Strange Tide

by Christopher Fowler

  He raised a small evidence bag so that they could see it clearly. ‘This is the chain that attached her wrist to the iron ring. We’re assuming it belonged to her and the killer slipped it from around her neck. Now, at this point the tide – what did you say about that, Mr Bryant?’

  Bryant unfolded his trifocals and checked his book of tide tables. ‘At this time of the year the tide comes up high and fast. Look at the figures.’

  Bimsley read over his shoulder and gave a low whistle. ‘Does it normally do that?’

  ‘At London Bridge there’s a tidal range of nearly eight metres. The speed of flow increases the further downstream you go, as other tributaries add their water. It’s a good way to kill someone.’

  ‘And yet there’s no CCTV on the shore?’ asked Raymond Land.

  ‘There are several areas of increased sensitivity like the Houses of Parliament, MI5 and the Tower of London, but generally why should there be?’ asked Bryant. ‘There’s been no need to patrol the tideline since the docks were moved out. Before, when thieving was rampant in the Pool of London, it was policed—’

  ‘Pool of London?’ Meera repeated. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘You were born in the Elephant and Castle and you don’t know where the Pool of London is?’ Bryant was incredulous. ‘It’s the part of the Thames that goes from London Bridge to Limehouse. There are two parts, Upper and Lower. It’s where ships arrived from the rest of the world to deliver their cargoes for inspection by the customs officials. And it was where most of the smuggling went on. That’s why there’s a bloody great wall running along one side of East Smithfield and the old Ratcliffe Highway: to stop tea leaves from getting in. You don’t know about the Night Plunderers? A representation of the Londoner in his most atavistic form? A thousand-year-old history that starts—’

  Land flagged down the conversation with his hands. ‘Wait, wait, before you get into all that old history rubbish let’s stick to the facts. What about Dalladay’s boyfriend?’

  ‘Fraternity’s located him,’ said Longbright, checking her notes. ‘His name’s Freddie Cooper. John and I are going over there in a few minutes.’

  ‘If we can get back to the problem of the CCTV,’ said Banbury doggedly, knowing how easily the PCU staff could be derailed from any topic, ‘there’s only one camera that picks up any footage of the foreshore around there and it’s hardly ever checked because, well, there’s never anything interesting on it. It’s jointly shared by the companies that own the embankment terrace. We’ve got a patchy feed from the night before, but nothing for the hours of darkness. It’s programmed to lift time-lapse shots through working hours only, or when the light sensors are tripped. Seems it’s there mainly to check up on employees. The owners say it’s their land and they can do what they like.’

  ‘So there’s nothing covering the actual river at that point?’ asked May.

  ‘Private craft aren’t allowed out on to that stretch without authorization, and not at all after hours of darkness. If anyone did try it, the River Police would pick them up straight away. Now, you can clearly see this lump here.’ He tapped at the monochrome scene with his biro. ‘That’s Lynsey Dalladay right there in the water. You can understand why nobody on the embankment picked her out. She’s almost invisible from the shoreside. The pier was shut for the night and inaccessible. She had to have been placed there while the tide was out. The neap tide had occurred the week before.’

  ‘That’s the point when high and low tides are the least different,’ Bryant interrupted. ‘It happens twice a month.’

  Banbury checked his notes. ‘There’s an approximate six-hour time difference between high and low tides. She was placed at the farthest exposed point of the shore, which gives us a pretty narrow window of operation, probably around thirty minutes, but I’ll have to take expert advice on that. Perhaps Mr Bryant could—’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said May hastily. ‘What have you got on the footprints?’

  ‘This is where it gets murky,’ said Banbury. ‘See this single line of indentations here?’ Turning back to his laptop screen, he traced the faint markings on the beach with his pen. ‘These are definitely the remains of human tracks, but the tide washed away their fine detailing. We tried to match the shoes and the leg stride, but we only have approximates because of the tidal pattern. There are no other prints on the beach either before or after she was placed there.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ said Land.

