The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 4 - 6: Murder (The DCI Isaac Cook Thrillers Series Boxset) Read online

  Isaac, too long a DCI, and with enough experience and ability to make detective superintendent, knew that forces beyond his control were holding him back, as well as his superior, Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard. The man had been marked for a commander’s position, but people in high places had ensured he would have to wait a few more years.

  Not a man to reflect for too long, Isaac decided to phone Gordon Windsor, the crime scene examiner. It was still too soon to expect a result back from the pathologist, although the time of death would help. Larry had a fair idea of the canal’s flow rate, and it should be possible to hazard a guess as to where the body had entered the water. With that information, Wendy and her uniforms could focus their door-to-door more precisely.

  ‘I’m heading over to the pathologist now. Meet me there in twenty minutes,’ Windsor told Isaac. That was what he liked about the CSE: A man always enthusiastic, always willing to go the extra mile, and always affable. They were not comments Isaac could level at the pathologist, whom he had met before on several occasions, usually when a body was being cut open.

  The pathologist, Graham Pickett, a tall, thin man in his late fifties, did not say much, and when he did, it was direct and to the point. So much so that Isaac had learnt to say little in his presence other than to ask the questions for which he needed answers.

  ‘Four hours in the water,’ Pickett said as Gordon Windsor and Isaac entered his office. ‘That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘No sign of maceration of the skin, no water ingestion into the lungs, and a massive loss of blood, although that’s to be expected.’

  ‘What else can you tell us about the man?’

  ‘There’s a tattoo on the back of the shoulder. It appears to be in the shape of a spider’s web, but it’s crude.’

  ‘Your guess as to when and where?’ Windsor asked.

  Pickett sat down in his chair and leant back. ‘Five years, at least. As to where? Either in prison or else in the far east.’

  ‘Any assessment of height, age, physical condition, at least while he was alive?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Height would need one of the major leg bones, the femur or the tibia, at least to allow any accuracy. Regardless, judging by what remains, I’d hazard a guess at between five feet six and five feet nine inches, but that will not be in my report, other than with a disclaimer. I don’t want to be held accountable in court as to why I gave a height when I cannot guarantee the accuracy. With no legs, no fingerprints and no head, there’s not a lot more I can tell you, although based on my examination and assessment of the clavicle, the pubic symphysis and the sternal rib end, standard and verifiable tests, I would give the man’s age at between thirty and thirty-nine.

  ‘Caucasian or Asian?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘DNA will confirm, but the body is Caucasian, probably European. The body's not been long in the water, so the colour of the skin is fairly accurate.

  ‘Is it possible to ascertain when he was killed?’

  ‘Ten hours maximum, although the immersion in water caused more rapid blood loss. It must have been a hell of a mess; the serrations around the neck and the top of the limbs were caused by a chainsaw.’

  ‘It would need somewhere industrial,’ Isaac said.

  ‘You’re the detective, but yes, that seems possible. There would have been a horrendous amount of blood, as well as the noise of the chainsaw.’

  ‘Would there have been a lot of blood loss in the water?’

  ‘Probably not as much as you would expect, and there was not a lot left in the body when I examined it; also, no signs of drugs or alcohol. As you can appreciate, a dismembered torso doesn’t give a lot to work with. No signs of injuries either: broken bones, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Is it possible to tell if this is terrorist related, crime gangs, sexual deviancy?’ Windsor asked.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Pickett said. ‘Ask the DCI. I’ve told you what I’ve determined, and whoever did it was sick, but as to why and whom, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘One final question,’ Isaac said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Was the body alive at the time of dismemberment?’

  ‘Impossible to tell,’ Pickett said.

  Chapter 2

  With the time in the water estimated at four hours, and with assistance from George Ashburton from the Canal and River Trust, the possible entry points were established. As it had been dark when the torso entered the water, the possibility that the person or persons responsible would have been seen was negligible.

  And there was the unknown of how long the torso had been wedged under the houseboat. Isaac and Larry realised that the most likely scenario was that the body had entered the water no further upstream than the Westbourne Terrace Road Bridge. Although that was only thirty yards, the crime scene tape was extended as far as the junction of Chichester Road and Delamere Terrace on the southern side of the canal, and the junction of Bloomfield Road and Clifton Villas on the northern side. Isaac felt that near to the bridge was more likely, as both banks up from Westbourne Terrace Road Bridge were lined with houseboats stem to stern.

  Windsor and his team, plus a contingent of eager uniforms, would be checking on the streets adjoining the canal: down on hands and knees if that was needed, looking for the minutiae that a crime scene invariably reveals.

  Isaac reflected on what a thankless task they had in front of them. He well remembered his time on the beat, proudly wearing his police uniform. There had been some good times, some not so good, and being pulled in to walk or crawl slowly down the road or through the vegetation, occasionally planting a knee in dog excrement, did not qualify as good. And today, those out searching would be feeling the first throes of winter.

