good shove.’
‘So,’ said Wilson, as they set off again, ‘what’s the clever money saying about that body of yours?’
‘It’s my body now, is it?’ said Lacey. ‘The ancient maritime law of finders keepers.’
‘Nah, just the pervs at the station who like using the phrase “Lacey’s body”,’ chipped in Turner. ‘You know, “Have you seen Lacey’s body? . . . Lacey’s body’s getting a bit whiffy in this heat.”’
‘Where your reputation with women comes from is beyond me,’ said Lacey. ‘Do you actually have conversations with them?’
‘Never found it necessary.’
‘Are you OK about it, Lacey?’ The sergeant was suddenly serious.
‘I’m fine.’
He looked at her carefully for a moment, then nodded. ‘How likely are we to get an ID?’
‘I wouldn’t put money on it,’ admitted Lacey. ‘CID asked me to run a search of people still officially missing after supposedly going in the river. I found fourteen in the past three years.’
‘Doesn’t mean they’re all dead,’ said Wilson. ‘Some will have climbed out, wet and embarrassed, and hurried off home.’
‘And some will have been swept out to sea, never to be seen again,’ said Turner. ‘How many were young women?’
‘Two,’ said Lacey. ‘But neither fits the bill. One was a twenty-year-old Nigerian who was seen jumping from London Bridge, the other a bleached blonde who was fooling around on one of the embankment walls and went over.’
‘We don’t solve them all, you know,’ said Wilson. ‘I pulled one out myself a couple of years ago. Up Pimlico way. Young woman, almost completely skeletonized. Never did find out who she was or what happened to her.’
‘If you can be bothered, you could check the national Missing Persons List,’ said Turner. ‘Although it’s really a CID job.’
‘Already done it,’ said Lacey. ‘Massive number. But once I’d taken out those who were either too old, too young, the wrong ethnic group or the opposite sex, I was left with a hundred and two.’
‘It won’t take CID long to spot any possibilities.’ Wilson cut the engine again and Turner’s legs disappeared up a second ladder. ‘Then local forces can pr
obably provide DNA samples for matching.’
Turner jumped back down and got into the boat. ‘You’re up for the next one,’ he told Lacey. ‘So, if she’s been reported missing, we’ll know who she was pretty soon?’
‘Dana will have it cracked by the end of the week. Brightest officer the Met’s had in years, that girl.’ Wilson moved them further into the tunnel.
‘Bit of a babe as well,’ said Turner, as they came to the next ladder and he reached out to hold the boat steady. ‘Do you think she just hasn’t met the right man yet?’
Lacey climbed on to the ladder.
‘Fucking Norah!’ Turner practically stuck his fist into his mouth. ‘Watch what you’re standing on!’
‘Sorry, Finn,’ said Lacey. ‘I guess my eyes haven’t quite adjusted yet.’
12
Dana
WHAT ON EARTH possessed the woman to live here? thought Dana, not for the first time.
The tributaries of the tidal Thames had become urbanized over the last few hundred years, morphing into industrial docks with towering warehouses and commercial wharves. Deptford Creek, the name given to the last half-mile of the River Ravensbourne before it met the Thames at Deptford, flowed through a steel and concrete channel that was up to seven metres deep and in places seventy metres wide. Along its length, dark-brick buildings made the walls even higher. At high tide, it was full of water. Other times, it formed a vast, urban tunnel.
At the lock-up yard that was sometimes referred to, in a rather tongue-in-cheek way, as the Theatre Arm Marina, Dana crossed the concrete and found the ladder that would take her down to the twelve boats that were more or less permanently moored there, forming the biggest of Deptford’s houseboat communities.
A number of the boats’ residents were on deck, making the most of the fresher, cooler evening air. On a large, black-hulled boat in the middle of the rafting sat a young couple, a toddler curled up on the woman’s lap. Toys and baby paraphernalia lay scattered around the deck. People actually raised children here? You wouldn’t be able to take your eyes off them for a second.
A train went by on the elevated section of the Docklands Light Railway that ran overhead. It was a busy line, and would provide an almost never-ending background of noise.
Lacey’s boat, one of the smallest in the yard, was moored on the outside and at the back of the raft of boats, and Dana had to cross several larger vessels to reach it. She clambered from one boat to the next, seeing the flicker of light in one cabin, hearing movement in another, and thinking that they were all nuts. These people had no running water, central heating or electricity. They had tanks that they filled from a hose in the yard every few days and oil-fired generators that gave them a basic level of power. They cooked using Calor Gas tanks. Some of the boats had wood-burning stoves; most didn’t. Just carrying groceries home would be a nightmare.
‘Evening,’ said the thin, sun-tanned man on the boat next to Lacey’s as Dana approached.
‘May I?’ she asked as she climbed down on to his deck, gesturing round the bow of his boat. He inclined his head, silently giving her permission. He held a cigarette in one hand, a beer bottle in the other. As Dana made her way carefully around the cluttered deck, she caught sight of a woman on the boat, watching her through the open hatch. Early sixties, younger than the man. As tanned and as grey-haired as he, but with more body fat.
Lacey’s boat was a sailing yacht, built in the 1950s, its hull painted a bright daffodil yellow. Dana stepped down on to what Mark had told her was white-oak decking.
And that tight, pressing feeling got worse again, just at the thought of Mark. It was as if some small creature was clinging to her chest, digging in with claws and teeth. Her foot caught something, sent it skimming across the deck, over the toe rail.
‘Damn.’
She leaned over, peering into the gap between Lacey’s boat and the bigger one. A small toy boat lay in the mud, its hull as yellow as Lacey’s new home.
