Water's Edge

Chapter XI

Dettol & Tippex

I found a single cigarette still in my tin, deep in the pockets, and lit up as I shuffled into the collar; evidently the boys in blue had taken liberties themselves, smoked a few of mine. Can't blame a lad. They may have been last night's clothes from the scene of a crime, but now I felt whole again. The Stella had barely touched the sides, but the musty, musky smell of Cola Bux and The Marsh & Bottle had clung to me even with the change of clothes. I carried my other clothes in a bin bag.

"This is more than just a jacket." I said, flinging the smoke from my mouth. Yazmin followed it as a vent ate it up.

She didn't say a word, just turned on the battered PC, still running on Windows XP.

I sat in the main office space, scowled at by the few bobbies who had elected to stay for a long unpaid shift filing everything from what had been found. Everything smelt of Dettol, and Tippex.

"You want to do this in front of everyone."

"I don't believe in leaks."

"Ah, I see."

She paused, "You've been hired by Mrs. Edith Wharton, haven't you?"

"I have." I felt like kicking my feet up, "Problem?" Confidentiality only lasts as long as a secret.

"No." Her eyes said yes, "Although that means we have to get along, don't we?"

"I suppose so."

She reached over me and grabbed a paper file. She dropped it in my lap, knocking the ash off my fag. I brushed it off and it left a skidmark of dark grey. Thank god I hadn't got any on the victims' faces.

The first picture to stare back at me was an elderly gentleman, cheeks pockmarked, veins bulging—his name was written underneath: Winthrop Suggitt.

"You figured out who he was fast." I remarked, and I waggled the file; she nodded that I could take it back with me.

"He used to be the Mayor, ceremonially of course." The Conservatives had removed a lot of the powers of the Mayors after The Khan Act, but the people always loved their ermine shouldered bumblers, aristocratic with none of the nobility.

"You telling me this because I need to see the body?"

"How long you been doing this?"

"Since it all began."

"It is you, then, H J Fields, the first Bow Street Runner."

"I hate that term."

"So do I."

"We'll get along then." I think I made her smile.

She took me down to CID Pathology, pushing open the air-tight door with a suction hiss into the cold antechamber. A young woman scribbled notes onto a clipboard, hair dyed a vicious purple, a tad taller than me, elegant like an egret is elegant.

"Where's Margaret?"

The young woman just shrugged with a knowing look.

"She ain't drinking today of all days?"

"Yep."

Must have been the lass in The Marsh & Bottle. Intriguing to say the least. I stubbed my cig out in a kidney tray.

"I guess you'll do," Yazmin approached the rotund, brackish smelling body on the table, "P.I. Fields, this is Viv Handsome."

The name, same as my landlord. Couldn't be.

"Yeah, I know you." Viv would have shook my hand but the protocol—maybe I was wrong, "You leasing that new office?"

"I am."

"Pay my Dad a few days early, otherwise he won't fix shit."

An awkward pause descended as we all figured out who each other was. I inspected the body in the silence. He had been waterlogged for quite some time, his clothes wrapped around him like bandages as often happens. People think bodies were blindfolded when really it's just the clothes trying to escape the sticking flesh.

"We can see here," Viv kickstarted, "Adipocere formation, and other discolouration from the anaerobic environment. Bacteria had a field day. Yum."

"How long was he in there for?" Yazmin asked.

"Months. We would expect washer-woman's hands, but all that skin has flaked off from buffeting waters. Some parts of him are just skeletal." She smirked, "I had to use a lot of Oust."

"He must be one of the hardest to identify then." I remarked moving away from the man's neck, "What about the others?"

"We've not quite figured out who they are—" Viv walked over to the banks of metal vaults for each of the bodies, removing another from the tray. It was a young man, "Has the same white spots in the mouth, they all drowned. It wasn't any other form of murder."

"Definitely murder then."

"Well," Viv leant against the metal wall and peered down at the body, "This is the cool thing." That was one word for it; Yazmin didn't seem to approve of the language, "All of the bodies certainly drowned, months apart from each one. I've not had a chance to even look at the boy yet—but the drowning, it isn't natural."

"What do you mean?"

"They didn't drown in the Humber. Or rather, they did drown in the Humber, but not by, say, falling in and getting stuck in the currents. They were pushed under the surface. Drowned elsewhere then dumped in the river."

"Someone drowned them twice?" Yazmin seemed perplexed. So was I, "They were drowned by hand and then dumped."

"Easy way to cover up the fact. You can see the pressure on the body where they kept them under, thrashing. Some have rope burns."

I went back to check on Winthrop, peering at the neck. I was no pathologist, I had to take what I was told for granted. But what connected all these bodies? A young lad, no more than 13, on a throne of people from, seemingly, all walks of life, including an old mayor.

Five bodies, five histories. I had a lot of work to do.