Murder On The Waterway: The Case Of The Kanaima Demon

Chapter Thirteen

We arrived at 35 Eastfield Street in Mile End a little after 4 p.m. The house was on Jamuna Close, a side road leading straight to Regents Canal. The estate looked pleasant, and I recalled considering this part of Mile End when I thought about moving from South London.

Mile End Underground station was a good fifteen-minute walk, maybe more, and there weren't many nearby bus stops. The nearest car park was empty, which led me to speculate that either most residents worked elsewhere or they didn't own cars. The latter seemed unlikely, given the distance from public transport.

The remote location meant there were few witnesses to any suspicious activities, making it an ideal spot for those up to no good. After parking, I took a brief walk around. If Mr Kumar was being watched, there was no reason to believe that the Walters weren't as well. We couldn't rule out any significant details, and I needed to explore further.

Our investigation had evolved from canal-side murders and the enigmatic "Lady's Night" into a complex web of connections to an expedition in Egypt and a few priceless relics. I still had reservations about valuing these relics at two million pounds; their historical significance and potential danger concerned me.

Two black removable bollards separated the car park from a wide pathway behind the houses. Without these bollards, the path led directly to the canal's murky waters. The canal's edge was bordered by chain railings, with a removable section fifteen feet to my left, providing access to a few steps. Beneath those steps lay boat parking, a short widening of the empty canal. On the opposite side, there was a small green space with a couple of trees, two black metal benches, and nothing more.

Michael was quite taken by the location, appreciating the view. He remarked that having a dog in such a place would be interesting, and if it shuffled over the edge, you'd have to jump in after it. He teased me about moving to the countryside for fresh air as we shared a lighthearted moment.

However, my mind soon returned to the case at hand. The low, blue wooden gate unclipped quietly, and the stone steps led to a red door.

The scent of old, festering blood was unlike any other. Left to linger and dry, it embodied the essence of death. Here, it was magnified a hundredfold, an overpowering odour that seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere.

***

I raised a finger to my lips, signalling Michael to remain silent. We stood on the raised stone doorstep, and the front door was ajar, allowing the pungent smell to seep through. Outside, birds chirped merrily in the autumn sun, but inside, there was nothing but an eerie silence.

"No sign of life," I whispered to Michael, keeping my voice low as I scanned our surroundings for any hint of danger or movement.

Out of nowhere, a voice broke the silence: "Excuse me, dear, can I help you?" The voice belonged to an older woman, barely five feet tall, with tight, curly grey hair. She appeared from behind sunflowers in the next-door garden, exuding the warmth of a welcoming grandmother.

Michael and I promptly displayed our warrant cards, leaving the elderly lady momentarily puzzled. She adjusted her glasses on her petite nose as she regarded us.

"Hello, madam," I began, "I'm DS Dalton, and this is Detective Reynolds. Do you know the people who live here?" I spoke in hushed tones, careful not to alarm her about the ominous smell from the house.

"They used to be a pleasant couple, husband and wife," she replied, a faint smile touching her face as if she were relishing her day's excitement. "Lately, not so much; I've heard a lot of shouting."

I leaned in, curious, and asked, "Do you know when this started?"

"Oh, dear, I'm not sure. It must have been before the summer, at least," she responded. "And there have been other people coming and going, too." Her eyes danced with curiosity, hinting at the stories she could tell. Perhaps these 'other people' had raised her alarm bells, and I pondered the possibility of involving a sketch artist to capture her recollections.