She had to get a grip, put a stop to this once and for all. ‘You have quite an imagination, Thessa. And that’s a very entertaining theory, but Catherine Llewellyn is dead.’
‘Yes, yes, very clever. But someone who swims the way you do would have no problem surviving a river accident.’
‘I’m not Catherine Llewellyn.’ Seeing no alternative, Lacey picked up her bike, stepped into a flower-bed and strode round Thessa. A rose thorn tore into her bare leg. She ignored it, put her bike down and pushed it along the gravel, making more noise than was necessary.
‘I know you’re not, dear. I did a bit more digging, you see. I found the girls’ birthdays. Catherine was a Valentine baby, born on 14 February.’
Thessa was having to raise her voice now, as Lacey was almost at the gate. ‘Victoria, on the other hand, when do you think she was born?’
She’d reached the gate. She pushed it open with one hand.
‘The ninth of July.’ Thessa’s voice came drifting towards her like the tendrils of a poisonous plant. ‘Midsummer. Her birth flower is the Larkspur.’
TUESDAY, 1 JULY
71
Lacey and the Swimmer
JOESBURY WAS GONE. The cabin he’d been sleeping in was empty, with no trace, not even a lingering scent, that he’d ever been in it. It was stupid to be disappointed, really; better by far that he’d gone. By tomorrow night Deptford Creek would be crawling with undercover police officers. In the morning, the Met would begin a systematic search of all the creekside properties. Lacey switched off the torch and let the faint light from the stars guide her back up on deck.
For a moment she stood in the shadow of the wheelhouse. Back at the Theatre Arm, all looked still. There was a uniformed constable in the main cabin of Ray and Eileen’s boat, another on Lacey’s own boat. It hadn’t been easy, to creep out of the hatch above her borrowed bunk, cross the boat without making any sound, and climb down to where she’d left her canoe, ready for a quick getaway. There were police officers in the yard, too, but she’d dressed in black and was pretty certain no one had seen her. It had been a risk, just one that had felt worth taking. Except he’d already gone.
Suddenly weak, she sank down on to the deck of the dredger and laid her aching head against the cold metal wall of the wheelhouse. She simply hadn’t allowed herself to think about how much she’d wanted to see Joesbury until she’d discovered it was impossible, and now the trembling that she’d managed to keep at bay since she’d left Sayes Court was creeping up on her. For so long, she’d thought Joesbury would be her nemesis, the one who would drag her secrets to the surface and blow apart her carefully constructed life. How had she not seen the real danger?
She had to get back. Lacey pulled herself to her feet and set off towards the stern of the dredger. The creek was different tonight. It had its moods, like the Thames, like any living thing, and the only word Lacey could think of to describe its present one was fractious. The minor currents were odd, for one thing. There were more of them, some seeming to run completely against the tide. At one point on the way over, she’d felt herself being pushed downstream. Closer to the bank, there had been small whirlpools and eddies.
Light. A sudden flash of a torch-beam across the channel, roughly beneath the old power station. Lacey stopped in mid stride. It could have been a reflection, a light from a boat on the main river bouncing off the steel plating of the creek walls. Somehow, though, it had seemed too bright for that.
There it was again. Definitely a torch. The beam probably couldn’t reach her here, but even so, Lacey kept very still. It was at water level, probably in a boat.
Back in her canoe, Lacey let grumpy little waves smack hard against the hull while she tried to decide what to do. She had her mobile phone, police radio, a camera and binoculars in the small waterproof bag between her shoulder blades. A light on the creek at this hour was worth checking out, surely? Maybe just get a bit closer?
She loosened the rope and began paddling, keeping close to the bank. At Dowell’s Wharf a small inlet offered shelter and a mooring ring. Holding the canoe still in the water with the paddle, she tied herself up.
The walls here were the highest along the creek, rising up yards above her, cutting out all light. On the other hand, they were protecting her from the wind and the rougher waves. The water moved more slowly in here, seeming almost still in comparison with the swift flow in the main channel. It was a good place to lie in wait.