  Wendy would be assisting, as would Larry, and any updates would be funnelled back to Isaac, who had the unenviable task of meeting with Richard Goddard, his senior. At least once a week they would meet, and on most occasions it was a pleasant affair, but the previous murder case had almost cost Goddard his job and had seen Isaac replaced as the senior investigating officer. Both men were naturally reluctant to allow a repeat, and although they were only one day into the current murder investigation, they knew that others within the Met would be observing, looking for the first sign of inaction and waiting to pounce and claim their jobs.

  ***

  It was fortunate that it was the weekend and the usual heavy traffic in the area of Little Venice was moderated. The closure of the bridge over the canal at the closest point to where the body had been found would not present a problem, although it would need a few officers to redirect the traffic over the Harrow Road bridge not far away.

  ‘You know what we’re looking for here,’ Gordon Windsor said, his team of twenty gathered around him. They stood on the road closest to Jim Parson’s houseboat. Larry thought the small, balding man looked like Napoleon giving his officers their orders. ‘We’ve checked around the houseboat down below, and we know the body, or what remained of it, did not enter the water at that point,’ Windsor said.

  ‘Where should we start looking?’ one of his investigation team asked.

  ‘Upstream, no more than three hundred yards. You’ve all been briefed. What we’re looking for are signs of a body being placed in the river: blood, disturbance of the canal bank, cigarette ends; but mainly blood.’

  ‘It could have been in a bag, and the body was removed from the bag over the water,’ one of the assembled group said.

  ‘That’s always a possibility, but if they brought the body in a bag, it would have dropped blood. If they had thrown the bag into the water, then where is it? The water moves slowly, and if it was plastic, then it should be close by. Any more questions?’

  No one put their hand up, and they all moved off to their nominated locations: ten police on either side of the canal. The first group was at the junction of Delamere Terrace and Chichester Road, the other at Bloomfield Road. Access on the Delamer
e side was through gates along the canal edge, although there were iron railings elsewhere if someone wanted to pass a body over them. On the other bank, a brick wall separated the road from the canal, and it was high enough to dissuade anyone from climbing over.

  Slow and steady was the order of the day, and both teams moved slowly forward; the occasional houseboat occupant sticking their head out, wondering what was going on. The police, ever polite, asked them to stay where they were, at least until they had been given the all clear. Most had complied; some had moaned and taken no notice. One who had been particularly obstructive had to be reminded that interfering with a police investigation was an offence. The police officer involved made a note in his diary, adding the comment high on drugs, suspected marijuana, in case the man took it further. Some of the boats were gently rocking with the occupants indulging in early morning lovemaking. That’s what I should be doing, Constable Reading thought, his feet cold and his mood distinctly downbeat as he searched in the undergrowth next to one of the boats. One owner on the Delamere Terrace side prepared ten piping hot cups of tea which was much appreciated. So far, there had been no rain, and the chance of success was looking good, so much so, that Windsor had phoned Isaac with an update.

  ***

  ‘They’re still after your blood,’ Richard Goddard said. He sat in a leather chair behind his desk in his third-floor office at Challis Street Police Station.

  Isaac sat on the other side of the desk, not sure as to the mood of the meeting. Sure, Goddard had been polite on his entering, shaking his hand warmly, but Isaac knew the detective chief superintendent had felt the heat as much as he had in the previous case. After so many years of working with the DCS, Isaac was still not sure how the man would react if the cards were played by their superiors: would he throw him to the wolves, or would he support him. Isaac wanted to think the best of a man who outside of the office he regarded as a friend, but…

  ‘I remain optimistic that we’ll wrap up the Regent’s Canal case soon enough,’ Isaac said, although he realised that he was saying it for the audience.

  ‘Optimistic you may be, but you’ve no identity, no motive, and certainly no suspects. How do you progress on this one?’

  ‘The only identifier is a tattoo on the man’s shoulder.’

  ‘Ten a penny,’ Goddard replied.

  ‘We’re looking into its significance. It could just have been tattooed after a drunken night out, or it could be a gang’s mark.’

  ‘You know this one will be lapped up by the media?’ Goddard reminded Isaac.

  ‘Yes,’ Isaac said. Even now, he had noticed on Facebook and Twitter that the body in the canal was ranking. The news organisations were not fully onto it yet, although Larry had phoned earlier to say that a television crew was out at the canal, and they were being kept at a distance. Some of the houseboat occupants, principally Jim Parsons, had been on talkback radio recounting his tale; no doubt receiving some payment for his time.

  Isaac remembered in his early days in the force, before the advent of social media, that it had been easier. Now everyone wanted a result immediately, and there were plenty of armchair critics, or critics on buses, on the train, or in the office with a smartphone, updating on recent events, offering advice on how they would do it. And, of course, passing judgement if there wasn’t instant gratification, but this was a murder case with a dead man, not frivolous entertainment for the masses. Isaac imagined the blood and gore, the state of mind of a person who could commit such an atrocity. And if it was a bloodlust, was it sexual, an obscure religious cult, a warning from one gang in London to another gang?

  Isaac knew that without an identity they were going nowhere. He hoped the team out at Regent’s Canal knew that. The visit that morning had been the first time he had been there for some years. As a child, he had walked with his parents from Camden along the towpath, and enjoyed lunch at the Waterside Café, no more than fifteen feet from the murder scene.

