Strange Tide

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘It doesn’t look that way, no,’ he said. And then: ‘So, what I said before . . .’

  ‘. . . about always having to put your work first, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, that part. I may have been mistaken. I’ve been thinking.’

  She stood up and studied him. ‘Oh? And what did you decide?’ She was waiting for him to say it. He tried to think of an intelligent answer, but the words dried in his mouth.

  ‘Well? Cat got your tongue? I guess finding yourself on a murder charge makes you stop and think. You have a lot to learn.’

  ‘Then teach me,’ he said. ‘What time do your men disappear?’

  ‘When my shift ends. We can go to that disgusting Italian restaurant in King’s Cross.’ Every police officer and firefighter in the area knew La Veneziana. It had a resident crooner called Gary Garibaldi who smoked while he sang and fiddled with his flies whenever the waitresses passed by. Bryant had once found a dog-end in his calzone.

  ‘Why would you want to go there?’ he asked.

  She shrugged as she turned to leave. ‘It was where you turned me down, Mr May. I’m going to make you eat your words.’ She climbed up into the fire tender.

  What a woman, he thought, watching her go. Then: What have I done?

  As he walked back to his BMW he saw someone leaning on the bonnet, hidden beneath an enormous black umbrella. It tilted back, cascading water, to reveal a familiar wrinkled face.

  Arthur Bryant gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Did you learn nothing from your incriminating embrace with Marion North?’ he asked. ‘Do the fairer sex blind you so much that all common sense simply flies out of the window?’

  ‘Everybody has a weak spot,’ said May, his cheeks colouring. ‘I suppose women are mine.’

  ‘I hate to interrupt your amorous dalliances with anything as sordid as work, but I thought I’d better come here in person. I need those registration documents. There’s still one key factor missing. I’ll tell you about it if you like.’ He raised a finger and pointed at May. ‘We are a team, after all.’

  ‘What can I do?’ asked May. ‘I’m not even supposed to be outside my apartment.’ He handed over the black plastic bin bag and unlocked the car. ‘I guess you’re in charge now. Find what you’re looking for while I drive.’

  Bryant slid on to the back seat and tore open the plastic bag, rapidly sifting through the files. ‘I made a fundamental mistake,’ he explained. ‘I assumed the killer was intelligent. I should have realized earlier what was going on.’ He checked the immobile hands of his watch. ‘We need to get going. There’s a life in danger. We still have time to save him.’

  ‘Who?’ asked May.

  ‘Why, Freddie Cooper, obviously.’

  ‘Sometimes I wish I could see the world through your eyes.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to with my vision, trust me. There’s no answer from Cooper’s mobile or his house phone.’

  May put his key in the ignition. ‘Where do you want me to go?’

  ‘I think he’s going to be drowned, so you’d better head for the river.’

  ‘Would you like me to aim for any particular section?’ May asked. ‘As you keep reminding me, it is a couple of hundred miles long.’

  ‘Just put your foot down,’ said Bryant. ‘I’ll figure something out on the way.’

  45

  TIME & TIDE

  Raymond Land looked at the stack of coffee cups on his desk and realized he’d drunk enough caffeine to power him up the side of Snowdon. There was no answer from John May’s apartment and obviously Bryant wasn’t picking up. He was sure that they had illegally joined forces once more and were out there putting the entire unit at risk. Even if they managed to close the case, John would at the very least be in violation of his house arrest.

  To make matters worse, Barbara Biddle knocked and entered without waiting for a response. ‘I don’t know where to begin,’ she said, pulling off her Alice band and shaking her head at the pages in her fist. ‘Everything is wrong here, every single thing, from evidence contamination and witness-statement policies down to health-and-safety infringements. Each of these points, taken individually, would be enough to close you down for the next thousand years. How am I supposed to identify a problem when the entire operating procedure of the unit is contradictory and downright dangerous? Every aspect of the unit’s working structure is anomalous.’

  Raymond thought hard but couldn’t remember what ‘anomalous’ meant. He suspected it wasn’t something good.