The swimmer looked towards the boat. It was close now, too close to risk the torch again.
Had Lacey seen the light or not? Surely she had, or she’d have gone back to the marina, not be hiding up in that tiny inlet, barely visible against the dark of the bank. Oh, she was a creature of the river all right, whether swimming or in that little boat of hers. She moved around silently, at speed.
Nothing more to be done. Lacey would either see the boat or not. If she did, she would follow it.
And if she followed it, she wouldn’t be the only one.
The swimmer started breathing heavily, taking on more and more oxygen, getting close to the point of hyperventilation, knowing that a fast, hard swim was coming and determined to be ready.
All around Lacey there was noise, the incessant drone of London, but after a few seconds it became surprisingly easy to tune out, to hear instead the sounds of the river. The low, constant grumble of water moving between high, hard walls, the swirling, splashing and sucking as the current hit the bricks just in front of her before bouncing away again. The tiny waves that smacked against the hull of her canoe. And the scuttling of creatures around her. One such, mistaking the smooth hull of the boat for the river wall, climbed up and started clack-clacking towards her. Lacey knocked it back into the water with the paddle. It might be some time before she felt comfortable around mitten crabs.
Slowly, she raised her binoculars and immediately saw the boat. Small, wooden-framed, with a modest outboard engine. Two, maybe three passengers. No movement of water around the engine. One man at the stern was looking out towards the Thames, another at the bow holding on to the river wall to keep them in place. The third passenger sat in the middle, a scarf wrapped around her head.
Hardly daring to move, but knowing she had to, Lacey reached into her shoulder pack and tapped out a message on her phone:
Urgent assistance needed. Where are you?
Her usual crew would be on duty on the river right now. Finn Turner always kept his phone close, in case one of his numerous girlfriends tried to get in touch.
Then a reply came in:
Not far from your place. What’s up?
The small boat was moving.
Possible illegal immigrants in Deptford Creek. Two males, one female. Small motor boat, heading out to Thames now. Can you intercept?
That would have to do. Lacey cast off and began to follow. The boat, about ten yards in front, turned the bend and went out of sight. Lacey paddled hard and in another second had turned the same bend. The boat had vanished.
No sign of her colleagues. Nothing on her phone.
Lacey sped towards the mouth of the creek, keeping close to the left bank. She hit the Thames and, in spite of all her experience on the water, had to fight hard not to give way to panic.
The full force of the tide swept her up, pushing her on towards the city, and the river seemed so much wider in the dark, she could barely see the north bank. But there was the boat, about fifteen yards in front. Sometimes, it was just all about muscle. Head down and paddle.
They were using their engine again, but slowly, hugging the shoreline, slinking in and out of the shadows. They probably weren’t going much faster than she, but she’d tire soon. Where the hell were Fred and Finn?
Then, almost from nowhere, came the sound of engines so loud she thought she was about to be run over. A large boat was heading straight for her, lights shining out like beacons. Lacey grabbed her own light and switched it on, then began paddling hard out of the way.
; ‘This is the Metropolitan Police. Stay exactly where you are.’
The sergeant’s voice. The Targa was almost level, she could see him at the fly bridge, the lanky form of Turner on the port side. Another officer in the cockpit. As the boat drew level, Turner’s eyes caught hers for a second, then they’d gone past, were gaining on the small motor boat.
‘Cut your engines and wait for us to reach you. Do not attempt to get away.’
The wash from the Targa’s engines reached her, picking her canoe up and spinning it round. She paddled hard to correct it, but the second wave hit her and she almost went over. Her phone fell into the bottom of the canoe. Ahead, the Targa was lighting up the river. They’d picked out the small boat, were gaining on it easily. They’d look for her just as soon as they could but she wouldn’t be their priority.
