They went east on the Mancunian Way, following the elevated section of motorway as it passed a cluster of sombre, functional buildings belonging to the University of Manchester. Sean looked down to the grass verge of the road below. Recently, the cluster of homeless people’s tents that had taken root there had been forcibly cleared and security fencing erected round it. After a few more seconds, they dropped down and were on the Hyde Road, heading away from the city centre.
They continued through Belle Vue and Gorton. Shortly after they passed beneath a railway bridge, the road rose up to a large junction of traffic lights. The grassy expanse of Debdale Park was now visible beyond the railings to their left. They drove another couple of hundred metres and spotted a patrol car beside the main entrance. Magda pulled up behind it and a female officer in uniform approached the vehicle’s passenger side.
‘DC Blake and DS Dragomir, SCU,’ Sean announced through the open window. ‘We’re here for the body.’
She pointed to a narrow track barely visible beside the metal gates. A No Entry sign patched with rust jutted out from the straggly hedge. ‘It’s that way. You can leave the car here.’
Sean climbed out and studied his surroundings. A large notice board inside the entrance listed the park’s amenities: tennis courts, bowling green, football pitches, skateboard area, pitch and putt, outdoor centre: dingy sailing and canoeing.
‘He was found by the causeway,’ the uniformed officer added. ‘It separates what was the upper and lower reservoirs.’
‘They are no longer reservoirs?’ Magda asked across the top of the car.
‘No. Just lakes now. Since they built the Audenshaw reservoirs,’ she nodded in the direction of the M60, ‘all the area’s water comes from them.’
‘Local historian, are you?’ Magda asked with a smile, zipping up her jacket.
The constable gestured at the main gates. ‘Just read the information board over there.’
Sean smiled. ‘You could have got away with that.’ He stepped toward the track and saw it was cratered with potholes, most of them full of water. ‘How far?’
‘Just a few minutes. It branches to the left: you’ll see the CSI van.’
‘And if we carried straight on, where would we end up?’
‘Well, Fairfield Sailing Club’s at the far end of the upper lake and, beyond that, Audenshaw’s housing estates, I suppose.’
‘Is this track used by the public, then?’
‘Dog walkers, mainly. Judging by the amount of mess.’
‘OK, cheers. Can you radio ahead and say we’re on our way?’
‘Will do.’
He lifted the police tape stretched across the mouth of the track so Magda could duck under. As they picked their way forward, the drone of traffic moving along the Hyde Road was soon muffled by the rears of houses on their right. Sean examined their windows: the bathroom ones were frosted, but others weren’t. Several also had motion-sensor security lights, but no sign of any cameras.
The branches of the scruffy hedgerow on their left were adorned by little black polythene bags, each one weighed down by a lump. Christmas tree baubles from hell.
‘Which person is worse?’ Magda asked. ‘The one who just leaves the dog-do on the ground or the one who bags it up, but then hangs it from a twig for everyone to see?’
‘They’re all nemernics,’ Sean muttered.
Magda’s face lit up. ‘Very good! But for more than one, it’s nemernici.’
‘Do people leave their dog’s crap lying all over the place in Romania?’
She regarded him for a second. ‘Sean, in Romania, we have only two types: guard dogs or toy dogs. Neither go for walks. You people are crazy about dogs in this country.’
Sean laughed.
Ahead of them, a white CSI van was wedged into the slightly wider section of track at the turn off. They squeezed round the vehicle and proceeded along the finger of land. The dull glint of water was soon visible through the hedge on either side. To their left, the foliage thinned to reveal a narrow verge of grass. Several uniforms and CSIs were chatting at the water’s edge. A few metres further on was a green shelter.
‘Afternoon,’ Magda announced. ‘SCU.’
A sergeant stepped forward. ‘Hello there.’ He half turned back to the lake. ‘He was spotted this morning, just after eleven o’clock.’
‘Who by?’ Sean asked. ‘A dog walker?’
The sergeant held up a finger. ‘Actually, no. A park warden. He’d come to check on a swan that usually nests on the upper lake. He saw the fishing tent, but no sign of Mr Nordern, so wandered over for a closer look.’
‘The warden knew the victim, then?’ Magda asked.