  ‘We went down to the site and saw for ourselves,’ said May. ‘There were no other indentations. Whoever killed her found a way to get out there without leaving a mark.’

  ‘Maybe he left a single set of tracks going to the shoreline and then swam away.’

  ‘You mean he walked in women’s shoes?’ asked Land, incredulous. ‘This isn’t an Agatha Christie. Criminals don’t leave annoying little puzzles for you to unravel.’

  ‘What about that woman who drowned in her own house?’ asked Bryant. ‘Ruth Singh, found with river water in her throat, in a terraced house in Kentish Town which she never left.fn1 A classic example of misinterpreting the signs. I remember everything about that investigation. We nearly drowned.’

  Of course, now he remembers everything, thought Land, annoyed. Earlier today he couldn’t remember where he lived.

  ‘What if he lowered himself off the pier and swam there with her when the tide was partly in?’ asked May.

  ‘Why would anybody do that? Besides, you can’t get on to the pier except from the embankment, and that’s sealed off. The pier entrance is on the other side of the railings that separate the Tower of London from the surrounding area. Actually, it does look like something out of an Agatha Christie,’ Bryant mused. ‘Or rather more accurately an R. Austin Freeman novel. The Man With the Nailed Shoes entirely hinges on a study of footprints.’

  ‘I’m sorry, can we just pop back from the Land of Make-Believe for a moment?’ asked Land, his patience exhausted. ‘How did they get down to the beach at all?’

  ‘That’s another problem,’ May admitted. ‘There are only two access routes. One is by a locked gate consisting of tall spiked-iron bars specifically designed to stop anyone from climbing over it. And before you ask, no, the spikes don’t match Dalladay’s contusion. The other route requires you to pass through the front door of the office building on the far side and out the back, which presents further problems. Either the murderer had to negotiate his way past the security guards, or he was already in the building and let himself out with the victim. If it was the latter, Dalladay would still have had to come inside the building at some point as she wasn’t an employee and didn’t have a pass on her, and there’s always someone on the reception desk. The land is owned by Ceto Holdings, who also occupy the main building.’

  ‘How appropriate,’ said Bryant, offering a discontinued tube of Fruit Spangles around. ‘Ceto is the goddess of the dangers of the ocean, and of sea monsters.’

  Land was becoming visibly frustrated. ‘What else are you lot doing to sort out this mess?’

  ‘Meera’s checking all vehicles in the area the night before and looking for witnesses,’ said Longbright, accepting a Spangle without thinking how old the packet must be. ‘Colin and Fraternity are talking to employees in the building. Dan and I are on to Dalladay’s home, family, employment and medical records.’

  ‘The river,’ said Bryant, apropos of nothing in particular.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Land looked at his most senior detective in puzzlement. ‘Is there something you wish to add, Mr Bryant? You’re not even supposed to be here.’ He didn’t have the nerve to march Bryant off the premises.

  ‘We have an impossible murder, not committed on London soil but on the disputed jurisdiction of the Thames.’ Bryant opened an A2 drawing pad and drew a wiggly blue line across it. ‘When you lean over the railings, what do you see? Swirling currents. They seem to encourage violent death. That’s hardly surprising, as the Thames is the main artery that runs through the body o
f the city and takes away its human refuse. Criminals are drawn to it.’

  He emptied the rest of the Spangles packet into his fist. ‘John Christie, the Ten Rillington Place murderer, was found on Putney Embankment, here.’ He marked each of the sites with one of the boiled sweets. ‘The Bulgarian Secret Service murdered George Markov on Waterloo Bridge, here. The gravediggers at St Clement Danes used to throw human remains into the Thames, here. Roberto Calvi, the Vatican banker, was murdered under Blackfriars Bridge, either by the Mafia or the Masons, just here. The poet William Cowper tried to commit suicide by jumping into the Thames but the tide was out. That African boy the Met named “Adam” was dismembered in a ritualistic Muti killing and found at Tower Bridge. The pirate Captain Kidd was hanged at Execution Dock – damn, I shouldn’t have eaten all the blackcurrant ones.’