OK, what were her options? She was more or less opposite the entrance to South Dock Marina. Conscious of getting tired, knowing it would be a safer place to wait, Lacey paddled over and tucked herself in the lee of the nearest yacht, a forty-foot Moody. Then she found her radio.
‘Constable Flint requesting urgent assistance,’ she managed, a split second before the world turned upside-down.
This was it, the swimmer knew. This was the moment. Such a chance would not come again. Lacey was below the surface. She had to be found quickly, before she had a chance to get her bearings. Speed and courage were needed now. Lacey was strong and fast. The swimmer had to be stronger.
Lacey was beneath the surface, trapped inside the canoe. She forced her mouth shut and swung her body to one side.
The canoe wasn’t moving. She was stuck upside-down in the water. What the hell had happened? Again, she swung herself to one side. She had to get out. She was still holding the paddle. Keeping it in her right hand, she pushed herself free with her left.
For a second, after breaking the surface, she could do nothing but gulp in air and spit out water. The canoe was just out of reach, still upside-down. Lacey looked round quickly. No one in sight.
Still clutching the paddle, she began swimming towards the canoe, but as she reached out the smooth fibreglass hull bounced away.
Then something was dragging her down. Lacey went below the surface in an instant, with no breath in her lungs. She kicked down and broke free, but immediately was grabbed around her shoulders.
Survival instinct kicked in. Lacey twisted, struck out with the paddle and her free fist. Her buoyancy aid was pulling her towards the surface, the weight clinging to her legs trying to get her down. There was light in the water. The torch had fallen from the canoe, was sinking to the bottom, illuminating the river bed, which seemed alive with mitten crabs.
And the linen-wrapped corpses on the marina floor.
She broke the surface again, bracing herself for the next attack. Nothing. No face bearing down on her. No wiry arms reaching out. She was, or appeared to be, completely alone.
From out on the main river came the sound of an engine. If one of the Marine Unit boats was looking for her, they wouldn’t think to come in here and she no longer had a phone or radio. The sound was fading again.
Without stopping to think, Lacey abandoned her paddle and set off in a fast crawl towards the Thames. Her canoe had disappeared, she just had her buoyancy aid to keep her afloat, but spending another moment near whatever had attacked her was impossible. She would have to take her chances in the river.
How long had she been in the water? Five minutes? An hour? She’d cheated the river once, which meant she couldn’t ever drown. Claptrap, Thessa had said, of course you can drown, don’t take silly risks.
She was getting colder, and slowing down. She was no longer sure she could feel her feet and the tips of her fingers were going numb. The buoyancy aid was keeping her head above water, but the waves were bouncing into her face and every few seconds she dipped below the surface again.
The massive circular edge of the landing stage that marked the entrance to the creek was in sight, gleaming like a beacon in the moonlight. It had the look of a prehistoric temple, of a wooden henge rising out of the water. Why was it suddenly so much harder to concentrate? Why were her thoughts drifting off in random directions?
The Targa was coming back. Impossible to mistake that high-pitched drone. And this time it was looking for her, no doubt about it. Travelling slowly, but relentlessly, the flashlight in the bow sweeping left and right in the water.
The beam settled on her face, blinding her, but getting out of the water was all she could think of right now. The boat drew closer. The buoyancy aid tightened around her chest and she felt herself being lifted. The water was falling away, she could see it swirling beneath her. A second later she was on the hard, cold deck of the boat, conscious only that it felt good to breathe freely, and that the man who held her was warm.
‘Look, Sarge!’ Finn Turner’s voice was gleeful. ‘I caught a mermaid.’
72
Dana
‘THE DIVERS ARE back up,’ Chief Inspector Cook told Dana, as he put the phone down. ‘They’re pretty certain there are two bodies. Wrapped like the other two we found and weighted down at the neck, waist and ankles.’
Three hours after the arrest of the two suspected people-traffickers and their human cargo of one, two and a half hours after the frantic search to find the body (alive or dead, and frankly either would do) of Constable Bloody Flint, Dana had assembled her team at the station. SC07, the specialist division that dealt with people-trafficking, had been informed and had agreed to her retaining operational control for now.
