A Spider in the Cup (Joe Sandilands Investigation) (17 page)

“So. Is he at home, your witness? Shall we go and disturb him? Ask him what he saw and heard two nights ago at about this time? What vehicles he saw on the embankment.”

Orford began to realise that patience was not a virtue valued by the River Rats. Action was more in their line. “Hold your horses, Eddie. I’ll ask the questions. My beat blokes are aware of someone skulking around in the area but haven’t spotted him today. They weren’t alerted until this afternoon so they weren’t exactly on the lookout. I got here a couple of hours ago—full daylight—and he hasn’t approached the boat in that time. That’s a south-facing slope open to direct sun … there’s no way he would have spent the afternoon out there under a boat. So—he’s not there yet. He’s either got wind of something and scarpered or he’s gone off for a fish supper.”

Officer Evans was not at ease. “Look, sir—these rough sleepers—there’s hundreds of ’em on the foreshore along down as far as the estuary. They wash in and out as regular as the tides. And when they’ve found a billet, they stick to it. Fight for it. Establish
rights. A boat like that,” he pointed to the overturned clinker, “may not look much to a bloke like you with a house in Bermondsey, but it’s dry and it keeps the worst of the weather off. A bit of shelter worth staking a claim to. The minute the ‘owner’ fails to turn up you can bet your boots someone else will take over. If you want the right one, he’s in there already—nipped in when you weren’t looking—or he’s buggered off and you’ll find the wrong bloke sneaks in to take up residence.”

Orford made his decision. “Let’s go. Torches off.”

They approached in silence, just able in the dying light to avoid obstacles on the dried mud. They paused within a foot of the rotting timbers and looked at each other. Eddie Evans held a finger under his nose, registering disgust. Orford nodded in agreement. The riverbank was a stinking place but punching through the general background of effluent was an overpowering odour of decay. It was seeping up through the flaking boards of the upturned boat.

Eddie put a hand on the surface. The planks still retained heat from the afternoon sun. At a nod from Orford, Eddie rapped on the wood. They listened. Eddie knocked again, more loudly, announcing, “Thames Police! Anybody at home?” No sound. Orford shook his head and mimed uplifting the boat. The two officers clicked on the strong beams of their police torches, placed them on the ground, illuminating the scene, and seized the landward rim of the gunwale.

“Go!” grunted Orford and the boat, lighter than he had anticipated, shot upwards. The whole contraption rolled over, rocked back drunkenly and settled onto its ancient keel.

Gasping, spluttering and swearing, it was a long moment before they could communicate with each other. Orford flung a large cotton handkerchief over his nose and mouth in a vain effort to blot out the stench, the buffet of hot air that hit him in the face and the swarm of flies that rose up to invade his nostrils. He
was distantly aware of a stream of sea-salty curses spouting from the River Rat.

“You were right, Eddie,” Orford gasped. “Someone’s at home. And, I’d say, been right here, simmering gently in the heat all afternoon. No need to check for vital signs,” he added queasily. “Flies seem to have made that decision for us. They always know. We need help with this one. Look are you all right to stay and keep the dear departed company while I nip to the police box?… Um, what would you say to dowsing the lamps?”

“Good idea! Wouldn’t want to attract an audience.” The officer grinned. “Can’t stand ghouls. Make it sharp though, Guv! I don’t mind the dark but I don’t like talking to myself.”

He switched off the torches to keep his vigil over the silent corpse.

A
s they entered the gloom and disorder of the anteroom to the police laboratory, Kingstone brushed a sooty cobweb from his shoulder and snorted in disgust. “Is this the best you can do? Who’s behind the door at the end of the corridor? Count Dracula?”

“No, sir.” Joe was icily polite. “Just one of the two best pathologists in the world—nothing more alarming. The Met have suffered the privations of many years of cutbacks and we’re fortunate indeed to be able to afford his services. We could have had our subject taken to the bright lights and shining surfaces of St. Mary’s or St. Bartholomew’s hospital across the city but discretion and speed seemed to be called for.”

