The Drowners

by Jennie Finch

  ‘Hurry up, damn you,’ Derek muttered as the pain in his cramped body built up until he felt he had to move – or shout in agony. At last, Tom was satisfied and the group moved off through the night leaving Derek alone. He waited until they were out of sight before allowing himself the luxury of tilting over slowly on to his hands, a soft groan the only sound he made. As his cramped knees began to spasm he rolled over on to his side and lay there, panting softly. After a few minutes the pain began to ease a little and he was able to sit up, looking around to make sure he was still alone, before hauling himself to his feet. He moved out from the shelter of the trees, pins and needles in his feet making him clumsy. The iron railings were now clearly visible in the moonlight and he examined them carefully. Most sections were fixed with smooth-headed bolts, the backs firmly locked into place by some sort of covered fastening. Unless he had seen Tom Monarch’s men in action he would not have noticed one section was secured by traditional bolts, so well were they camouflaged. Derek leaned over the fence and peered into the darkness beneath. Water, mud, more water – what was Tom up to, he wondered. Why go to all this trouble for an old, deserted peat working?

  There was a scuffling sound behind him and Derek spun round, poised and ready for any danger. Suddenly a torch shone through the darkness, dazzling him as a voice called out.

  ‘Oih – you there – what you’m doing then?’

  Instinctively, Derek turned away, raising his arm to shield his eyes from the glare. There was the sound of footsteps and the voice was closer this time.

  ‘Yeah, you – this is private property. Is dangerous too. How did you get over here anyway?’

  It was too late to flee. The intruder had probably seen his face by now and although he might not have been recognized yet, Derek knew the scars on his face were too distinctive. If this clown reported him to the police, someone would identify him and that could not happen. Who would have expected a watchman out this far anyway? He hesitated for a second, his back turned to the light whilst he felt with his left hand, checking the carving knife was still in his belt. Then he leaned a little way over the rail and made gurgling noises, spitting in to the water below.

  ‘Oh bloody hell, stop that now,’ said the watchman. He shifted his torch to his left hand and moved closer.

  Just a little more, Derek thought. People were so stupid, so easily fooled. Just dying to help, without a thought for the consequences. He let his body slump a little further, struggling to suppress a giggle. Just dying to help …

  As the watchman reached out for him, Derek swung round and smashed a fist into his face. The man staggered backwards and Derek grabbed the heavy torch, twisting it out of his grasp. The watchman raised his hands to ward off the blow, trying to escape from his assailant. He got in one desperate hit before Derek brought the torch down on his head. The watchman collapsed with a groan, the air leaving his body as he tumbled to the ground. Derek waited for a moment, standing back and listening but there was no sign of life. The light had gone off in the struggle and Derek shook it, knocking the front impatiently. He felt a sharp pain in his hand as a sliver of glass from the broken lens cut into his palm.

  He cursed and shook his injured hand before turning his attention to his victim. Leaning over he grabbed the man by his collar, trying to haul him up off the ground. Suddenly the body came to life, striking out wildly and clawing frantically at his face as the watchman fought for his life. Derek stumbled backwards, hitting the fence before recovering from the shock.

  ‘You bastard!’ he hissed as he felt the watchman’s fingers make contact with an eye socket. He swung the torch, bringing it down on the man’s head once more. There was a crunching sound and the watchman collapsed like an empty sack. Derek stepped back and waited but this time it was all over. Derek felt around his eye gingerly, flinching as he touched the swollen flesh.

  ‘Bastard!’ he said again, and vented some of his fury on the corpse at his feet, kicking and stamping on the dead man’s chest. After a moment he came to his senses and stopped, panting from the exertion. ‘Is your own fault,’ he muttered, looking down at the body. ‘What the bloody hell is you doin’ out here anyway?’