‘Hold on.’
Without another word, the man on the neighbouring boat leaned over the rail, scooped the toy up with a long hook and held it out to Dana. Trying to avoid the mud, she took it and thanked him.
‘Welcome aboard.’
Lacey was in the cockpit, her pale face and hair just visible against the darkening sky. Dana steadied herself on the guard-rail and climbed down.
‘Sorry about your toy boat. I didn’t see it.’
Lacey peered at the toy. ‘Never seen it before. Must belong to the kids in one of the other boats. I’ll rinse and return it.’
Like an odd house-warming gift, the small boat passed from one woman to the other.
‘I’ve got white wine in the fridge,’ offered Lacey. ‘Or tea. Not decaff, I’m afraid.’
‘Tea would be great,’ said Dana.
Lacey was still in uniform, the simple blue shirt and slacks that the Marine Unit wore most of the time. Her hair was flying around her face in the breeze. Uniform aside, she looked timeless, like a marble statue come to life.
Dana glanced behind. Cabin hatches were open all around them, and voices would carry. ‘Do you mind if we go below? I know it’s hot, but . . .’
Lacey took two large strides across the cockpit before swinging round and dropping to the cabin below.
The kettle was being filled as Dana climbed down. She heard the hiss of gas, the sound of a match being struck. Lacey was lifting mugs from a cupboard, finding tea bags, reaching into a box-like fridge for milk, giving Dana the opportunity to look around.
Dana had been in the boat before, but under exceptionally tense circumstances. Last time, she’d hardly been in the right frame of mind to appreciate what was, in fact, a rather beautiful space.
Surprisingly spacious, was her first thought. Her second was that it was a little like being in the private study of an exclusive gentlemen’s club. The entire cabin, from floor to ceiling, was panelled in a wood that looked like mahogany. Green-glass lamps glowed gently on the walls and the seats around the dining table were padded brown leather. The small galley on the starboard side was beautifully neat, the chart table beyond it looked like an antique desk, and there was even a glass-fronted bookcase above it. The books, all hardbacks, were a mixture of classics and modern crime. At the far end of the cabin was a door that led to the bigger of the two sleeping cabins. Dana remembered a small, neat double bed enclosed within a wooden frame, the tiniest of wardrobes, a small bedside cupboard. It was all neat and pretty and cosy, but where on earth did the woman keep her stuff?
Lacey was watching her. Had probably been watching for some time. She had a way of moving that was so quiet, so economical.
‘I don’t have much stuff,’ she said, as though she’d been reading Dana’s mind. ‘What you see here is more than I’ve owned my whole life before now.’
‘That makes you pretty unusual. Most of us are obsessed with accumulating things.’
Lacey moved forward, putting sugar and milk on the table. ‘I find the thought of stuff quite claustrophobic. Something of a . . . what’s the word . . . tether.’
She served milk directly from the carton, sugar from the packet.
‘Some people see possessions as an anchor,’ said Dana.
Lacey smiled, before turning back to the kettle. ‘I have an anchor. A real one.’
‘I suppose on a boat stuff becomes inherently portable. You just set sail and off you go, stuff and all.’ Why were they talking about stuff? Why did Lacey always manage to throw her off kilter?
‘In theory.’ Lacey flicked off the gas. ‘But the sails on this boat are in storage, and I wouldn’t know how to sail it anyway.’
Dana opened her mouth to say that Mark would, and remembered why she was here. ‘Lacey, when did you last see Mark?’
Lacey put the kettle back on the gas burner and turned round. ‘Has something happened to him?’
Still an enigma, but so much easier to read than she had been. Dana breathed in the smell of old leather and the f
aintest suggestion of the perfume Lacey wore occasionally. ‘Mark came to see me towards the end of March.’
Lacey leaned back against the chart table as though bracing herself for bad news.
‘Shortly after – well, you know what happened in March.’
The smallest nod in acknowledgement. They both knew; neither wanted to talk about it.
‘He told me he was off on a case,’ Dana continued. ‘He had no real idea when it would be over or when he’d be in touch again. Asked me to keep an eye on Carrie and Huck. And on you, incidentally.’
A slight softening in those hazel-blue eyes. ‘He said much the same thing to me. Only without the keeping-an-eye-on-people bit.’
‘I know he didn’t really want to go,’ said Dana. ‘He felt it was too soon after all the business with the missing boys, not to mention Cambridge.’
‘Yeah, he said that to me, too.’
Not surprisingly, Lacey’s eyes had hardened again. After three bad cases – four if you counted that business in the park last Christmas – Lacey had been on the point of leaving the police service for good. Lacey Flint, who needed nobody, was starting to need Mark and he’d gone.
But Mark Joesbury was a detective inspector with SCD10, the special crimes directorate that handled covert operations. As one of the senior, more experienced field operatives, he was typically sent in as operations neared their head. Not being available for personal reasons could jeopardize months, sometimes years, of difficult and dangerous work on the part of his colleagues. It would be completely out of character for him to turn down an assignment. It was the sort of dedication that had cost him his marriage and that might now cost him Lacey.
‘So what’s happened?’ Lacey asked.
‘Maybe nothing,’ said Dana. ‘Almost certainly nothing. But there are rumours flying around and I didn’t want you to hear them.’
Lacey turned back, picked up the kettle again and poured. ‘Or rather you wanted me to hear them from you.’
Dana smiled to concede the point. ‘The rumours are he’s disappeared. That no one can contact him. That they haven’t been able to for weeks now.’
A Dark and Twisted Tide Page 5