Strange Tide (9 page)

‘Wait a minute,' said May, ‘what happened to “we”?'

The taxi had stopped a little way before the great bronze statue of Isaac Newton at the British Library. ‘The traffic's bad,' said Bryant. ‘Before we arrive at the unit why don't you quickly fill me in?'

‘All right,' May conceded, realizing he had agreed to do something illegal without actually saying he would. ‘A young woman was found on the Thames foreshore this morning, on the site of the old Tower Hill Beach near the Queen's Stairs. She'd been chained to a stone post by her left wrist some time the night before and left to drown. The tide had come in and gone out, but we have some remains of footprints. Unfortunately they belong to only one person going in one direction, down to the water.'

‘Well, that throws up at least a dozen anomalies in itself,' said Bryant, intrigued.

‘Name one.'

‘You say “chained”. Explain in more detail, please.'

‘Exactly what I said. Chained by a silver neck-chain with a crescent moon on one end.'

‘Hers?'

‘I imagine so. Dan's working on the hallmark. Her wrist had been attached to an iron ring in the concrete.'

‘Why not both wrists? Why only one? Is Giles examining her?'

‘He should be by now.'

‘Then let's go over there.'

‘Now wait a minute.' May pushed his old partner back into the taxi seat. ‘You just said you'd stay hidden in the office.'

‘Yes, but the coroner's office is right on the way,' Bryant reasoned. ‘We virtually have to drive past the place. In fact we could cut out the infernal traffic that way. We just drop off the cab, look in and walk back to the PCU together afterwards. It's right here. Couldn't we?'

‘Don't do the orphaned puppy eyes.'

‘
Couldn't
we?'

Against his better judgement May gave in, as he always knew he would.

The canalside around King's Cross in the spring did not adopt an inner-city appearance. Colonies of bluebells and forget-me-nots would come into flower around the elder bushes, thrusting through nettle, mint and rose, honeysuckle and cow parsley, while bursts of buddleia, ceanothus and horse chestnut were overhung by frothy plumes of lilac,
No whit less still and lonely fair than the high cloudlets in the sky
, Arthur Bryant often thought. Unfortunately it was November, and all he could see from the road today were two drunk kids kicking McDonald's boxes into the litter-strewn water and a tramp taking a dump behind a diseased plane tree.

The St Pancras Coroner's Office on Camley Street was a building you might expect to find in one of Grimm's less logical fairy tales, and certainly not in the centre of town. Yet here it still stood, at the edge of a graveyard associated with folklore and myth, beside a church that was purportedly 1,700 years old, a damp-looking red-bricked, crook-chimneyed, moss-covered miracle lost in a gleaming futuropolis of steel and concrete, where the only difference between one tower block and the next was the finish on the window frames.

The detectives headed through the cemetery's ornate black and gold gates, pushed past wet overgrown hedgerows and reached the front door, where Rosa Lysandrou answered their knock. Although the Greek coroner's assistant wore her usual shapeless black smock and Birkenstocks, she was also sporting a pair of pink sparkly bunny ears.

‘Now I know I'm one carrot short of a casserole,' said Bryant. ‘Rosa, what on earth have you got on your head? Have they increased your HRT?'

‘I'm being photographed for a calendar,' she sniffed, holding the door wide.

‘You're not posing nude?'

‘Certainly not.'

‘That's a relief. A calendar, eh? What are you, the last day of December?'

‘It's for the Co-operative Women's Guild. It shows that we have a sense of humour.'

‘Nothing's that funny. Wouldn't you be happier holding a scythe? Is Giles in?'

Rosa pulled her ears off, offended. ‘I don't suppose you have an appointment.'

‘Good Lord, I don't need an appointment, I used to employ him.'

‘Well, you don't any more.'

‘No, but I still outrank him in seniority. If we were in ancient Persia, he would be a wizard but I'd be the Grand Wazir.' Bryant shucked off his overcoat and swept past her, followed by the helplessly apologetic May. ‘That's confused her,' he said. ‘She'll be telling everyone I've gone potty now.'

Giles Kershaw looked up as the door opened. ‘Mr Bryant! I didn't think I'd see you—'

‘Rumours of my death have been slightly exaggerated,' said Bryant, looking for somewhere to hang his hat. ‘Why are you always so smartly attired? Look at you, with your wavy hair and your high thread-count shirt: you look like a male model.'

‘A side effect of the job,' Giles said cheerfully. ‘People's insides can get in the most frightful messes; it makes you want to put a tie on. I gather you mentioned our Jane Doe in the Thames, John?'

‘Of course he did,' said Bryant irritably. ‘He's my partner. You should hear what we say about you behind your back.' May glared at him.

The young pathologist pointed across the room with the metal antenna he had been given by his predecessor, a treasured heirloom he mostly used for pointing out diseased lung tissue. ‘She's right here. I'm just finishing up.'

‘You're still doing all your own prep-work?' said May. ‘I thought you were finally getting an assistant.'

‘I think your last little escapade put an end to that,' said Giles. ‘Take a look at her, just don't touch.'

The body was covered to the shoulders. Bryant examined the girl's pale features. Her skin was the greenish-grey of a turtle's stomach. ‘I used to think there was a dark romance to drowning,' he said, slipping beneath the waves amid billowing petticoats.'

‘Not if you're chained to a post,' said Giles. ‘Drowning is usually fast. This wasn't.'

‘It sounds like someone took pleasure in making her suffer,' said Bryant, walking around the cadaver tray. ‘Are there any externals?'

‘Let me get to that in a minute. Janice has already sent us an ID. Her prints were on record. Lynsey Dalladay, twenty-four. We've notified the next of kin. She was seven weeks pregnant.'