  Desperately tired, he leaned against the railings for support and waited until his breathing returned to normal before casting around for a place to dispose of the body. Eyeing the rusty buildings surrounding the peat cutting, he considered leaving the man inside one of them. The idea had its merits – Tom Monarch was obviously planning to use the site for something criminal and the presence of a dead body would seriously inconvenience him. Still, Derek had his eyes on the abandoned cider factory down the road about half a mile. It was well placed, off the main road and with a number of separate buildings round a paved courtyard. He had used it in the past as a hideout for colleagues wanted by the police as well as a handy base for smuggling tobacco, and he didn’t want to attract too much attention to the immediate area. There was nothing for it, the watchman was going in the river.

  For a skinny bloke the guard was heavy and Derek was sweating and trembling by the time he got him down the track and away from the peat factory. Dropping his burden onto the soft ground, he bent over, hands on his knees as he tried to calm his pounding heart. When he straightened up, his head began to swim and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything all day. For a moment he was tempted to walk away, leaving the dead watchman by the side of the track, but the thought of the cider factory and the security it offered spurred him on again. The torch was digging into his back where he’d shoved it into his belt and Derek considered discarding it but decided it was too useful to abandon and so, with gritted teeth, he resumed his long, slow trek to the banks of the Brue.

  Just as he prepared to roll the body into the slow-flowing water he had a thought. Exactly what was a night watchman doing out on the Levels? He opened the man’s jacket and rifled through the pockets, pulling out a small notebook and a wallet containing several pound notes and a fiver. Derek stuffed the money in his own pocket and, shielding the torch with his body, opened the notebook. Names, addresses and – bingo – dates and shifts worked. According to the list, he was watching the half-built nature reserve at Shapwick. Thieves came out at night and building materials were always popular – a bit heavy and difficult to move sometimes but very easy to sell on, in Derek’s experience. There was a glint of reflected light from the watchman’s chest and Derek peered at it in the torch light. A metal badge with a barred gate and ‘Tor Security’ stamped on it was pinned to his pullover. Derek removed it and held it in his hand for a moment, wondering if he might be able to use it to his advantage, but the memory of his ruined face made him drop it in disgust. He was never going to pass in a crowd again so the stupid thing was of no use to him.

  Hunting through the trouser pockets Derek unearthed a handful of coins that joined the notes in his pocket and a large iron key. He took the key as well – very useful things, keys. You never knew when they might just open a door in a time of crisis. He felt in the back pocket and came up with a small photo album, pictures of a rather tired, dusty looking woman and two teenage children with identical crooked smiles. Derek thought of his own boys, the talented, handsome Newt and his burly younger brother, Biff. He dropped the pictures into the mud next to the badge, turned off the torch and knelt beside the body, tucking the arms together to minimize the noise as it rolled in to the river. There was a splash and for an instant he thought the man moved, one arm rising to the surface as if appealing for mercy before the river took the body and it began to drift downstream. Derek stood up, picked up the torch and walked away without a backwards look. His bag was still where he had left it and he shoved the torch inside, pulled out a broken biscuit and resumed his tramp to the cider factory, munching away as he stepped out along the tiny footpath.

  Lauren was starting to dread the sound of the phone ringing on Dave’s days off. Not that he had any at the moment, she thought bitterly as she replaced the receiver and flung herself onto the sofa.
Every time they planned something together he was called back in to work. Every single time – and he always agreed. She was feeling decidedly unappreciated after four months of coming second to his job and there were moments when she wanted to tell him not to bother any more. But then, on the rare evenings they spent together he was wonderful. Dave never made a big thing of their difference in size but he didn’t try to ignore it either. He was just easy and natural as well as great fun to be with. He treated her like an adult and sometimes he could make her feel like a princess.

  Lauren twisted round and stared out of the window where a steady drizzle was falling, running down the windows in slow, fat drops. The door to the front room opened suddenly and Jonny, her younger brother, stuck his head round, his dark hair tousled and his brown eyes full of mischief.

  ‘Hey Sis,’ he said. ‘What you brooding for? No Dave again today?’

  Lauren scowled at him and turned back to the window.

