Silence. She could sense the nervous glances flying around above her head.
‘Well, that should save me some time,’ said Kaytes.
‘Over the years, I actually started to think of her as my sister, not my brother,’ said Christakos. ‘Without any sex organs, she never experienced puberty. There was no body hair growth, no deepening of the voice. But strangely, she did grow quite tall and very strong. Her swimming ability was really quite remarkable. She swam, quite literally, like a fish. And when she wasn’t swimming, she was always out in one of those silly little boats. She used to say it was only on the water that she felt really at home. She almost became the thing she most dreamed of being – a mermaid.’
Thessa lay curled on her side, almost as though she were asleep. Her long hair, still damp, streamed out behind her on the shore. Her face could only be seen in profile, and was mushroom pale against the mud. Lacey stepped closer and the group on the shore, who’d stepped away to let her through, watched.
Above the waist, Thessa’s torso wasn’t so dissimilar to Ray’s. Broad swimmer’s shoulders, arms that were both thin and strong. The empty breasts were simply the result of pectoral muscles wasted by age.
Below the waist, Thessa’s body bore no resemblance to anything human.
‘I’ll know more when I can get her back.’ Kaytes was standing very close behind Lacey. So was Turner, come to that, as though they were afraid she might fall. ‘But from what I can see, it’s not just a question of two legs joined by skin. There’s an actual fusion of the long bones. She had one long, strong lower limb.’
‘It doesn’t really look anything like a tail, does it?’ said Lacey, feeling an unfamiliar dampness in her eyes.
Thessa’s lower limb was wide at the hip before tapering sharply. It was several inches shorter than one might have expected her legs to be, judging from the length of her torso. There was no knee joint that Lacey could see, but a mechanism for bending the limb must surely exist. How else would she have been able to swim so well? She had almost perfectly formed feet, they were simply joined at the ankle.
‘Not in broad daylight,’ said Kaytes. ‘It looks like what it is. One of the numerous imperfections the human race should have come to terms with over the years. But at night, at a distance, in the water – well, I can see how gullible, romantic types might start fantasizing about mythical creatures.’
‘Tide’s getting close,’ said one of the Marine Unit officers. ‘We really should . . .’ He left the suggestion hanging.
‘Are you done here, Lacey?’ asked Kaytes.
She nodded, and stepped away while they lifted Thessa and placed her gently in a body bag. Turner had returned to the dinghy, was coming towards her now carrying a cone of cellophane. He pulled it away from the flowers within and handed them to Lacey.
‘They’re lilies,’ she said to no one in particular. ‘She and Alex were born in May.’ She bent and put the five stems on the shore, where the outline of Thessa’s body could still be seen in the mud. ‘Should be Lily of the Valley, really. But you can’t get it this time of year.’
She stood up, sniffed and wiped her eyes.
‘It was her birth flower,’ she explained. ‘Mine’s Larkspur.’
FRIDAY, 18 JULY
98
The Mermaid
ON THE BOW deck of her boat, Lacey lay in the sun. In the two weeks since Thessa and Nadia had died, her Bollywood tan had faded. She’d decided, though, that she rather liked herself with a golden glow. And who knew, maybe one of these days there’d be someone else around to admire it.
Eileen’s large bare feet came into view along the deck. ‘Post for you, Tracey.’ Lacey sat up and refastened the strap on her sea-green bikini.
‘You know perfectly well what my name is.’ She took the assorted bundle of envelopes. ‘You’re just winding me up.’
Eileen walked away, back towards the cockpit. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she muttered. Then she stopped and turned back. ‘Couple of those were from estate agents. You selling up?’
Reluctantly, Lacey nodded. Dry land. That was what she needed right now. It was a pity – she loved her boat, she loved the people she’d come to live amongst – but she’d never be able to look out at dark water, at dreary shores again, without thinking of what she’d lost. Of the friend she’d destroyed. Her fingers tore open the first speculative letter.
‘One from Belmarsh as well,’ said Eileen, just before she disappeared.
Belmarsh?
Discarding the estate agents’ letters, Lacey found the envelope at the bottom. The address was handwritten, the postmark Belmarsh Prison.
My dear Lacey
We are all defined by the physical shell that carries us around. In this place where so much time for reflection is allowed me, I find myself dwelling increasingly upon what my twin might have become, had it not been for the minor defect in antenatal programming that stunted and twisted the normal formation of limbs, and thus, of a life. She had a rather brilliant, if wayward mind, but I guess I don’t need to tell you that.
I am only too aware that, technically, what I did was a crime. I make no excuses for myself. Except to say that insofar as the clinic is concerned, we did no harm, and that the women we brought into the country left us to lead happier lives. I will be accused of exploiting the vulnerable for the sake of greed, and it is a charge I must accept. My conscience was salved, a little, by the number of women I helped escape from a regime far harsher than anything this country has to offer.
I’m so glad you are safe. If any part of conscious thinking remains to her, then Thessa most certainly will be too. You may think her mermaid obsession foolish, but it was born out of a need to feel complete; not a product of a defective accident of birth and the prejudice of bigoted minds, but a creature of purpose, whole and splendid. (She and Nadia had more in common than either would have imagined.)
She was always drawn to female physical perfection and you rather dazzled her. She told me once that she could see into your heart and that it was cold, but true as silver and strong as steel. She hoped that one day you would be able to return to your own name, to throw off the heavy veil that is Lacey Flint and find the purity within. I hope so, too.