Doctor Rippon, at least, offered reassurance by his presence. Even Kingstone appeared stunned by the handsome figure in the austere elegance of an evening suit and stiff-collared dress shirt. Joe noted that Rippon refrained from offering his hand to his visitors on being introduced but inclined his head with great courtesy. Joe had seen him do this before. Many of the people arriving at his laboratory or pathology lab, already in a state of distress, were squeamish—or superstitious—about touching the hand of the “death doctor,” he’d explained, and in deference to this, he never put them on the spot. On meeting the doctor some
months ago, Joe had refused to take notice of his reticence, guessing the reason for it, and had firmly reached for and shaken the warm strong hand, which was probably the most hygienically clean in London.

“Going on somewhere, doctor?” Joe asked. “Surprised to find you still here.”

“Oh, I took five hours off to go back to Bart’s. Fitted in three more post mortems. All straightforward—not like this one to which I returned, after a shower and a shave, in the hope that the back-room boys had come up with test results. I told them you’d flagged it as top priority.”

“Quite right. Do they have them?”

Rippon held out a manila envelope. “Good lads! They’ve strained a fetlock getting it ready before the weekend breaks over us.” Joe had noticed the staff usually responded with commendable efficiency to the doctor’s needs. He felt the same compulsion himself. “You’ll find what you want in there. It’s all typed up, checked by me and signed. A few surprises, I think you’ll say. I’ll stay on and work through them with you if you wish.” This was a serious offer, made with a smile. And, typically of Rippon, it came with no reference, petulant or joking, to the fact that he was already dressed for an evening with more animated company than the police morgue could supply.

“But this is the gentleman who may be able to identify our young lady, I take it? When I got your call I had her body brought out of cold storage and placed on the table. If you’ll come this way? It’s just next door.”

Joe was glad of the courtesy, glad that Kingstone was to be let off the chilling experience of the opening of the morgue drawers with their nightmarish squeaking and the inch by inch revelation of grisly contents. He’d known fainter hearts to turn and run.

Kingstone turned to Julia and Armitage. “You two don’t have to come in. I’ll do this myself.”

“No. I want to see her,” Julia said.

In the end, the four of them crowded into the pathology laboratory with Rippon. Joe stationed himself on the far side of the table the better to watch the reactions of the two main players. They all stood quietly, staring at the body. She had been laid out with a white sheet draped over her from head to foot. With solemnity Rippon took hold of the sheet and drew it down below her shoulders. The presentation was neatly done. There were no signs of the postmortem incisions other than the row of stitches running downwards from her neck and away out of sight. The hair, now dry, had been combed out and rested in a dark cloud about the waxen features, concealing the pathologist’s work on the head.

In the silence that followed, Joe heard drips of water falling from a tap into the metal sink in the corner and counted to six before anyone responded. Kingstone reached for the comfort of another hand. Joe noted it was Julia to whom he’d turned to share this tense moment. But out of despair or relief?

It was Julia who spoke first. “This is not Natalia Kirilovna. I’m sorry, I’ve never seen this girl before. I don’t know her.”

Joe’s eyes flashed to Armitage standing behind the pair. Bill raised his eyebrows, signalling helpless mystification. Kingstone shook his head in denial also but remained where he was, hypnotised by the pathetic sight. Finally, he spoke to the doctor. “Poor child! Poor little creature! So like Natty but not her. May we see her feet? Yes, there it is. Don’t ask me why, doctor, but I seem to be in possession of the missing part. Sandilands? You have it? I think we should restore it to the doctor.”

Puzzled, Rippon watched as Joe produced the gold chocolate box, opened it and offered him a view of the contents. For a moment, prompted by the familiar gesture, Joe was seized by the ghastly urge to share a joke, the kind of grisly exchange of what passes for humour to fend off the horror of the most tragic
circumstances. Rippon looked from the box and back to Joe and his eyes flared in response. He fought back the comment he’d been about to make but his shoulders shook as he slipped on a glove, delicately crooked his little finger and extracted the offering. “You can keep the rest for later. I mean—you’ll be wanting to retain the box for processing, no doubt. I’ll need time to examine this, but, yes, at a quick sighting, I’d say we have here the last piece of the jigsaw.”

“If only!” Joe muttered.

Rippon found a tray and dealt with the object. He turned again to the visitors. “One last thing: this was delivered here after I left to go to Bart’s, Sandilands. I’ve no idea when. I found it in my in-tray a minute ago. It’s addressed to me but inside there’s a sealed envelope with your name on it.”