  ‘Come on, you can’t sit here sulking all day. You know he’s got to work all them extra shifts if he wants to get promoted so why don’t you and me go out. We can take the car, maybe go up onto the Quantocks. What do you say?’

  Lauren gestured at the rain, which was beginning to fall more heavily.

  ‘Not in this,’ she snapped. ‘Look at it. Is horrible out there.’

  ‘Well then, how about we go to Glastonbury? I’ll spring for a pub lunch an’ we can come back via Street. Maybe pick up some nice new shoes for us both.’

  Lauren was tempted. She liked Glastonbury, as long as it was out of season. She had made the mistake of going to the town last June and found herself caught up in the wave of revellers attending the new ‘festival’ a local farmer had arranged. It had been a frightening experience and she had not been back since. And she loved Street – a town dominated by shoe making, with a dozen factory shops to browse. She slid off the sofa and grinned at her brother.

  ‘Reckon that’s the best offer I’m goin’ to get today so you’re on.’

  Chapter Eleven

  At Highpoint police station PC Dave Brown was attending an emergency briefing, but he still felt a twinge of regret at letting Lauren down yet again. For two and a bit years he had dedicated every waking moment to his job but now he felt himself pulled in another direction. He was damn lucky she was so understanding, he thought. A look around the room showed how many men were not so fortunate. A number of his older colleagues were divorced or separated from their partners and most of the younger men were either settling in to life as community PCs or, in a few rare cases, had postponed any idea of a serious relationship whilst aiming for a position a bit higher up the food chain. The Inspector’s voice cut through his musing and he forced himself to pay attention.

  ‘I know this unusual, but these are unusual and disturbing events and I want every one of you to be aware of what we are faced with. That is why I’ve asked Dr Higgins to come here today and share the results of the latest post-mortem with us.’

  ‘Thank you Inspector,’ said the pathologist, stepping up to the large crime board and gazing at the photographs for a moment. He looked very tired, Dave thought. Standing in front of the room with shoulders slumped and a grim expression, Dr Higgins looked more than ready for retirement.

  ‘We have another murder,’ said the pathologist, his soft voice carrying through the stillness in the incident room. In the pause following this statement there was a shuffling of feet as the assembled police squad shifted uncomfortably in their hard plastic chairs and exchanged glances.

  ‘In all my many years of service in the county I have rarely had to deal with a violent death, yet now we have three suspicious incidents in the space of a few months. I believe there are links between the killings but there are also some important differences I would like to explain.’

  He turned to the board where three photographs headed up the display.

  ‘First we have Michael Franks,’ he said, pointing to the first image.

  ‘Sticky Micky,’ someone muttered, drawing a glare from the Inspector.

  ‘Mr Franks,’ continued the pathologist firmly, ‘died from drowning. There was water in his lungs matching that of the canal in which he was found. There were a few bruises along one shoulder and arm but nothing serious and certainly nothing that could have contributed to his death.’

  ‘Probably fell over when he was pissed,’ came a mutter from the back.

  ‘Several personal items of Mr Franks were found on the bank next to where we believe he went in to the water, in particular, a leather wallet with a twenty pound note tucked inside.’ There was a general stirring at this news. Twenty pounds was a lot of money to be fluttering around on the river bank.

  Higgins turned back to the board and pointed.

  ‘Our next victim is Robert Donnoley. He was a River Warden, out on his rounds just before Christmas. Mr Donnoley was also found in the canal and the immediate assumption was he, too, had drowned. However, forensic examination of the remains indicates he was dead before he entered the water. The actual cause of death was a single blow to the head.’ Here he indicated a close up of the back of Donnoley’s skull. ‘As you can see, the trauma was extensive, suggesting a very powerful blow. So powerful, in fact, that several fragments of bone were forced into the brain – here,’ he pointed, ‘and here.’

  Ignoring the reaction from several of the more squeamish officers he continued his talk.

