Christopher Fowler - The Water Room

‘Insofar as I have no idea what I’m searching for,’ said Giles Kershaw, ‘not a dicky bird.’ The young forensic expert’s exquisitely enunciated English grated on Bryant, who was taking perverse pleasure in having him stand thigh-deep in a water-filled ditch in the pouring rain.

‘Why don’t we let him come back when things have dried out a little?’ John May suggested.

‘Because there’ll be nothing left by that time. Look around you.’

Bryant was right. A steady torrent of rainwater was passing over the waste ground, carrying detritus down the slope of the street toward a blocked-up drain, swirling it into scummy pools. The area in front of the builders’ merchant formed a rough triangle at the junction of the road. Elliot had succeeded in breaking up the surface concrete and tarmac, and had dug down below layers of compacted brick to rich fulvous earth, removing entire sections which he had loaded on to his truck. It must have taken him all day to do so; the truck had been half-full when it had shed its load.

‘Mind you, according to Blake, everything exists for ever,’ said Bryant. ‘Matter is like experience, it accumulates and remains, albeit in unrecognizable forms.’

‘That’s not much help right now, old chap,’ replied Kershaw, ladling another shovelful of muck on to the bank. ‘There’s been so much rebuilding around here that there’s only rubble near the surface. The actual topsoil doesn’t start until about three feet down.’

‘It’s good-quality stuff, though,’ said May. ‘My gardener says London soil is very rich.’

‘That’s because it’s full of shit,’ called Kershaw. ‘Manure from horses, pets, cows, chickens, sheep, and rotted vegetables that have passed through human digestive tracts. This whole city is built on shit.’ He dragged a brick out of the hole and threw it to the side. ‘And it’s coming in over the tops of my waders.’

‘There’s more rubble under Kentish Town than there is in places like Hampstead or Chelsea,’ Bryant told them. ‘Poor areas get knocked about, while wealthy boroughs are preserved. The amount of social upheaval around here ensures an almost continual disturbance of the ground. You can come out now, Kershaw. I don’t suppose you’ll find anything in there.’ They gave him a hand up.

Elliot’s body had been zipped and loaded, ready for a trip to the Camden morgue, but the instrument of his death remained at the site, its rear offside wheel wedged half over the inundated water pit in which the builder had been discovered. Bryant checked that his plastic overshoes were still in place, and approached the front of the vehicle. The driver’s door was wide open. The truck had tilted slightly, but surely not enough to disgorge its entire load. Housebricks lay all over the churned ground.

‘Pawprints,’ warned Kershaw. ‘Don’t touch the handle.’

‘I’m not an idiot.’ Bryant hooked it with the end of his walking stick and peered inside. ‘What a mess. There’s mud everywhere. Bricks on the floor.’

Kershaw joined them. ‘Looks like he got them from the site. They’re covered in the same earth.’

‘Worth something, decent bricks?’

‘I suppose so.’ Kershaw climbed carefully into the passenger seat. ‘There’s an awful lot of mud in here.’

‘How did this happen?’ asked May, examining the truck’s dirt-caked tyres. ‘He was working in the pit, the rear bank gave way behind his back, undermining the stability of the truck, it shifted to the left and shed half a ton of earth and bricks.’

Bryant’s derisive snort was enough to suggest that he did not agree.

‘What, then?’

‘Even if the very small shift in this vehicle’s stability had been enough to send earth cascading out of its back, it would surely have occurred at a slow enough speed for this fellow to get out of its way. And besides, look at this.’ He led the others to the rear of the small lorry and thumped his stick against the back flap. ‘Do you see that swinging back and forth? No, because it’s on a safety catch. It can’t swing open just because the vehicle’s at an angle, otherwise it would do so climbing every steep hill. The catch had to be taken off, and to do that you have to raise the flatbed.’

He returned to the cabin. ‘Look at that.’ He pointed to the fat red punch-button on the dashboard. ‘Even if he had left the lorry with its engine running, someone would have needed to push that in order to raise the bed and release the rear panel. You’ve seen how loads slip. The mound would have stuck for a while as the floor tipped, then it would have poured out in one grand slide. Imagine: Elliot is shin-deep in the hole, pulling out his precious bricks. He’s bending down or simply resting over his shovel. The rain and thunder are cacophonous, more than enough to drown out the noise of the rising flatbed. A more familiar rumble makes him look up. The mud is sucking at his boots, hindering his escape. The concrete and brick comes down in a deadly wall. Mudslides kill people all the time. Did you see the size of the wound on the back of his head? Let’s hope it was quick.’

‘You realize what you’re saying?’ May said. ‘That someone climbed into the cabin and punched the button.’

‘Yes,’ said Bryant.

‘It probably has to be held in while the flatbed ascends, as a safety measure. You take your hand off and the pistons go back down. I bet it makes a warning beep, too.’

‘Try it,’ Bryant suggested.

‘Let me do it, I won’t smear the prints.’ Kershaw reached in and gently twisted the truck’s ignition key. With the engine running, he tried raising the flatbed pistons. ‘No warning beep,’ he called back. ‘Might have been once. Don’t suppose this crate has passed a legal MOT in years.’ The empty scotch bottle on the floor of the cabin caught his attention.

‘What was so important that he had to work in the middle of a storm?’ asked May. But his partner was already stumping off into the rain, his coat flapping about him like a trapped bat.

Heather’s leather sofa was as cold and slippery as a frog-pond. The two women sat beside each other listening to Mr May’s questions. It was nearly midnight. Heather worried a nail and glanced out of the window, as if expecting to witness the whole thing again.

‘I’d like to get some accurate times on this,’ said May. ‘Miss Owen, you came over to visit Mrs Allen at what time this evening?’

‘It must have been around seven p.m. I don’t call on people between seven-thirty and eight because of Coronation Street .’

‘I watch the soaps too, I’m ashamed to say,’ Heather admitted.

‘We decided to have a drink, but there was nothing in the house, so I volunteered to go to the off-licence.’

‘You did this as soon as you arrived, or a little later?’

‘Later. I should think it was around seven-twenty.’ Kallie was intrigued. She’d seen detectives barking at witnesses on TV, and was almost disappointed to be treated with such casual civility.

‘You didn’t know that Mr Copeland was working over the road?’

‘I think he might have been working there yesterday,’ replied Heather. ‘I’m only vaguely aware of it because there’s always something going on over at the Bondinis.’

‘That’s right, I’d seen him too,’ agreed Kallie.

‘I’m sorry-the Bondinis?’

‘The brothers who own the builders’ merchants,’ Heather explained. ‘I looked out of the window and made some comment about him working in the rain.’

‘And there was someone with him,’ added Kallie.

‘Did you recognize them?’ asked May.

‘It was hard to see clearly,’ said Heather. ‘It was definitely a man, though. They sort of looked like they were arguing.’