The Body in the River
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 – The Body in the River
Chapter 3 – The Identification
Chapter 9 – The Fleming interview
Chapter 10 – A Time for Action
Chapter 14 – Bananas in Pyjamas
Chapter 18 – Showdown in Georgetown
Chapter 21 – What do we know so far?
Chapter 22 – The Magistrate’s Court
Chapter 29 – A Time For Action
Kindle edition
© 2016 T J Walter
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Book cover copyright @ Stephen Walter
New Parliament 2000
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‘
He hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is perfect gallows,
’
William Shakespeare
–
The Tempest
The Thames, London.
The tide was ebbing fast. On the inside of the bend above Limehouse Reach, water swirled in an eddy alongside the pilings lining the bank. The woman’s body swung back and forth at the pull of opposing forces. Her long blonde hair had become snagged on a jagged piece of metal protruding from one of the pilings while the falling tide was tugging the corpse downstream.
The helmsman of a passing police launch caught a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head and recognized it for what it was; a woman’s blouse. Throttling back, he turned excitedly to his companion.
Pointing with a forefinger, he said, ‘Sarg, look at that.’
His companion, Sergeant Rob Williamson of London’s Met Police, Thames Division, had spent most of his adult life on the river, first as a Thames lighter-man, then as a police officer. There was little that happened on the river that surprised him.
He replied calmly, ‘It’s a floater. Give me the helm and get the boathook ready.’
The two changed places, and Williamson turned the launch out of the main stream and towards the bank. Using the throttle to combat the current, he manoeuvred the launch close to the corpse; for a corpse it undoubtedly was, its face bloated, its eyes glazed.
The less experienced PC Ben Childs clumsily felt for somewhere to attach the hook, finally snagging the waist of the skirt worn by the corpse.
Pulling at it, he exclaimed, ‘Shit! Her hair’s snagged, I can’t get it loose.’
‘Well un-snag it, you idiot; you can’t hurt her now, she’s dead.’
Reluctantly, Childs yanked at the hair with the hook. Suddenly, the woman’s body came loose and floated away in the current – but Williamson was ready and manoeuvred the launch alongside it again. It took all Childs’ strength to get the sodden form over the gunwale and into the boat.
‘Oh my god!’ he said. ‘She’s got a stocking round her neck, she’s been strangled.’
‘OK. Now stop gawking, man. Cover her with a tarp and get on the radio. Get Leman Street CID to meet us at Wapping.’
*
Wapping was one of the oldest police stations in the country, dating back to the beginning of the nineteenth century. But it was no ordinary station; its function was to provide a base for the police launches that patrolled this part of the busy River Thames. It had a small front office to receive enquiries from members of the public but none of the other facilities of a fully operational police station.
The woman
’
s body was laid out on a plain wooden table in a small room behind the front office. She was incongruously dressed in a black formal skirt, white blouse, and an old green woollen cardigan. Her feet and legs were bare. A small group of police officers stood around the corpse, each with a suitably grim expression on his face.
They were watching a slightly-built man in his fifties, wearing a dinner suit and black tie, who was examining the woman
’
s body. He was Doctor Francis Bryce-Phillips, a Home Office pathologist. He
’
d pulled medical examiner
’
s gloves onto his hands and was poking and pulling at the body.
Finally he stepped back and snapped off his gloves.
‘
For the record, I can confirm life is extinct. I
’
d say she
’
s been in the water for no more than twenty-four hours. I
’
ve no doubt the cause of death will prove to be strangulation. Apart from the tights around her neck, the capillaries in the corneas of both eyes are burst and her tongue is swollen and protruding. These symptoms are consistent with strangulation. The gash on her cheek is post-mortem; probably caused by her coming into contact with something sharp in the river. So too were the flesh wounds to her scalp and the loss of hair, which I understand were the result of the hair being snagged on something.
’
He looked at PS Williamson for confirmation, who nodded without speaking.
The pathologist continued,
‘
More than that I won
’
t be able to tell you until I perform the autopsy. I
’
ll do that first thing in the morning. Now, I must get off; I
’
ve a function to attend.
’
He addressed his words to a tall man dressed in a dark business suit and raincoat.
In his late forties, the man
’
s dark hair was tinged with grey. His face was heavily lined, his brown eyes piercing. Detective Superintendent John Horatio Brookes, a twenty-five year veteran detective in charge of
‘
H
’
Division CID, nodded thoughtfully and said,
‘
Thank you, Doctor. Can you say at this stage if she has been sexually assaulted?
