Murder On The Waterway: The Case Of The Kanaima Demon

Chapter One

'Monday 26th October 1987,'                     

The sky hung heavy, threatening rain. A faint hint of moisture lingered in the air, a hint to an impending downpour and for once I was glad the crime scene was sheltered. Along the canal's edge, cloaked in the eerie night, the pungent odour of algae and decay seeped through, masked beneath the murky surface. A solitary boat drifted distantly, its colour obscured by the night as the scent of blood carried.

Walking the narrow path, I scanned the shadowy landscape through chipped black railings that resembled gnarled, decaying trees shedding their leaves to the relentless East London breeze. The nearest streetlamp was a hundred feet away, another even farther down the path. The closer I got to my first case, I could feel my heart quickening. If this new world has taught me anything so far, it's to expect the unexpected.

I trudged across a narrow strip of frosty grass, searching for any obvious clues. More out of irrational hope that I might stumble across something to help explain the brutal death of the roped and nailed young woman hanging ten feet above the water under the bridge. The very thought was sickening. It simply didn't sound possible.

Approaching the 'Gunmakers' Lane' bridge, I paused, seeking refuge beneath the overhanging trees. My gaze drifted across the water to the concealed warehouses, an eerie sensation of being watched gnawing at me. The sweet aroma of freshly baked dough mingled with the noxious stench of stale beer cans and urine just ten feet to my left.

The crescent moon cast its shimmering glow over the inky waters, guiding my eyes to a bank-side mooring shrouded in shades of black and white. Wrapped around the structure was a thick, grimy brown rope, its frayed end a telltale sign of hasty cutting. Which had me questioning the possibility of a coincidence. Not that I believed in such a thing.

Kneeling, I inspected the rope, my senses rippled at the faint trace of blood. The coarse strands were intertwined with slimy moss, leaving the impression that if grasped tightly, they would sink into flesh. It reminded me of another rope, one that was less thick and weathered - the rope I'd grabbed saving Andy. The sample was too small, and the weather had already diluted its traces, yet it had me thinking.

With one last uneasy glance at the quivering waters, I returned to the pavement, eyes scanning the Victoria Green Belt before peering into the shadows. A rustling of leaves momentarily drew my attention from the bridge, and the snap of twigs made me jump. It was only a fox, its low, yellow-glowing eyes briefly locking onto mine before it darted away.

Finally, I arrived at the first cordon, a disinterested officer in a puffed-up Hi-Viz vest guarded the entrance. Another barrier awaited me at the foot of the steps, where uniformed personnel worked diligently to keep curious onlookers at bay. Presenting my warrant card, I gained entry and pressed forward. One person in the crowd exclaimed, "Oooh, I can see her insides," while another added, "Her hands and feet are nailed like the Christ."

Flashing my warrant card to the uniformed officer blocking the path, I swiftly accessed the grim picture. The semi-shadow cast by a streetlamp hanging over the bridge added to the eerie atmosphere. Leaning over the edge, I spotted a familiar face. "Any ETA on LFB? And where's the bloody camera?" barked Detective Sergeant Michael Dalton in his unmistakable cockney accent.

As the expected drizzle fell, it offered a blessing and a curse. It failed to mask the putrid stench that assaulted my nose, making it clear that the estimated time of death was three to four hours ago. The bleeding had slowed, resulting in sporadic drips into the abyss, while the stiffening of fibrous cartilage produced unsettling clicks and pops from air pockets around the organs, making me shudder.

Seeking Dalton's attention, I hollered, "So, you started without me?" He turned quickly, momentarily befogged. Dalton gradually appeared through clouds of warm breath, showcasing his old, charming self. His weathered face was clear, but he had a newfound carefree bounce in his step despite the lingering memory of the bullet wound in his shoulder.