‘A rather Victorian reason for murder. Bit unlikely these days.'

‘I guess that depends on whom she told. I'm waiting to hear back from her physician.'

‘Was she dead before she was attached to the rock?'

‘There's no mucus in her air passages, no distension of the lungs, no broken blood vessels. She didn't struggle so I'd have to conclude that she was either rendered unconscious and carried out to the site, then awoke, or that she'd been tranquillized.'

Bryant unwrapped a stick of barley sugar. ‘What about her natural state of composure?'

‘You mean she let it happen? That would be very unusual. I'm on the toxicology now.'

‘Wouldn't the cold water have woken her?' May asked.

‘She was face down when the tide came in, wasn't she? There's sand in her left ear.' Giles tapped her on the side of the head with his antenna. ‘She wouldn't have been able to breathe. If you're in deep water and fighting for breath you can't think about calling for help. You want to keep your body upright, so your arms go straight out – you make a clawing motion.' He demonstrated. ‘That stage only lasts for up to a minute. Then you submerge and hold your breath for as long as possible, up to about ninety seconds. After that you suddenly inhale water, splutter, cough, maybe throw up, inhale more. The water blocks the gas exchange in delicate tissues and triggers your airway to seal shut – that's laryngospasm. It burns deep in your chest. After the pain you feel suddenly calm because you're losing consciousness from oxygen deprivation. Your heart stops and your brain dies. It's not entirely unpleasant, by all accounts.'

‘Unless the victim is in shallow water,' May countered.

‘Right, so in this case it played out a little differently. If you can't move and you're being forced to breathe water, your first reaction is still to hold your breath. You reach a breaking point and involuntarily inhale, but you do it too sharply, taking in a large amount of liquid, which ends up in the stomach. That's what happened here. She didn't vomit much prior to cerebral hypoxia, so I'm thinking she hyperventilated, decreased her CO
₂
levels, suffered hypoxia, passed out and
then
drew in the water. It was cold and we don't know how long she was trapped there, so there may have been numbness that lessened the pain of laryngospasm, sending her directly into a comatose state. All I can tell you is that she wasn't dead when she was chained to the post, probably just unconscious.'

Gently cradling her head, he slowly rotated it and parted her hair. ‘I took a careful look at this. The contusion at the base of her skull is consistent with a blow from some kind of metal spike; it's four-sided. It's possible that whoever did it knocked her out, which would explain why she didn't scream and attract anyone. Of course, that scenario creates other physical problems.'

‘Presumably it was dark and misty and there was no one to see what happened,' said Bryant. ‘Tower Bridge is lit up like a funfair these days but it's still a little too far away to throw much light on the beach, and the pier blocks it.'

May agreed. ‘We searched the foreshore for weapons but didn't come up with anything.'

‘Do you have any CCTV footage?' Giles asked.

‘Dan's working on that as well,' said May. ‘We'll see when we get to the PCU.'

Giles was studying Bryant. ‘Are you back at the ranch?' he asked casually. ‘I thought—'

‘You thought what?' said Bryant, sucking the barley sugar.

‘I was told you were taking some time off.'

‘Oh for God's sake, can you stop trying to be so tactful?' Bryant clattered the stick around his false teeth. ‘My mind is dying, my body is not. Right now I'm all there, but sometimes I'm not here. When I'm all there you'll know because I'll be here, but when I'm not here you won't know because I won't be here. All clear?'

‘Yes. No. Not really,' said Giles.

‘He means that he'll either be in the office or at home, depending on whether he's suffering another attack,' said May.

‘And please don't talk about me as if I'm not here,' Bryant warned. ‘Giles, are you going to file a Category Two or Three?'

‘I don't know yet, but I imagine it'll have to be a Two,' said Giles.

‘But she was chained up. Surely that indicates murder or manslaughter.'

‘There's no way of knowing that chaining her there indicates an intention to kill.'

‘I can't see what else it would indicate.'

‘You'd be surprised what people do for kicks,' Giles replied.

‘Realistically, what are we looking at – misadventure or an open verdict?'

‘Probably the former. I'll only go with an open verdict as the last resort. I can't file yet anyway, not without a more accurate time of death. Assuming she drowned at around—'

‘The tide started coming in at one fifteen a.m.,' Bryant interrupted.

‘I didn't tell you that,' said May.

Bryant pulled an old-fashioned printed Thames tide table from his back pocket. ‘I always have one on me.'

‘Of course you do.' Giles folded away his antenna. ‘Then I'll wait for your report, shall I?'

‘We're sending the team out to track down witnesses,' said May, ‘but don't get your hopes up. I'll call you from the office.' He turned to his partner, who was about to head off without him. ‘And you – don't you dare stray out of my line of vision.'

‘There are things I need to do so I'll see you back there,' said Bryant, disappearing around the corner.

‘No, Arthur, I promised I'd stay by your side. You can't just go off—'

But Bryant had already done so.

Cassie North wore a crimson spangled swimsuit and matching high heels. The outfit wasn't her idea, but audiences had an expectation of tradition. It was now a few months after Ali had first met her in the club, and she was ready to be chopped into pieces.

Ali held the cabinet door open for her. The box was black and silver, as tall as a person. She settled herself inside and he closed the three sections, locking each one with theatrical prestiges. Cassie's face, hands and left foot were visible through openings in the front of the cabinet. Ali stepped back and watched her. Cassie smiled up into the spotlight.

He looked out at the expectant audience, knowing that he could afford to wait for another few seconds before starting. He had them in the palm of his hand.
Piano, drums and trumpet
, he thought, looking down into the orchestra pit.
Not exactly the big time.
The musician handling the drum roll hadn't been sober for a single performance.