’
Doctor Bryce-Phillips shook his head impatiently.
‘
There
’
s no way I can tell without a proper examination. Her underwear appears to be intact but that
’
s all I can say.
’
‘
What about other injuries?
’
‘
None obvious. But I don
’
t have time to examine her thoroughly. I have to go; I
’
ve told you I
’
m late already.
’
‘
And I must launch a murder enquiry, Doctor; I need to know as much as possible as soon as possible.
’
His words were blunt, his tone barely within the bounds of politeness.
‘
I
’
m sorry, there
’
s nothing else I can tell you at this stage. I
’
ll start the PM at nine am sharp. Now, good day to you, Superintendent.
’
He swept out of the room without another word.
Brookes turned to the uniform standing beside him.
‘
It
’
s Sergeant Williamson, isn
’
t it?
’
The man nodded.
‘
Yes, sir.
’
‘
How well do you know the river, Sergeant?
’
‘
Pretty well, sir, I
’
ve spent most of my working life on it.
’
‘
Good; assuming she
’
s been in the river for about twenty-four hours, tell me where you think she might have been put in.
’
Williamson blew out his cheeks.
‘
Do you know the river at all, sir?
’
‘
Not that well. Assume I know nothing, tell me what you think.
’
‘
Well, sir, the Thames here has a way all of its own; I
’
m sure you know it
’
s tidal, even this far up river.
’
Brookes nodded,
‘
Go on.
’
‘
There is a main channel where the water runs fast, ebbing and flowing. But that channel doesn
’
t always follow the centre of the river; there are too many bends. Despite those, the water tries to travel in a straight line, so when it comes to a bend it rushes into the bank and then changes direction. Now this leaves eddies and slack water on the inside of the bends. In addition to that there
’
s a big undertow in the mainstream; water at the bottom flows at a different pace to that on the surface.
’
He paused again to make sure Brookes was still with him.
This time more impatiently, Brookes said,
‘
Yes, carry on.
’
‘
Now, if she hasn
’
t been in the water for more than twenty-four hours and the body wasn
’
t weighed down with anything, it
’
s likely that it stayed near the surface. And she would likely have been thrown out of the main current at some stage at one or more of the bends. I
’
ve looked at the tide tables. I
’
d guess that she won
’
t have travelled far with the tides going back and forth. Probably no more than a mile or two off where we found her. We found her at the top of Limehouse Reach, so that puts her point of entry somewhere between Canning Town and Tower Bridge. But it
’
s not an exact science, sir, more an educated guess.
’
‘
You mean she could have come further?
’
‘
It
’
s possible but unlikely. Of course, if someone threw her off a boat in mid-stream, anything
’
s possible.
’
‘
She doesn
’
t look dressed for a boat trip, does she?
’
‘
No, sir.
’
‘
But we can
’
t discount the possibility?
’
‘
No, sir.
’
‘
OK, that
’
s useful. Thanks, Sergeant. I understand that you guys will take her fingerprints?
’
Williamson nodded.
‘
Good,
’
Brookes continued.
‘
Please do that before you leave
–
and let me have your statements.
’
Turning to the DS by his side, Fred Middlemiss, he said,
‘
OK, Fred. She
’
s young, mid-twenties, and she doesn
’
t look like a drop-out. Someone must know she
’
s missing. Get Press Bureau to issue a description but leave out the pantyhose; we
’
ll keep that to ourselves for the time being. We
’
ve lost a day already and can
’
t afford to lose any more time. Phone DI Short and get him to set up the incident room at Leman Street and get the rest of the team together. I want them all there at eight in the morning. I
’
ll attend the PM with you. I doubt forensics will come up with much from her clothing after it
’
s been in the water this long, but get them to have a look anyway. Anything else you can think of that needs doing tonight?
’
‘
No, boss. Just one thing that
’
s bugging me: the way she
’
s dressed.
’
‘
Me too, Fred; it
’
s sort of half-formal, half-casual. As if she got home from work, took off her coat, and slipped on a warm cardigan. And it
’
s October, too cold for her to go out dressed like that of her own accord. But I don
’
t see what we can do about that until we find out who she is and where she lived. Get Press Bureau onto it and put out an all-stations bulletin; I think that
’
s all we can do tonight.
’