  He had run out of sweets.

  ‘Look, this is all incredibly riveting, Mr Bryant, but if we could return from Planet Bonkers for a moment we might want to think about finding the bastard who did this,’ said Land tactlessly. He was wondering if Bryant was having another lapse, whereas it seemed to everyone else that the old man was just being his usual self.

  ‘You didn’t have to put it like that,’ said May afterwards as they dispersed back to their offices.

  Land looked miffed. ‘I can’t just keep making allowances for him,’ he complained. ‘I’m sorry he’s ill but I have a unit to run and targets to hit.’

  ‘Let’s be clear about one thing,’ said May. ‘You don’t have a unit without him. If you cut him out, you kill us all off.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Land cried, ‘I have everyone’s best interests at heart—’

  Ignoring his supervisor’s entreaties, May grabbed his coat and headed off.

  fn1 See The Water Room.

  10

  ROUGH & SMOOTH

  ‘Bad timing,’ Longbright warned as she pulled on her jacket and joined May in the corridor. ‘The passenger on the river service who took the photograph of Dalladay just posted the shot online and the press picked it up. They’re already running it as breaking news.’

  ‘Bugger,’ said May. ‘What else do they have?’

  ‘Not much. A body removed by ambulance believed to be that of a young woman, but they’ve already dubbed her “The Bride in the Tide”. There’s some grainy stock footage of the Tower Hill site, but luckily the tide’s over the stanchion at the moment and they’re only getting shots of it from a distance. If someone realizes she was chained up there they won’t wait for clearance. They’ll find a way of getting down on to the beach.’

  ‘Great, so they can post the usual panic-stricken clickbait,’ said May. ‘Put the fear up that company, Ceto, will you? Make sure they don’t grant anyone access. Has anyone warned Giles Kershaw?’

  ‘I spoke to him as soon as I heard,’ said Longbright. ‘He knows how to deal with camera crews.’

  ‘OK. Let’s see what we get from the boyfriend.’ May held open the door for her. ‘I assume someone’s done the knock. How much more does he know?’

  ‘They’ve only told him about the location of Dalladay’s body and that she drowned, nothing else. I’ve got an address for Cooper. I think you’ll have to drive.’

  To the north of the Thames is a ghost shadow of another waterway, roughly tracing the same curves. The Regent Canal extends from the Paddington arm of the Grand Union Canal for eight miles until it reaches the Limehouse Basin, and passes through some of London’s more overlooked neighbourhoods. De Beauvoir Town lies between Shoreditch and Dalston, and had been earmarked for the upper classes, but after the canal’s construction the ward filled with warehouses. They still stood between tower blocks and Victorian mansions set back from wide, tree-lined streets, a conservation area few Londoners ever had cause to visit.

  ‘Wait, isn’t this where the Mole Man of Hackney lived?’ asked May as they searched for door numbers.

  ‘His house was alive with rats,’ said Longbright. ‘We all thought they were going to tear it down, but I heard they just sold it for over a million.’

  A retired engineer known as the Mole Man had dug a series of tunnels and caverns under his house, spreading out in every direction, causing many of the pavements to collapse. It was that kind of area, populated by quiet families and eccentric loners, rarely finding its way into the press unless something extraordinary surfaced.

  The grand façade of the detached three-storey Edwardian house was kept dark by tall unkempt hedges and a peeling white plaster portico, a shabby old lady of a property badly in need of kindness.

  ‘This one must be worth a few bob,’ said May. ‘You’d think he’d do it up.’

  The man who answered the front door was at the dissipated end of handsome, mid-forties, dressed in a tightly tailored business suit that looked simultaneously sharp and cheap. His black shoulder-length hair was held with a plastic grip, and a tattoo of a rose could be glimpsed below his shirt cuff. Freddie Cooper looked like a man who was no longer surprised by anything life might throw at him. Pushing the door wide he headed back into the house, expecting them to follow him.