  Barbara threw the paperwork down in disgust. ‘So now I have a problem. In my job it’s helpful to uncover one or two specific causes for concern and recommend a way of removing them. So what am I to do when none of it works? I can’t simply recommend shutting the entire unit down. That’s not within my power, and besides, the PCU still seems to have a few key political allies. But I have to do my job. You see my dilemma?’

  ‘No. Yes. Yes,’ said Land nervously. He felt as if his shirt collar was strangling him.

  ‘If you hadn’t allowed your detectives to run roughshod over you creating their own climate of chaos, things wouldn’t be as they are now. I’ve identified the source of the problem. It’s you.’

  Land swallowed. This was the worst of all possible outcomes. If Biddle blamed the unit’s catastrophic procedural misdemeanours on him, he would be booted out without a pay-off, and if he simply agreed to fall on his sword he would still get nothing. Dreams of a retirement bungalow on the Isle of Wight suddenly evaporated.

  ‘I feel for you, I really do,’ Biddle continued, softening a little. ‘I don’t want to be seen as a walking hatchet, chopping away at the roots of venerable institutions. I’m human, I have feelings. There’s more to me than this uniform.’

  Land tried for the image and failed. The thought of there being a woman behind all that make-up had honestly not occurred to him.

  Barbara set her pages down on his desk and took a step closer. ‘I’m prepared to make allowances. I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure, what with the divorce. I don’t listen to gossip but it’s been hard to ignore what the others have been saying.’

  What have they been saying? Land wondered.

  ‘You can imagine how much harder it is for me. I know what they say about me behind my back. “She’s a cold bitch.” “She enjoys destroying people’s lives.” “She should never have been acquitted.” We’re supposed to remain impartial but it’s impossible not to form opinions. And right now, you could do with an ally.’

  ‘What do I have to do?’ Land all but squeaked.

  ‘You’ll have to think of something,’ said Barbara, flicking the end of his tie. ‘Let me know what you come up with.’

  ‘They’re heading for the Thames,’ said Dan, tracking Bryant’s second GPS. ‘Why are they going it alone?’

  ‘Mr Bryant’s protecting us,’ said Colin. ‘If he’s wrong, he’ll take the blame.’

  ‘Then we have to back him up,’ said Dan, ‘particularly after the way everyone has treated him lately. We should have had more faith in him. Go and get the others.’

  Colin collected the rest of the team with the exception of Raymond Land, who he felt would be neither use nor ornament. Leaving instructions with the two Daves to keep an eye on the phones (something they had come to enjoy doing), they took off in pursuit.

  ‘The Thames was considered a place beyond laws, a free zone of water gypsies and smuggling bargemen,’ said Bryant as his partner drove. ‘Water moves constantly, so it’s a symbol of liberty.’

  ‘As usual I’m missing your point,’ said May, attempting to squeeze between buses.

  ‘The point is that we checked the riverbanks and foreshores, the barges and moorings, before thinking of the river itself, and then we went for the few small craft that passed on the Thames that Sunday night,’ said Bryant, ‘but we didn’t go to the most obvious place where a criminal might be hiding, and you know why? Because they use boats which are so ubiquitous that we never even notice them
.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked May. ‘We thought of everything.’

  ‘No we didn’t. The Marine Policing Unit is based out of a station on Wapping High Street and has twenty-two vessels at its disposal at any time of the day or night, plus they can call on the services of the RNLI. The building is close to the first murder site, but set back from the shoreline. They’re the only small craft allowed to move near areas of sensitivity after dark.’

  ‘I could see their launches moored at one of the reaches near Dalladay’s body,’ said May, ‘but the MPU can’t be implicated in this. They’ve a reputation for being incorruptible.’

  ‘Who says they were in on it? Who else has access to the boats?’

  ‘Oh – got it.’

  ‘Precisely. The engineers and mechanics. MPU Wapping doesn’t have them on staff because they use registered shift-workers.’

  Much of Wapping High Street had been relined with new apartments, but the oldest part still retained its narrow cobbled road and its converted wharf buildings connected by iron walkways. The light was fading now, and the street lamps turned the rain into gilded needles.