Joe thanked him. “Probably a note from Inspector Orford. He’d expect me to be back here this evening.”

Joe glanced at the typed address on the outer cover and was intrigued. Not from the inspector. Orford would have had to scrawl his own letters on any envelope he was sending to Joe. Secretarial assistance was at a premium these days, the few girls who remained overburdened with work. Even Assistant Commissioners had to wait a day on occasion before general typing came through from the pool. Urgent notes were invariably handwritten. He even addressed his own envelopes to save Miss Snow, his personal secretary, the time. He opened it and took out the inner envelope. He looked again, startled.

Too late, he noticed that Kingstone had seen it too. The senator shivered but it wasn’t the dank, chill atmosphere and the presence of the corpse that were affecting him, Joe guessed.

“My God!” Kingstone’s voice was a stunned whisper. “Someone’s watching me. I’m being—what’s that phrase they have in witchcraft?—overlooked. He knows where I’m going … what I’ll do next. He’s got into my hotel room and now he’s here with me
in the morgue.” He rubbed the back of his neck between his shoulder blades. “I know what it feels like to have a sniper take aim at you. But this one’s targeting the inside of my head. Let me see that, Sandilands.”

Joe held it out. An inoffensive enough address:
For the attention of Assistant Commissioner Sandilands
.

In elegant black calligrapher’s handwriting.

A
LABORATORY ATTENDANT
tapped on the door and entered without waiting for a response. He seemed agitated.

“Doctor Rippon, sir. Urgent message from the river.” He glanced at a note in his hand. “Telephone just now. Redirected from HQ. From Inspector Orford for Commissioner Sandilands. They said he might be here.”

“You’ve come to the right shop then,” Rippon replied. “Here’s Commissioner Sandilands.”

“Sir! He’s found a body. Another one, on the riverbank. He’s having it brought in now.”

Joe and the doctor exchanged glances. “Lucky to have caught us,” Joe commented. “Were you planning to sleep tonight, Rippon? Do you have an assistant who could …”

“Same as you, Sandilands, I reckon. I learned to do without sleep years ago. All the same …” He turned to the attendant. “Thank you for that, Harper. Look—better ring Doctor Simmons and tell him I need to speak to him. And can you stay on? What about Richardson? He can type. Have him paged, will you?”

“You’ll be needing all hands on deck if the Commissioner’s planning a gathering of the sheeted dead,” Kingstone said bitterly. “Who’re you expecting now, Sandilands, to turn up for your weekend come-as-a-corpse party? Male or female?” he asked anxiously. “And—that envelope—do I have to snatch it from your hand and open it myself?”

Joe bit back a spirited reply, reading the man’s mood.

“Psychological projection,” he’d learned to call this reaction. Dorcas would have explained that Kingstone, unable to bear the strain, was resorting unconsciously to a defence mechanism in order to maintain his stability. Blame someone else and ease the load. Not quite so primitive as an outright denial of events but disturbing. Inevitably, the man must now be conjuring with the idea of a second dancer’s body coming to light in the same place. Natalia this time? Kingstone was right—why the hell couldn’t the inspector have said—“a male body” or “a female body”? The awful thought that perhaps he’d been unable to make a judgement occurred to Joe. They were always the worst cases: the indistinguishables.

Kingstone had suffered three shocks to the system within the last hour and now, Joe feared, a fourth blow was about to be delivered. Nothing good was going to come out of the envelope all had their eyes on.

He ran a finger under the flap.

J
OE READ THE
few lines quickly and looked up at his audience. He was carried back for an uncomfortable moment to a time long-distant when he’d been staying with his elderly uncles in London. Unusually, there had arrived, addressed to the eight-year-old Master Joseph Sandilands, a letter which bore a stranger’s handwriting. To Joe’s fury, Uncle George had, without thought, opened it and read it before revealing the contents to Joe. The sender and the message were so innocent and so unimportant—an invitation to tea and a children’s play at the theatre—Joe could barely now recall them. But, with the indignant and pleading eyes of his audience on him at this moment, he could relive the urge to snatch it from his uncle’s hand. And now, he could also understand the old man’s concern to protect and act as a buffer between his nephew and the unknown.