Two days later
Detective Constable Sean Blake regarded the slate-grey silt welding his feet in place. It smelled like it looked: cloying, dank, musty.
The sheer sides of the drained lock made an oblong of the morning’s grey sky. It was like peering up from the bottom of a grave. Droplets of water pattered all about, the echo making their impact sound more substantial than they really were. Like the beginnings of a deluge about to burst through the closed gates at his back.
Beside him, the man in waders and a fluorescent jacket spoke up. ‘Things people chuck in. Shocking.’
‘How often do you drain the water out to do this?’ Detective Sergeant Magda Dragomir asked, hard hat tipped back on her head to release her eyes from its shadow.
‘Every year. Otherwise, we run the risk of items lodging in the lock mechanisms. Or damaging the underside of boats passing through. Plus, it’s not good for the environment. Fish and that.’
‘Fish?’ Sean asked. He couldn’t imagine anything living in the city centre’s canal system.
Jutting from the expanse of mud before them was an array of dirt-smeared objects. Half-bricks, upturned chairs, broken umbrellas. Countless bottles, cans and glasses. Further off, a mountain bike minus its front wheel. A woman’s stiletto shoe. Two traffic cones.
‘Three hundred grand, that’s the annual clean-up bill for the network. Never found a body before, though.’
Sean lifted his gaze to the white tent at the far end of the lock. It was at an angle, one corner leg too high. The straps of the waders he’d been handed before climbing down the ladder weighed heavy on his shoulders. Rubber gloves encased his forearms. A fluorescent bib. He adjusted his hard hat, picturing his wavy mass of thick black hair trapped beneath it. When he took the thing off, it would spring out in all directions. Jack-in-a-box style. ‘We’d better take a look.’
‘Some of this mud can go up to your thighs,’ the council worker said. ‘Avoid the pools of water and you’ll be all right.’
Sean glanced at Magda. With her feet sunk from sight, she looked top-heavy. A pin at the end of a bowling lane. Something was causing a look of disgust. He peered down and spotted the plunger of a syringe.
‘We’re getting all the treats today,’ she announced grimly.
‘Manchester at its finest,’ Sean replied, lifting a foot clear of the mud and releasing a sulphurous smell.
Behind him, Magda let out a little exclamation.
He looked over his shoulder to see her arms waving unsteadily at her sides. ‘I stepped on that brick and it moved!’ She placed a gloved hand against the side wall then changed her mind. ‘Futu-i!’
He masked his smile by rubbing the end of his nose. He had no idea what it meant, but it was great when she swore in Romanian. Checking her expression, he saw she was genuinely freaked out. ‘Stay here, Magda. I’ll go.’
‘Really?’ She couldn’t hide her relief. ‘You’re sure?’
‘We don’t both need to see it, surely?’
Without waiting for an answer, he set off carefully towards a shallow barge that lay stranded on the canal bed. The council worker had explained this was where all the junk and debris would be thrown. When the water was let back in, the vessel would rise up and be towed away.
He regarded the blackened slimy brickwork level with his face. I’m five-ten, he thought. About three feet above my head, and the wall’s surface turns light grey. Which means that, when the lock’s full, the depth of water is around nine feet. Deep enough to hide all sorts.
He placed a hand on the side of the barge, grateful to grip something solid. He knew the metal must have been cold, but the thickness of his gloves made it impossible to tell. The tent was another dozen steps beyond it. He made his way forward, wet mud kissing and sucking at his feet. He spotted what looked like a handbag, its smooth strap wet. Eel-like.
The tent door had been left unzipped and he paused before lifting it aside. It’s going to be horrible, he told himself. You know that. Just get it done, it’ll be fine.
The dead man resembled a giant caterpillar. No, a grub. Something primeval emerging from the earth. Sean realized that, from the chest down, he was encased in a sleeping-bag. Red, where the material showed through the filth. His hair was heavily matted, straggles of it half obscuring the side of a face that had started to bloat. Which meant he’d gone in a day or two before. Maybe longer.
Sean rolled the tent door fully back and secured it with the Velcro tabs. That let in enough light to see and allowed the sour smell to dissipate.
Could the person have accidentally rolled in? A rough sleeper, comatose on alcohol or Spice or some other drug? Weird place to sleep, though. On a tow path, exposed to the weather. He noticed the bottom end of the sleeping bag bulged out.
Leaning down, he prodded it with a finger. Something hard. The bloke’s meagre possessions? Rammed in there so they couldn’t be stolen in the night? He crouched down and ran a hand over the material. A squarish shape. Another. And another. All about the same size. He closed his fingers round one, testing its weight. Heavy. Like a broken brick. The end of the sleeping bag was stuffed with them. He’d been weighed down. Or had weighed himself down.
Sean craned his neck towards the doorway and took in a massive breath of untainted air. The top of the sleeping bag was rumpled where it had slipped down. As he searched for the zip, Sean realized the top of the man’s head was severely lacerated. To the extent chunks of hair had been gouged out. More gashes covered the back of his neck. Rank.
He found the zip pull, but struggled to get hold of it. Bloody stupid great gloves. He didn’t have latex ones on underneath, so he’d have to keep them on. Nightmare. He thought he had about fifteen seconds before he’d need to breathe again. His fingers were like frankfurters, pink and rubbery. Finally, he got hold of the tab between a finger and thumb. The zip made a burring noise as he dragged it down.
A T-shirt, silt caked in its folds. The collar was torn, flesh of the exposed shoulder slashed deep. I could really do with breathing, he thought, noting the man’s forearms were dotted by prison tattoos. Palms together, as if in prayer. Puffed up fingers. Baby-like creases at the wrists. Not creases: something digging into the skin. Sean was now so desperate to get air, his throat felt like it was pulsating. Fighting the urge, he looked closer. Plastic. A thick ribbon of plastic. A plastic tie!
He stepped out of the tent and dragged in air like a diver escaping the deep.
Magda called out, ‘What’s it looking like?’
Sean curled his fingers then brought the backs of them together so they formed an M.
Murder.