Detective Constable Patsy Yardley had had enough. And it was still early morning.
She pulled the hood of her anorak tight round her head, looked along the towpath that stretched from the back of the Mailbox all the way past the Gasworks Basin, right to the Sea Life Centre, and wished, not for the first time that morning, that she was still in bed.
‘Think of the overtime,’ said her partner, Detective Constable Pam Chapman.
‘Normally I would. But that’s not much compensation this time.’
‘Think of the glamour, then.’
Patsy ignored her partner, kept walking along the towpath. The rain battering them. Patsy could barely see through her glasses. Both of them wore padded anoraks to keep out the cold and the wet, and they were glad of them. But there was another reason Patsy was glad she was dressed like that. It made her look as sexless as possible.
They had been given the task of tracking down violent sex offenders from the list that Elli had generated. The two they had visited the night before could be struck off the list. One was morbidly obese – nowhere near a match for the photo – and also a ponytailed biker. He protested that he shouldn’t have been on the sex offenders register, that it was all a mistake. He’d been stitched up by someone from a rival gang. Been set up with an underage girl who lied about her age. That was all. And yeah, he’d been violent. But only to the person who’d set him up. Wouldn’t you be the same?
But all the time he was talking to them, proclaiming his innocence, Patsy had been aware of him trying to mentally undress her. Aware of something dark and twisted lurking inside him. They questioned him about Glenn McGowan. From his answers, whatever else he might have been, they knew he wasn’t involved. Another one off the list.
The next one had been getting ready to go on a date. Pam had asked him who with. He became cagey, reticent. When she persisted, he became angry. They knew he had done time for child abuse and spousal abuse. He was a predator, a planner. He played the long game, insinuated himself in the life of a single mother, got to know her, moved in on her kids. Got them where he wanted them, then started to have his fun. He had nothing to do with the murder of Glenn McGowan. They were sure of that. But they did make a note to check up on him, find out who he was seeing. They didn’t want him to repeat his patterns of offending. They didn’t want him to find a new victim.
They kept walking along the towpath.
‘Is it much further?’ asked Pam from beneath her hood.
‘Are we there yet? Are we there yet?’ Patsy replied in a childlike, sing-song voice, mocking her.
‘Piss off.’ Pam walked faster. Eager to get it over with. ‘Where’s this next one?’ she added. ‘Wouldn’t want to miss it.’
‘King Edward’s Wharf,’ Patsy replied. ‘Just along here.’
‘Always fancied a houseboat,’ said Pam. ‘Something romantic about them. You know, pootling along, parking up here and there, some handsome lock keeper wearing an Aran sweater looking like Liam Neeson popping up to help you…’
‘You’d never be able to stand upright, Pam. You’re nearly six foot. Get real.’
‘I know.’
‘And your lock keeper might be wearing an Aran sweater, but he’ll look sod all like Liam Neeson. More like Brian Blessed.’
‘Yeah, all right. It was just a little fantasy, that’s all.’
They reached King Edward’s Wharf. A block of new flats contrasting with the brightly painted houseboats moored below.
‘Which one is it?’
Patsy checked her list. ‘Along here.’
They walked along the side of the wharf, counting the berths. The houseboat chimneys were smoking, roofs steaming where the rain hit and met the warmth from inside them. Patsy had to admit they did look nice and cosy. But then anywhere would on a day like this.
‘Here it is.’ Pam stopped walking. The berth they wanted was on the opposite side of the flats. It was next to a set of crumbling Portakabins, fenced off from the path by a sad-looking mesh barrier. In contrast to the rest of the well-maintained wharf, the path here was covered in weeds and rubbish. The boat matched its surroundings. It wasn’t as old as the other houseboats but it was in much worse condition. Rotting and rusting, its roof and walls mildewed and leaking. Curling gaffer tape had been used to temporarily patch up holes that were now letting in water. Its windows were rattling and ill-fitting.
The two women shared a glance.
‘Someone lives here?’ asked Pam. ‘Looks like it’s ready to sink.’
‘Let’s get it over with, then,’ said Patsy. ‘What’s the name?’
‘Scott Sheriff,’ said Pam, looking once again at the list. ‘Let’s get this done and go and find a café on Broad Street. I’m soaked through.’
Patsy put her hand on the door to knock. It was open.
They exchanged another glance.
‘Mr Sheriff?’ she called. ‘Hello?’
No reply.
‘Mr Sheriff?’ she called again. ‘It’s Detective Constable Yardley and Detective Constable Chapman, West Midlands Police. Could we have a word, please?’
Nothing.
Another shared glance.
‘We’re coming in, Mr Sheriff, just want to see that everything is OK…’
Patsy pushed open the door and immediately recoiled. The smell coming from inside complemented the exterior completely. ‘Jesus…’
She stepped inside. And hurriedly came out again.
‘What… what’s the matter? What’s there?’
‘Call it in,’ said Patsy. ‘We’ve got a body.’