Two more corpses. Together with the two Lacey had found, and the one pulled out of the river weeks ago, she had five dead women.
It would be getting light soon. The search of the marina bed had been conducted in darkness. Which might now prove to be no bad thing. ‘How secure are they?’ she asked.
‘What?’ Cook’s heavily lidded eyes seemed sleepier than usual.
‘Are they going anywhere in a hurry?’
‘I really don’t think I want to know what’s on your mind,’ Cook said. ‘And far be it from me to tell you your job, but shouldn’t you be cordoning off that marina and getting started on the boat-to-boat search?’
Yes, she probably should. That would be doing it by the book, and if in doubt, one always did it by the book. Except—
Dana turned to where Lacey was sitting quietly in the corner of the room. She wore borrowed clothes and her hair had dried in long, stringy tendrils. She’d managed to get hold of a laptop and her attention was fixed on the screen. Dana raised her voice.
‘OK, thanks to PC Flint and her unfailing disregard for procedures, we appear to have found the body stash. What we can’t necessarily assume is that we’ve also found the centre of the operation.’
‘I’m not following,’ said Cook. ‘And I hope you realize there’s a limit to how long I can leave a couple of corpses bobbing around in South Dock Marina.’
Dana glanced at the clock again. Time seemed to have speeded up. ‘Dave, the suspects your officers arrested tonight – thanks to PC Flint and her unauthorized stake-out – may not have been heading for the marina. Who hides bodies within yards of where they’re being killed?’
‘Fred and Rosemary West,’ said Barrett.
‘Yeah, thanks, Tom. But if you have a yacht, how likely is it that you’d dump a body over the side in the marina? You wouldn’t. You’d take it out into the middle of the channel, or closer to the estuary. I’m not sure our gang have any real connections with the marina other than using it to store bodies.’
‘Also,’ added Lacey, ‘anyone with half a brain would realize there are CCTV cameras around the marina. And all the berth holders will be known and registered. It’s just too big a risk.’
‘Not everyone’s approach to risk is as cautious as I’d like, Lacey, but I take your point.’
‘I think they’re transporting the bodies around in a small boat,’ said Lacey. ‘Something that can sneak past the cameras at
the riverside entrance. A boat that may have no connection to the South Dock Marina.’
‘Well, I suppose that does make some sense,’ Cook grudgingly admitted. ‘If they’re using a small boat, maybe one with a small engine, they won’t want to risk motoring out to the centre of the channel.’
‘The tide’s too strong and there’s too big a risk of being mown down in the shipping channel.’
‘So,’ said Cook, ‘if they can’t dump the bodies in the middle, which would be the ideal place for them, they need another area of deep water that isn’t affected by tides.’
Lacey sat back. ‘Marinas.’
Cook rubbed his eyes. Being dragged from his bed in the middle of the night didn’t suit him. ‘God help us if we have to search every dock and marina in the city.’
‘I don’t think we will, Sir,’ said Lacey. ‘Small boat, remember? They’re not travelling far. And there’s another thing. Look what I found.’
She turned the laptop round to face the rest of the group. They were looking at the website of one of the natural history publications, a feature on Chinese mitten crabs. ‘This was in The Ecologist. It seems they’re a particular nuisance around marinas. Possibly because edible rubbish thrown from boats encourages the little wiggly things that they eat. Anyway, they’re a notorious problem at South Dock Marina. I think the crab business was a bit of a game on the part of my stalker. You know, throwing a clue in our faces and seeing how long it took us to work it out. The toy boats, too. Where do you find a lot of boats together? A marina.’
Around Lacey, heads were nodding.
‘I think South Dock Marina is where the bodies are dumped, and the holding facility, whatever it is, will be somewhere near by,’ she went on. ‘We’re closing in.’
A Dark and Twisted Tide Page 25