  ‘He must be around here somewhere,’ said Bryant, wiping the window with the back of his hand. ‘The MPU moorings are directly behind its headquarters.’

  ‘You honestly think he’s right on the unit’s doorstep?’

  ‘Killers have a habit of remaining in a tight geographical area,’ Bryant pointed out, ‘and they often return to the same sites.’

  May’s BMW pulled up beside the blue steel gates of the MPU’s vehicle yard. ‘How are we going to talk our way through this?’ May asked. ‘We have no jurisdiction here.’

  ‘We don’t need it,’ said Bryant. ‘Wapping Police Stairs has a causeway leading straight to the moorings. It’s part of the MPU site but it’s accessible from King Henry’s Stairs, the next staircase along. There are twenty-eight staircases along this stretch alone, but quite a few are illegally locked.’

  May turned in his seat. ‘Arthur, it’s dark now and raining, and the steps will be covered in algae. I’ve only just got you back; I don’t want to lose you again. Why don’t you wait here?’

  ‘I have to see for myself, John. We’re wasting time.’

  ‘All right. On your own head be it.’ He held the car door open.

  Meera climbed off her bike and leaned through the window of the Renault, scowling at Dan’s phone. ‘I thought you said the tracker was accurate?’

  ‘On roads, yes, but it’s only approximate when it goes off-piste.’ Dan and the others climbed out of the car and gathered on the pavement of Wapping High Street. The rain had grown heavier in the last few minutes, and the street ahead was deserted. ‘It says they’re within a few metres of us. Maybe they’re inside the marine unit itself.’

  ‘This thing started on the river. Isn’t that where it has to end?’ Fraternity crossed the road, looking around for access. ‘The tide’s out. They have to be on the shore.’

  They found the narrow ginnel that sliced between the buildings, but its gate was locked.

  Colin needed no GPS to know where he was. The old pubs of London provided a ghost map in his head. ‘We’re between the Captain Kidd and the Town of Ramsgate,’ he pointed out. ‘They’ve both got river steps.’ He set off in the direction of the swinging pub sign as the others followed after him.

  46

  WATER & SMOKE

  As May had predicted, the worn stone stairs were virid and slippery with weed. Ahead lay the rocky foreshore, mournfully cloaked in rain. A jetty and the police launch moorings stood beyond, but all of the boats were tarpaulined and locked up.

  ‘There’s nothing here, Arthur,’ he called back. ‘Where else could he be?’

  Bryant was concentrating on not tipping headlong down the rain-lashed staircase. ‘Crooms knew how to unlock and pilot old MPU cruisers,’ he called back. ‘Nobody pays any attention to the police launches. They sit so low in the water that they can barely be spotted, and they’re all but invisible on the river at night. Can you see anything?’

  ‘There’s a boat moving,’ called Meera from the top of the staircase. On the far side of the jetty a rusted cream and brown cruiser was slowly chugging away from the boarding platform.

  Colin was on to it, closely followed by Fraternity. In seconds they had reached the wooden causeway and were pounding over the rain-slick boards towards the departing vessel. The pair reached the boat’s departing stern and without hesitation jumped for it.

  Colin slammed on to the starboard deck and landed on a coil of rope, noisily sliding into a stack of tethered yellow plastic crates. Fraternity, slightly behind him, was less lucky and only just managed to reach the side of the vessel. Colin grabbed his arms and pulled him on board.

  ‘They must have heard that. Why hasn’t anyone come up?’ Fraternity asked as they headed towards the bows of the cruiser.

  Colin tried the door leading below deck and tore it open. Inside, an elderly skipper and his wife looked back at him in surprise. The skipper threw his joint out of the open window.

  ‘It’s a no-go,’ Fraternity radioed back. ‘Just some stoned old couple on a private vessel. They thought we’d come to bust them for smoking a doobie. We’re heading back.’

  ‘Now what?’ said May. ‘I hope you have another idea. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Met was on the lookout for us by now.’

  ‘Water,’ Bryant replied, checking his phone. ‘Freddie Cooper was seen being driven away from his office in Nine Elms an hour ago. He has to be drowned.’