  ‘Despite careful analysis we have been unable to recover any useful trace elements from the hands or under the fingernails and so we assume he was surprised by his assailant and had no opportunity to defend himself. He was probably dead for several hours before being placed in the river as there was no water in the lungs and the lividity marks on his back and buttocks indicate he was on his back for some time immediately after death.’

  Dr Higgins added two further photographs to the board to illustrate these points. A muttering arose from the officers as the gruesome details were displayed in front of them.

  ‘Bloody hell, bit too much detail there,’ whispered one PC sitting next to Dave, who gave a vague smile and kept his eyes on the pathologist. Waste of time, him dragging those hands across town, he thought grimly. Thank you very much. None of this showed on his face as he maintained a cool, professional exterior and waited for the new information on their third victim.

  ‘Finally we come to our most recent case.’ Dr Higgins tapped the third photograph. ‘This is Andrew Cairns. Mid-forties, married, two children, working as a security man for a firm based in Glastonbury and patrolling the nature reserve at Shapwick. As you doubtless are aware, there has been a spate of thefts from building sites recently and Mr Cairns was on duty at night to prevent any further loss. His body was recovered from the north bank of the Brue, just below where the Bounds Rhyne enters, here.’ He indicated the place on a map pinned up next to the photo board.

  ‘Interestingly, whilst Mr Cairns does appear to have drowned, he had also suffered considerable head trauma and the pattern of bleeding internally suggests this was pre rather than post mortem. In addition, the water from his lungs contains numerous microscopic larvae, specifically Centroptilum luteolum.’

  Here he looked pointedly at his audience who stared at him with blank faces.

  ‘English Mayfly. Very common but only, please note, found in slow moving streams and rivers. And so,’ here he turned back to the map and tapped on the place where the body had been found, ‘we can presume that Mr Cairns entered the river somewhere else. From the condition of the body he had not been in the water for more than, say, twelve hours.’

  PC Brown swallowed discreetly, hoping they would be spared a close-up of the corpse. He still had bad dreams about the hands, rustling in the brown paper bag.

  Someone behind him asked ‘How do we know that then?’

  There was some sighing and nudging from the older officers surrounding the questioner.

  ‘Is fast water, up by Bounds Rhyne, specially when has been raini
ng. So them larvae, they won’t be there, right?’

  Dr Higgins nodded encouragingly at the speaker.

  ‘Certainly, that would be the case. So we need to establish where the body might have been dropped in. There was considerable detritus on the clothing, specifically leaves from willows, moss and peat.’

  ‘Well, is all peat round there,’ muttered someone from the back. ‘And all willows too.’

  ‘Ah, but this peat was old, from a reasonable depth – say three or four feet. This peat came from a recent working.’ He turned back to the board, ran his finger along the map and pointed to a stretch upriver from Westhay.

  ‘This is our nearest candidate and, given the weight of the body and the fact there are minimal signs of dragging, unless Mr Cairns was spending his evenings bog-snorkelling, he was either killed beside the river or carried there along some sort of path or track. My guess would be here.’ He indicated the remains of a footpath.

  The Inspector stepped forwards and nodded his thanks as the pathologist took a seat in the front row.

  ‘Right now, we need to start a search as soon as possible of this area,’ he indicated the Westhay Level from the peat works to Catcott Farm, ‘and down to the river bank. Then along here towards Westhay Bridge—’

  Dr Higgins interrupted him. ‘It is unlikely he was dropped from the bridge. That type of immersion would have left some marks, signs of trauma. He was almost certainly rolled in to the water.’

  Trying to hide his annoyance, the Inspector nodded in acknowledgement and continued. ‘Westhay is unlikely partly for that reason but also that’s the main road. Much too risky, even pushing him in from the bank. Downstream from there, though, there’s nothing between the two farms. Now, we’ve maybe a mile and a half of river bank to search, concentrating on the south bank first on account of the peat on his clothes and him being based at Shapwick. One team will cover the Reserve, see if there’s any sign of an intruder on the site. The rest of you will suit up and work the river bank.’