Bolton, J. - Now You See Me

The two men exchanged a glance, then Sergeant Wilson took a long look at my face. ‘From what I hear, you were about as lucky as they get,’ he said. ‘Well, should be a nice quiet trip,’ he went on. ‘We’re due to go down as far as the barrier, one or two stops on the way, should have you both back by ten. Are you OK if I get back to the flybridge?’

Wilson left the cabin and we heard him walk along the deck and climb the steps to join the other two above us in the cockpit.

‘Come on,’ said Joesbury, steering me forwards and using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the condensation from the window, ‘you can’t beat the river at night.’ He glanced down, saw the look on my face. ‘Course, it does help to be on it rather than in it,’ he admitted.

We were almost at Southwark Bridge. I hadn’t seen it from the river before and had to admit – but only to myself – that Joesbury had a point. Hidden lights had turned the stone arches of the bridge turquoise, whilst the surrounding buildings, both old and new, glowed in warm shades of gold and honey. Behind the bridge, its lights gleaming like diamonds, rose the City of London.

‘Unce Fred?’ I queried.

‘Mum’s younger brother,’ said Joesbury. ‘Followed his father into the Marine Unit shortly after he joined the Met. Where do you stand on the Lloyd’s building, love it or hate it?’

Across the rooftops, an elongated, futuristic construction of steel and glass was radiating violet light into the sky. I’d seen few buildings more compelling. ‘Hate it,’ I lied.

‘My grandfather was still in the force when I was a kid,’ said Joesbury. ‘He used to take me and my brother out on patrol with him at weekends.’

The lights of the river were both reflected in the rainfall and distorted by the cabin’s windows. Deep azure blue shimmered around the top of the Nat West Tower and droplets of the same colour seemed to fall all around us. Along the embankment, lantern lights glowed like a chain of fire. I had a sense, for a moment, of being in an enchanted craft.

‘He liked to tell us stories about the river,’ Joesbury was saying. ‘Knew it better than anyone. When he retired he got a job as a guide on one of the pleasure boats.’

As Tower Bridge loomed ahead of us like a cold, grey fortress, I had a sudden picture in my mind of two little boys playing policemen on a river launch, and it occurred to me that twenty-four hours ago, it might have been quite nice to be spending time alone with Joesbury, hearing him talk about his family. A lot can change in twenty-four hours.

‘Look to your left,’ said Joesbury.

‘Wapping,’ I said, ‘Where Uncle Fred and his colleagues are based.’ Wapping police station was also where Samuel Cooper’s body had been taken after it had been lifted from the river. Where mine would have been.

‘Yeah,’ said Joesbury. ‘Also, the site of Execution Dock, where they used to hang murderers and pirates and other assorted villains. Pirates were hanged on short ropes so they suffocated slowly and then three tides had to wash over them before they pulled the bodies down. I tell you, police work’s not what it used to be.’

The river had changed. Beyond Tower Bridge it becomes commercial, the buildings, black as soot against the skyline, are functional rather than beautiful. As we travelled on, all the colour in the world seemed to be seeping away.

‘That’s a very sweet story,’ I said.

Joesbury gave a short laugh. ‘They had something called dirty money back in Grandad’s day.’

The embankment lights we were passing now were stronger and colder than the touristy ones we’d left behind. They cut through the dark water like needles. ‘You’re going to tell me what that is, whether I want to hear it or not, aren’t you?’ I said.

‘It was the bit of extra pay the river men would get for retrieving a body from the water,’ said Joesbury. ‘Made quite a difference to pay packets back then, so finding a floater was always a bit of an event.’

Not much more than a week ago, I’d come very close to being a floater. Was this about punishing me, as well as keeping me from running?

‘As you can imagine, it all got a bit competitive,’ Joesbury went on. ‘And there was the added complication that if they found a body towards the end of the shift, they might not have time to get it all the way downriver to Wapping.’

‘I’m not going to ask,’ I said.

I didn’t need to. Joesbury was on a roll. ‘So rather than let the next shift get the extra cash, they’d hide it somewhere. Tie it up out of sight and then collect it next day.’

By this time, it felt like the boat was travelling through a black and white film. On the south bank, the lights were a cold white, their reach hardly penetrating the gloom around them, their reflections just teardrops on the black river.

‘I have heard few stories more gross than that,’ I said.

‘I think it just goes to prove that, given time, you’ll get used to anything. How are you feeling?’

‘Fine,’ I said automatically and, a second later, realized I was. I was absolutely fine. I still had a pressing need to get off the boat and head for the English Channel, but otherwise, being on the river hadn’t been nearly as bad as I’d expected.

Joesbury stepped away and faced me. ‘You look fine to me,’ he said, with a half-smile. ‘It takes a lot to throw you off kilter, doesn’t it?’

‘Yep,’ I said, turning back to the river, thinking the events of the past few hours might just qualify. ‘You could say that.’

Without warning, the engine fired up and the boat surged forward. Joesbury and I both staggered backwards before getting our balance. We looked at each other and he told me to stay put. Before he could reach the door, Uncle Fred poked his head inside.

‘We’ve just had a call about a small craft heading for the Royal Docks,’ he said. ‘Bloody suicide in these conditions. We’re picking up speed to try and find them. Now do I need to tell you two to stay in here and keep out of the way?’

‘No, sir,’ said Joesbury. I shook my head.

We were skimming along the water now, the searchlights on the front of the boat turned up to maximum, and I caught sight of Greenwich on the south bank. Joesbury moved behind me and opened one of the cupboards that ran along the back of the cabin. He took two coiled yellow straps from inside. Both had metal clips at either end. Lifelines.

‘I was a real pain in the arse as a kid,’ he said, unwrapping one and clipping the end of it to my lifejacket. ‘Never did what I was told.’ He passed the line over my head and then fastened the second clip to the first at my waist. He did the same on his own jacket and then reached for a pair of binoculars from the cabin wall.

‘Feel free to stay in here,’ he said, opening the door that led to the port deck. ‘In fact, I’m giving you a direct order to do exactly that.’

‘I was a pain in the arse as a kid too,’ I said, following him to the door.

‘Why am I not surprised,’ he replied. ‘As soon as we’re outside, find something solid and clip yourself to it.’

Leaving the warm, if diesel-rich air of the cabin was like getting out of a hot bath. Once on deck, the wind hit us full on. The rain had picked up in the short time we’d been on the river and was bouncing off the water like bullets. We were speeding against the tide and the double effect of tide and wind was creating angry waves all around us.

‘Who’d take a small boat out on a night like this?’ I shouted into Joesbury’s ear.

He had binoculars clamped to his eyes and was looking downstream. ‘Nobody up to any good,’ he said. ‘Smugglers of some sort, possibly. Although my guess would be illegal immigrants. Are you clipped on?’