Murder On The Waterway: The Case Of The Kanaima Demon

Prologue

"So, this is it?" Dalton looked a little unsure, his attention flicking to the canal and back to the warehouse.

We stood no more than a hundred feet from the water's edge, with very little in the way between that and the warehouse that arks in an 'L' shape to the right, apart from the towpath and a low wooden border—Rusty, brown with a corrugated sheeting roof.

Ground and first floor, the door is a bi-fold metal shutter, and it's slightly open. The surrounding gravelled yard is sparse; the whistles, flute-like, in and out of the gaps through the rippled metal sides—five windows, top and bottom and two to the front, much the same, apart from the newspaper sheets plastered across the glass.

"Yes, not much here and from what I could tell, the former owners used it as a garage of sorts,"

"So, what are your guesses? More cryptic nonsense?"

I went to answer, looking to the waters once more, noticing three canal boats. Blue, green and a red-blue one. The nearest, 'Rosie Lyn.' They made me wonder if the killer would travel that way. Surely too slow a journey.

"Hey? Did you hear me? Come on, penny for them?"

"Michael, I'm not sure my thoughts would be worth that penny. In truth, saying it back in my head feels farfetched,"

"Yeah, but so could 'seeing ghosts.,' But you do,"

"Well, I was thinking about the canal boats; could the killer travel that way?"

"I should say 'bullshit.' but never say never. The problem is each one is a floating house. We would never get warrants to search them without credible evidence. Even then, they can drift off,"

"So, the bottom line is. My thought gets us nowhere,"

"No, it just means we need to be smart and, most of all, 'sure'."

Shrugging off my bizarre moment of thinking, Dalton dragged the shutter wider, releasing a rush of engine oil and grease. Straight ahead is a small office at the back, a mechanics pit and a flight of metal steps going up the lefthand side.

"You're not going to like this,"

"Fuck sake. The shit magnet strikes again?"

"Ha-ha. But yes, Michael. There's blood. And I'm not talking like that last warehouse and the cross. This is so much more and old,"

After the oil and grease breezed by us, I picked up on something strong. Death. The hits keep coming.

❧

One after the other, the metal steps echoed through the empty. We moved slowly. Partly fearing the unknown, even if I wasn't picking up any heartbeats. Partly because it felt too soon. Too close to the deceased earlier.

Too much at once. Mostly, too soon to have another ghost appear, asking for help to rest because they're now tired, having been snuffed out before their time. The closer we got to the top, the stronger the smell, including more pigeon shit and rat droppings.

Daylight broke through two holes in the newspaper covers; that's the first I see as we reach the top, just like the other place. Then there was a stained mattress—all ringing like Deja-vu until I found her.

"It's her," Dalton had that look again. Impending doom.

"Yep. The one with long red hair and even longer legs,"

'Hotel Tango despatch, this DS Dalton from the Murder task force. We need assistance at the warehouse near the train tracks at the bottom of Mile end park. A non-emergency situation linked to the crime scenes this morning and last night. Please send a request for ADI. Locke, SOCO, and pathology. We will update further as we go, with the eventual need for a coroner,'