Yours truly
Alexander Christakos
Seconds went by, and then minutes. And the sound of a mobile phone ringing found its way into Lacey’s head. The estate agents’ letters lay on her lap still, but without knowing, she’d torn them into a dozen pieces. She lifted her hands and let the breeze take them, up and out, over the water. The caller was Dana.
‘I just heard from the UK Border Agency,’ she said. ‘They’ve decided to grant visas to all three women and, in time, process their applications for residency. Looks like they’re all going to be able to stay.’
It was good news. Jamilla, Shireen and Ummu, the three women who, in addition to Nadia, had been helped by Thessa to flee the East Street clinic, had been found alive and well. Jamilla worked as a seamstress, Shireen was already married and Ummu had started her own baking business. None had shown any desire to go back to Afghanistan. None had had anything negative to say about Alex and his clinic staff. As an experience it had been boring, a little bewildering, even uncomfortable at times, but more than worth it in the end. Even when told about the possibility that their eggs had been illegally taken, they’d been sanguine. Different world, different priorities.
Pari was in hospital, recovering quickly from ovarian hyper-stimulation syndrome, and already causing consternation among the hospital staff by regularly joining and surpassing the teams of ward cleaners.
In the coming weeks, Dana’s team would begin the process of tracking down all the women who’d passed through Christakos’s unofficial clinic. Lacey wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t all in similar positions to the three that Thessa had liberated.
‘Lacey, there’s something else. Very hush-hush, but I thought you should know. There’s been a confidential bu
lletin round. SO10 have just completed a long-running undercover operation. Over a dozen people have been arrested in south London. It’s been their biggest success in years.’
Lacey took a deep breath.
‘It’s over, Lacey. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have a visitor any time soon.’
When Dana had hung up, Lacey stood and climbed on to the next boat. The tide was almost at its peak and from Ray and Eileen’s boat, so much bigger than her own, she could just about see the tip of the old dredger.
‘Eileen.’ She strode quickly back to the cockpit. ‘Can I borrow your binoculars?’
Back on deck, she focused on the top of the old crane. Something new. A piece of fabric blowing in the breeze that never, even on the hottest day, left the creek in peace. A flag. A white skull standing out in relief on a black background. Two crossed swords beneath it. The Jolly Roger. The pirates’ flag.
Her canoe was long gone. Ray’s motor boat was still in the hands of the crime-scene investigators. It would take far too long to drive round.
‘Eileen,’ she said. ‘I’m going for a swim.’
Good God, but the creek felt cold without a wetsuit. Several quick strokes of front crawl to stave off the shivering and then, on impulse, she switched to the undulating movement of a stroke she hardly ever used, wasn’t even that good at, it just seemed right, somehow. Butterfly. As she rose from the water, her arms high and straight, she could see Eileen’s shadow. She was standing on the port deck, watching her swim away, and Lacey knew, without turning round, that the older woman was smiling.
She swam on, towards the tall male figure that had appeared on the deck of the dredger, knowing that whatever happened, this strange, forgotten, watery wasteland was her home now.
She was staying. And she would swim. The creek was going to keep its mermaid.
Author’s Note
Please do NOT swim in the tidal Thames. Lacey Flint is a fictional character and a reckless one at that. The Thames is deep, fast and dangerous. As is Deptford Creek. It is a fascinating place to visit, and I thoroughly recommend the guided walks run by the Creekside Education Trust, but even at low tide nobody should venture into the Creek unaccompanied.
The stories told by Nadia, Pari and the other women from Afghanistan are all based on real events and are inspired by the book Dear Zari: Hidden Stories from Women in Afghanistan by Zarghuna Kargar.
Sirenomelia is a real condition, although it is unusual for people born with it to survive into adulthood.
Acknowledgements
My grateful thanks to:
Derek Caterer, Mike Katesmark, and Adrian Summons, who try (quite hard at times) to keep me grounded in reality. Also the staff of the Creekside Education Trust in Deptford and Anthony Hammond of the Environment Agency.
My friends at Transworld, in particular Sarah Adams, Alison Barrow, Chrissy Charalambides, Lynsey Dalladay, Elspeth Dougall, Larry Finlay, Gavin Hilzbritch, Katy Loftus, Kate Samano, Bill Scott-Kerr, Claire Ward and Bella Whittington.
My friends at St Martin’s Press, especially Kelley Ragland and Elizabeth Lacks.
My hardworking and endlessly patient agent, Anne-Marie Doulton, and her equally wonderful colleagues, Peter, Rosie and Jessica Buckman.
Nick Blake for the brilliant video trailers and my son, Hal, for bringing Barney Roberts (of Like This, For Ever) to life. Finally, Eleanor Bailey, who is wise beyond her years.
About the Author
Sharon Bolton (previously S. J. Bolton) is the author of six critically acclaimed novels: this is her seventh novel and features the popular DC Lacey Flint and DI Mark Joesbury.
She has been shortlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger for Crime Novel of the Year, the Theakstons Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year and the CWA Dagger in the Library.
Sharon lives near Oxford with her husband and young son. For more information about her and her books, or to check out her addictive blog, visit www.sharonbolton.com. You can also join her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/SJBoltonCrime.
Also by Sharon Bolton
(previously published as S. J. Bolton)
Sacrifice
Awakening
Blood Harvest
Now You See Me
Dead Scared
Like This, For Ever
For more information on Sharon Bolton and her books, see her website at www.sharonbolton.com
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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First published in Great Britain
in 2014 by Doubleday
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Sharon Bolton 2014
Sharon Bolton has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781446487846
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9780593069196 (tpb)
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