‘Yes,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Apparently, the victim would fish out here quite often. Plus, he works part-time for the council’s Parks Maintenance Service.’
Which fits with what Lee Goodwin’s mum said, thought Sean.
The sergeant led them to the tape that formed a perimeter along the shore. The sodden shoulders and back of a dark coat were visible just above the surface of the grey water, about four feet out. Trapped air was keeping the moist material taut. Looks just like the skin of a dolphin, Sean thought.
‘Closer up, you can see down through the water. His hands have been secured behind his back with what looks very much like a plastic tie.’
Sean glanced at Magda.
‘Any idea how long he’s been in the water?’ she asked.
‘Well, he set up at dusk, according to the park warden.’ The sergeant nodded at the tent. ‘So it was at some point during the night.’
‘Has this warden been statemented?’
‘By me. He’s now back at the offices by the visitors’ centre.’
‘And arrangements to bring out the body?’
‘Underway. A specialist team is due here in about an hour.’
‘No attempt to weigh this one down,’ Sean observed. ‘In fact, no attempt at any concealment.’
Magda turned in the direction of the shelter. ‘Any sign of a struggle?’
‘The opposite, if anything.’
She glanced at the sergeant. ‘How do you mean?’
He led them along a series of metal footplates that stretched, like stepping stones, to the front of the fisherman’s tent. It was six feet tall and open ended. Inside it were two collapsible camping chairs. Nestled among a variety of fishing paraphernalia were plenty of empty cans.
‘McEwans Extra Strength,’ Sean commented. ‘Not far off meths, that stuff.’
‘Meths?’ Magda asked.
‘White spirit. Lethal alcohol content.’
‘Ah.’
‘You can’t see it from here, but the CSI found evidence of cannabis use in there, as well. A pipe and a lighter.’
‘So he was here to fish or to party?’ asked Magda.
‘I think the fishing’s often just the excuse,’ Sean replied, looking at the rod propped up by the shelter. Just beneath its tip, a baitless hook swung in the gentle breeze. ‘Who reeled it in?’
‘The warden,’ replied the sergeant, making his way back to his colleagues. ‘Didn’t want some poor fish suffering for nothing.’
Sean watched him go before thrusting his hands into his pockets.
‘What do you think is interesting here?’ Magda asked, studying the shelter.
‘Two chairs are set up.’
She nodded. ‘Good. What happened, I wonder, to his companion? I think we need to get back and brief Ransford. If this is a double, it creates questions about resources.’
Sean took in the CSIs methodically searching for evidence on the shore adjacent to where the body broke the surface of the shallows. ‘You mean asking for help?’
Magda regarded his look of disappointment then smiled up at the sky. ‘Eager as the beaver.’
Sean shrugged. ‘What if it doesn’t turn out to be a hard-to-do job? I’d prefer it being just us sorting it out.’
‘Such enthusiasm,’ she replied lightly. ‘A few more months will take care of that.’ She called across to the sergeant. ‘When the body’s brought out, make sure the videographer gets really close in on the plastic tie. We need to try and match it to another victim found in the canal.’
‘Will do.’
She surveyed the shelter once more. ‘Seen enough?’
‘I think so.’
‘OK, let’s get back, see Ransford and start the PNC checks.’
As they emerged back at the park’s main entrance, Magda let out a groan. ‘Sniffed this out a bit quick, didn’t he?’
Sean saw a pudgy-faced man of about forty making his way over. Large thighs gave him a slight waddle. He had heavily lidded eyes that made him appear sleepy, or slightly bored.
‘Anything you can give me, detectives?’
Magda whispered quickly to Sean. ‘Christopher Waite, crime reporter with the Chronicle. Slippery as an eel.’
The man was the other side of the tape, camera-phone held up.
Magda shook her head. ‘An announcement will go on the voice bank, Christopher. You know the score.’
‘Actually, it’s Chris. Is it a floater? Another male – like the one in the canal at Castlefield?’
‘So sorry, Christopher – but I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Magda replied. She waited until they’d pulled out onto the main road before speaking. ‘Shit, how did he know that?’
‘Search me,’ Sean replied. ‘But I bet it will be lead story on their website before we’re back at our desks.’