  ‘How could you possibly know that?’

  Bryant ignored him. ‘Where, though? God, we live in one of the wettest countries in the world and what do we do, build canals and ponds and fountains and lidos. He could be anywhere. Meera, call Cooper’s company and find out if any of his trucks have moved away from their usual routes.’

  She made the call and waited while the controller checked. ‘One,’ she called back. ‘It’s heading along Upper Ground.’

  ‘On the South Bank? In which direction?’

  ‘Going east towards Barge House Street.’

  ‘How fast can we get there?’

  ‘Buckle up,’ said May.

  The gun-metal-grey BMW was followed by an unmarked squad car outridden by Meera’s Kawasaki. Traffic was light until they hit a jam on Blackfriars Bridge ten minutes later. London’s deepening storm skies had driven many vehicles from the streets.

  ‘Where is it now?’ Bryant asked.

  Meera’s headset crackled. ‘He’s just turned down towards the South Bank, but the road’s a dead end.’

  May was puzzled. ‘It might be nothing. He could be making a delivery.’

  ‘Meera, contact the nearest local unit and get the truck pulled over,’ said Bryant. ‘He’s got his work cut out if he’s planning to kill again. The whole area is smothered with cameras.’

  ‘There’s some kind of event going on,’ said Meera. ‘I can see lots of floodlights, banners and balloons, people milling around. You’re not going to like this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘According to the Londonist website the Mayor is here. Does something called the Thames Night Pageant ring a bell?’

  ‘I read about that – it’s his new initiative, another public regatta,’ said Colin. ‘Why do they always hold these things in winter?’

  ‘All the streets surrounding the pedestrian zone are closed off,’ said Meera. ‘The truck won’t be able to get any further.’

  The BMW nosed its way through the slow-moving revellers, balloon-sellers and street-food vendors, but was forced to pull up on to the pavement. ‘It’ll be quicker on foot,’ said May, leading the way.

  Along the embankment dozens of small craft were bobbing on the incoming tide. Some bore sponsor banners; others were decorated in styles from different periods of history. Red and yellow flags hung limply from the lamp-posts. Beneath them groups of bargees, watermen and sailors were represented in qu
ilted jackets, leather breastplates and striped jerseys, monkey-coats and buckled shoes, flat tarred hats and fur caps. They held burning torches aloft as they pushed the wooden boats out with oars and bargepoles dipping into the murky water.

  The lights flickering through the falling rain, the drums and yells, the pungent smell of river mud and burning wood lent the scene a pagan immutability.

  ‘How are you going to find anything in this?’ asked Dan. ‘You haven’t even told us what we’re looking for.’

  ‘Janice, you were at the Athena boatyard,’ Bryant said. ‘You saw the kind of vessels that were stored there.’

  ‘They were mostly light cruisers and small motor launches,’ the DS replied. ‘Dan’s right, we’re not going to find anything in this chaos.’

  ‘Look for this,’ said Bryant, unfolding a worn piece of paper and handing it to Longbright.

  She studied it for a moment. ‘Linseed oil, drain unblocker, carrots?’

  ‘The other side.’

  Janice found herself looking at a redrawn version of Gilyov’s tattoo.

  ‘It’ll be on the stern of the boat,’ said Bryant. ‘We have to spread out.’

  The team split into pairs and worked their way to the embankment railings, concentrating on the section between the two piers.

  The illuminated crimson pageant banners strung between the embankment lamps reminded Bryant of Holman Hunt’s famous painting of London Bridge beset by flags and torches. Wooden beach huts, reconditioned from the South Bank’s annual Christmas festival, had been set up along the length of the road to sell hot toddies and roasted pork, so that the riverside gathering resembled a thawed-out frost fair.

  Meera found herself crushed against the stone balustrade. Below, the water was streaked with crimson and emerald, lit by the crackling golden lanterns that hung from the backs of the festival vessels. It had started raining hard, but only the tourists seemed bothered. Most Londoners expected two things from any evening of public celebration: torrential rain and an aura of joyless melancholia. The only available shelter was under the bridge arches, and these were quickly filled.