  ***

  The early morning search at the furthest point on the Delamere Terrace side of the canal had revealed nothing of interest. The discarded cigarette they had found, Turkish in origin, had interested Gordon Windsor at first, with its connotations of a crime syndicate, but it had soon been discounted when the owner of one of the houseboats admitted to throwing the cigarette end out on the towpath, rather than in a rubbish bin. ‘It’s my wife. She can’t stand the smell of it,’ he said. ‘I bought it on holiday in Istanbul.’

  The team on the Bloomfield Street side found nothing.

  Constable Jenny Arnett, a newcomer at Challis Street, newly trained and still young and enthusiastic, not jaundiced as some of the others after previous searches on a cold morning, made the first discovery. ‘There’s blood here,’ she shouted.

  Gordon Windsor arrived within two minutes. The area next to the towpath was quickly sealed off, even to the other police in the area.

  Windsor brought up his trained investigating officers. The blood, just visible on the top of the brickwork lining the edge of the canal bank, looked recent, but until it had been checked, it was circumstantial.

  ‘It’s a good place to conceal a crime, under a bridge’ Larry Hill, Isaac’s DI, said.

  ‘Even so,’ Windsor reminded him, ‘they would have had to walk up to here, either from the entrance of the Warwick Crescent side of the bridge or by the gate next to the Canal and the River Trust’s offices on Delamere Terrace.’

  With a confirmed possibility, all of the police on that side of the canal removed themselves from the immediate vicinity and reassembled downstream of the murder scene. From there they continued searching, although it was no longer blood that interested them, but anything that may have been discarded or lost by those disposing of the body.

  After so many years as a crime scene examiner, Gordon Windsor was confident that what had been discovered was relevant and would be tied in to the body.

  Grant Meston, one of Windsor’s team, knelt down by the blood. The temperature under the bridge was still markedly colder than outside where the sun had briefly deemed itself worthy to show through the clouds. ‘I can take a sample first, and if I’m careful, I can remove the brick and take it back to the laboratory,’ Meston said.

  Gordon Ashburton, arriving at work to find the Canal and River Trust building surrounded by policemen, watched horrified as part of his precious canal was removed.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Larry Hill said. ‘You’ll get it back when we’re finished with it.’

  With the blood sample removed, Grant Meston and Gordon Windsor looked for further traces of blood. Further down towards the Waterside Café, they found another bloodstain on the metal railing on the footpath leading up to Westbrook Terrace Road. The weather was turning nasty, and rain was in the air; the worst possible scenario for the work still to be completed.

  Several crime scene tents, already erected, were brought down to the immediate area and secured in position. Some of the houseboat owners, blocked from the most direct entry to their boats, complained. They had tried to reason with Larry, but he was resolute, and he could not allow them to traverse an area of investigation. One of the owners, an angry man, said that he would talk to his local member of parliament, but Larry knew it was just bluff. And besides, the inconvenience would not last for more than a few days.

  Meston, assisted by Rose Denning, whom Larry knew from a previous case, methodically worked his way back from under the bridge where the first blood sample had been taken and down towards the Waterside Café, before turning up the walkway to the bridge. The blood sample on the metal railing at the bottom of the walkway had already been taken. Larry, at first enamoured by the idyllic lifestyle that living on the water represented, realised that come winter when the water was cold and the towpath was slippery, or on rare occasions was covered in snow, it would not be so agreeable. He admitted that his small semi-detached, basic as it was, without the romanticism of a houseboat, represented normalcy, sometimes boring normalcy. However, it
was what he wanted; apart from his wife’s faddish diets, which tested his resolve sometimes.

  After three hours of painstakingly checking the area, Grant Meston and Rose had to admit that no more evidence would be found.

  However, at 2 a.m. or thereabouts in the morning, a person carrying a heavy bag down the path and then under the bridge could possibly have been seen by someone. Wendy knew it was back to knocking on doors.

  Chapter 3

  Confirmation had been received from Forensics: the blood retrieved at the site was from the body.

  ‘It was early when the body was dumped. It must have been well wrapped as the blood discovered at the two locations was minimal,’ Isaac said.

  ‘But we found no sign of wrapping where the body was placed in the water,’ Larry said.

  ‘Which means they were careful in holding the body and the packaging over the water.’

  ‘The divers?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘They’re scouring the canal floor looking for anything, but the visibility is virtually zero, and the water’s cold.’

  ‘Could the packaging still be in the water?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Possible, but we’re assuming it would have been plastic, more likely a heavy-duty rubbish bag, and they float. No way to hold them down, at least not without heavy weights.’

  ‘Assume the divers will not find anything,’ Isaac said. ‘Focus on the neighbours, see if they saw anything suspicious: vehicles parked nearby, any noise.’

  With little more to be said, Wendy headed back to the murder site.

  Larry decided to follow up on the tattoo found on the back of the torso. He believed it was significant, and if the man had been a local, then someone may remember doing it. The area around Notting Hill seemed the best possibility. It was still early when he arrived, only a ten-minute drive from Challis Street. He decided to treat himself to an English breakfast in a café, hoping that his wife would not find out.