  The house was musty and smelled of damp, its rooms filled with a mix of generic furniture inherited from other properties and personal items that belonged somewhere else: valuable church candlesticks, expensive Indian rugs, a nineteenth-century wrought-iron table covered in Catalan tiles, some minor Pre-Raphaelite sketches in gilt frames.

  Longbright and May seated themselves in the cavernous living room opposite Cooper, keeping a distant cordiality, a double-act they had finessed over the years until it reached the level of a top-notch production of Waiting For Godot.

  May instinctively knew it was important to take a tough stance with Dalladay’s boyfriend, despite his loss; everything about him suggested shiftiness. He looked like a man used to subterfuge and the withholding of information. As he waited for them his left leg bounced up and down, dispersing agitation.

  Longbright was getting the same bad feeling. Certain men never looked entirely clean. On a coffee table pushed into the corner of the huge living room were the carelessly swept-up remains of a heavy night: a mirror, a biro tube, two empty coke wraps, vodka and beer bottles, shot glasses.

  ‘You don’t look very distraught,’ said May, turning to Longbright. ‘Does he seem distraught to you?’

  ‘Not remotely,’ said Longbright. ‘Quite a party you’ve had here.’

  ‘You can skip the routine, I still have some important appointments to get to,’ said Cooper, looking as if he’d never had an important appointment in his life. ‘Is this going to take long?’

  ‘It all depends on you,’ said May. ‘Lynsey Dalladay, how long have you known her?’

  Cooper searched the ceiling for an answer. ‘Just under a year.’

  ‘Living together, that right?’ asked Longbright, checking her pad.

  ‘Yeah, she moved in about six months ago.’

  ‘Where was she before that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Hanging out with the rest of the Botox set, I imagine.’

  ‘Is that all you know?’ asked Longbright, looking at her notes again.

  ‘There’s not much else to say,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Try telling us about her.’

  Cooper wiped his nose, looking vaguely bored. ‘Posh bird, privately educated; I met her at the bar of the Hoxton Hotel with all her frozen-faced pals looking down their noses at me. She thought a bit of rough would make a nice change.’

  You’re not that rough, thought Longbright, not with an original Burne-Jones on the wall. ‘The street accent,’ she said. ‘Have we got some Received Pronunciation under that? You went to Westminster, didn’t you?’ She had already done some checking.

  ‘Well, yeah—’

  ‘Which university did you drop out of?’

  Cooper shrugged. ‘Oxford, Worcester College.’

  ‘So, Frederick, Posh Freddie, what’s the history here? You came to town, banged through your trust fund while
squatting in one of your old man’s Primrose Hill properties, then invested in an up-and-coming area like this, or has the money already run out? You met Dalladay and thought you’d sponge off her for a while?’

  ‘You should watch how you talk to me, I’m not the villain here, I’m a successful businessman,’ Cooper warned, a short fuse lit.

  ‘So who is the villain?’ Longbright asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Dalladay was damaged goods, a real mess. Women like her can drag you down with them. She said she was trying to “find herself”. She found plenty of others on the way. Spent a year bumming around Goa and Kerala, ashrams, tantric sex, lots of drugs. Used her connections to get a few media jobs but always got fired.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s what happens when you can’t concentrate on anything for more than ten minutes at a time. She went to Thailand, joined a religious group, discovered her inner goddess, came back to London and cleaned up her act, so she told me.’

  ‘And then she met you,’ said Longbright, eyeing the table with the badly wiped-up coke-line, the suspicious inlaid wooden box next to it.

  ‘Yeah, I tried to keep her straight.’

  ‘Sure you did.’

  May withdrew his smart new PCU-issue tablet and ran down its history. ‘You’ve got two convictions for possession of a controlled drug and intent to supply. So she was a free spirit or, as we call them, a “Person at Risk”, and she teamed up with someone who, historically speaking, is a bit of—’

  ‘—an entrepreneur.’

  ‘—a scumbag. Not that it’s my job to judge. How was that going to straighten her out?’

  ‘I told you, I’m a businessman,’ said Cooper. ‘Like a few million others in this city. We were both on the same road back from a bad place. I thought I could help her.’