Luke Delaney - The Jackdaw

Sean offered his hand. ‘DI Corrigan – Special Investigations Unit.’ Donnelly followed suit.

‘DS Rob Evans,’ the older, shorter, stockier man offered, speaking in a mild Yorkshire accent.

‘DC Nathan Mead,’ the young, lean, tall one introduced himself in his London accent.

Evans looked back down at the launch struggling in the swell of the river below. The stiff body, arms stretched to the side, face down, swirled in the dark brown water of the Thames by the bridge foundation as another train crashed over above.

‘They’re still struggling to get the poor bastard out,’ he explained. ‘Every time they almost have him they nearly get smashed against the side of the bridge, but the current’s calming down now. They should be able to get a hook into him soon.’ Sean and Donnelly just nodded as they watched the grim spectacle. Bodies fished from the Thames were always tough to deal with – the cold of the water intensifying rigor mortis, while the marine life also took a quick toll.

‘Reckon he’s your man, do you?’ Evans asked.

‘Could be,’ Sean answered. ‘He looks to be suited and booted. Can’t be too many men in suits floating in the Thames today.’

‘I bloody hope not,’ Evans told him. ‘That’s the trouble with being posted to Wandsworth – we cover the Thames all the way from bloody Barnes to Battersea. We get more floaters than most. At least this one’s still in one piece.’ Sean didn’t answer, watching the launch inching closer and closer to the body until finally one of the crew managed to hook the dead man’s clothing with a grappling pole.

‘About time,’ Evans moaned. ‘We can’t get on the boat here. I’ve told them we’ll meet them down by the local rowing club. There’s a small pier there, or mooring, or whatever you want to call it. Anyway, I’ve said we’ll meet them there once they fished him out. You coming?’ he asked Sean, who barely heard him, transfixed by the macabre scene of the unyielding body being heaved on board the launch by the crew. The man’s head was raised by the rigor mortis in his neck muscles, his eyes and mouth wide open as if staring straight at Sean. ‘I said, are you coming?’ Evans repeated.

Sean snapped out of his reverie and spun to face him. ‘What? Yeah. Sure. We’re coming. Where to?’

Evans rolled his eyes. ‘Just follow us.’

‘Fine,’ Sean answered and followed the other detectives back to the waiting cars. Donnelly spoke first as they pulled away from the kerb.

‘Think it’s our man?’

‘Looks like it. Has to be really, doesn’t it,’ Sean answered.

‘Aye. I reckon so. First thoughts?’

‘To be honest, I’m trying not to have any.’

‘Not like you,’ Donnelly pointed out. ‘You all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ Sean lied, the man’s staring eyes mixing with images of Anna in his troubled mind – a sense of fear and excitement at the thought of being with her day-to-day distracting him from where he needed to be – preventing him from being able to fully immerse himself in the abduction and murder of the man who now lay dead on the floor of a police launch.

‘Well, I don’t suppose he dumped him in the river around here,’ Donnelly offered. ‘Too busy – unless he chucked him off the bridge in the middle of the night.’

‘No,’ Sean dismissed the possibility. ‘Tide brought him here. The Marine Unit might be able to tell us where from.’

‘Aye,’ was all Donnelly replied and they finished the rest of the short journey in silence, parking up and following the Wandsworth detectives to the small pier of the rowing club where the police launch was already moored.

‘We’ll wait here for you,’ Evans told them, standing at the beginning of the pier. ‘Not a lot of room on those things,’ he explained, nodding towards the launch. ‘If he’s not your man you can always kick it back to us, but if it is …’

‘Fair enough,’ Sean agreed and headed off along the short pier.

Donnelly waited until they were out of earshot before speaking quietly. ‘I guess he’s had his fill of floaters.’

‘He could always get a posting to Catford,’ Sean told him before pulling his warrant card from his coat pocket and flashing it to the wary launch crew. ‘DI Corrigan. Special Investigations Unit. I think this body belongs to us.’

‘Come on board,’ the sergeant replied. The three white stripes on his lifejacket singled him out as the boat’s leader. ‘Mind your step though. Deck’s a little slippery. Never ceases to amaze me how much water comes out of a dead body – especially when it’s fully clothed.’ Donnelly rolled his eyes while Sean ignored the comment as they stepped on board.

The river police had already managed to manhandle the body into a black zip-up body-bag, although the victim’s arms still protruded somewhat out to his side. They’d left the bag open for the detectives.

‘Gonna have a hell of a job getting that zipped up,’ the sergeant explained.

‘You’ll manage,’ Sean told him before moving closer to the body and crouching down, the movement of the boat adding to his rising nausea. ‘How long d’you reckon he’s been in the water for?’

‘Hard to say,’ the sergeant replied. ‘A good few hours at least.’

‘Was he dumped close by?’ Sean asked.

The sergeant pulled an expression of indifference. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Tide’s been going out for a good while now. Probably somewhere between Teddington and Richmond.’

‘Great,’ Donnelly complained, aware of the size of area they would now have to consider.

Sean studied the remains of Paul Elkins, the cause of death and exposure to the water making his face appear bloated and grotesque, his eyes bulbous and red – mouth open with a swollen, grey tongue protruding from within. Sean tried not to think of the small marine creatures that would have already found their way into the man’s mouth, making his body their temporary home as well as a food supply. The burn marks and bruising left around his neck by the rope used to kill him left no doubt as to the cause of death, although the mandatory post-mortem would still have to officially confirm it.

‘When we’re done,’ Sean told the sergeant, ‘I want you to ensure the body is taken to the mortuary at Guy’s Hospital. Understand?’

The sergeant drew a sharp intake of breath. ‘Tricky. Bodies from this area are supposed to be taken to Charing Cross. Coroner’s Courts are very twitchy about jurisdiction.’

‘My call,’ he snapped at him slightly. ‘He goes to Dr Canning at Guy’s. No one else.’

‘So he is the man you’re looking for, then?’ the sergeant deduced.

‘Yeah,’ Sean answered mournfully. ‘He’s our victim.’ He stood and turned to Donnelly.

‘Anything catch your eye?’ Donnelly asked.

‘Nothing particular, although …’

‘Although what?’

‘Although there’s only two reasons a killer removes a body from the scene of the murder,’ Sean explained. ‘One is because the scene links them in some way to the victim, so they have to move it, or …’

‘Or?’ Donnelly pushed, impatient to hear the answer.

‘Or because they need to continue using the scene – to live in, to run a business from, although in this case neither of those seem likely.’

‘What then?’ Donnelly asked.

‘He needs it,’ Sean explained. ‘He needs to use it again for other victims and there will be more. He’s as good as told us there will.’

‘I was afraid you were gonna say that,’ Donnelly told him. ‘Why is it with us there’s always going to be more?’

‘Welcome to Special Investigations,’ Sean answered.

‘So what we dealing with here? Just another fucking lunatic, or could this one really be some sort of self-proclaimed avenging angel – a normal guy pushed too far?’