on the tidal section. They can travel a mile a day, or more,’ giving her more than he needed to, info she could file away for future use.
‘What about the eyes,’ she said, nodding toward the empty pits. ‘I’m guessing … rats? Birds?’
‘Eels, probably,’ he said. ‘Greedy buggers. The type people eat jellied. Personally, I prefer a prawn cocktail …’
They shared a grin over the eyeless head.
‘And the injuries?’ asked Kershaw. ‘Any chance they could be pre-mortem?’
He bent to examine the deepest wound, through which the pale glimmer of the girl’s ribcage could be seen, and twisted his mouth sceptically: ‘Hard to say. Boats and barges can do a lot of damage, and she’s probably been in over a week. When it’s cold they stay under longer – the stomach gases take more time to build up.’
Moving up to the head, Kershaw bent to study the girl’s face, trying to ignore the yellowish foam bubbling out of her nostrils. The skin was puffy from prolonged immersion, which made it hard to tell what she might have looked like in life, but from her slim figure Kershaw guessed she was in her mid to late twenties – making them round about the same age. She was seized by a sudden need to know the girl’s identity.
‘Will we get prints off her?’ she asked the PC.
With a latex-gloved hand, he turned the girl’s left wrist palm-upwards to reveal the underside of her fingers, which were bloated and wrinkled, the skin starting to peel.
‘Washerwoman’s hands,’ he said, with a shake of the head. ‘You’ll get bugger all off them. We’ll take DNA samples, though – maybe you can get your budget manager to approve a test. The reference is DB16.’
Kershaw scribbled on her pad. ‘The sixteenth dead body you’ve found this year?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. And we’re not even four months in yet.’
The smell emanating from the body filled the tent now. A not-unpleasant riverine tang, but with a darker undernote that reminded Kershaw of mushrooms left in the fridge too long. She felt deflated, disappointed not to find something more … concrete. But then she thought: don’t be daft, Nat, did you really think you’d pitch up and spot something to solve the case, Prime Suspect style?
‘There’s no way she’d be naked, is there, if it was just suicide?’ she asked, suddenly anxious that the girl might turn out to be just another random jumper. ‘I mean her clothes, they couldn’t have come off by themselves, in the water?’
He turned his mouth down at the corners. ‘I’ve never heard of a current removing a bra and pants.’ They avoided each other’s eyes. ‘No, I’d say she was definitely naked when she went in,’ he went on. ‘And this time of year, I shouldn’t think she was skinny dipping.’
He bent to reach into a bag at his feet. ‘I’d better get on with the samples while she’s fresh,’ he said, and started to line up plastic vials on a nearby trestle table.
Left alone with the body, Kershaw noticed that the girl’s shoulder-length hair was drying at the ends, turning it a bright coppery gold. It was a shade her dad used to call Titian, she remembered, out of nowhere.
Her gaze fell on the girl’s left hand. It lay as the cop had left it, palm-up on the stainless steel, fingers slightly crooked, suggesting helplessness – or entreaty. A gust of wind whipped the tarpaulin flap open with a crack, making her jump.
‘I almost forgot,’ said the cop, returning to Kershaw’s side. ‘There is one bit of good news.’ Cupping his gloved hand under the girl’s hip, he tilted her body.
Near the base of the spine, just above the swell of the girl’s buttock, Kershaw could see what looked like a stain beneath the waterlogged whiteness of the skin. Bending closer, she realised it was a tattoo – an indigo heart, amateurish-looking, enclosing two names, obviously foreign: Pawel and Ela.
‘Gives you a head start on ID-ing her,’ the cop said, setting the body back down with surprising gentleness.
The rectangle of plastic snapped open as the last coin clinked through the slot, and Janusz stooped to his peephole. Beyond it, in the centre of a dimly lit windowless room, a slender naked girl writhed around a floor-to-ceiling pole under a shower of multicoloured lights.
Every trace of her body hair had been shaved or plucked away, making her nakedness absolute, apart from a single stud in her navel. The girl’s movements, timed to the grinding rock music, had a natural grace, but her made-up face was expressionless and her gaze focused on some distant point. Her long fingernails struck the only incongruous note – painted not the usual scarlet, but jet-black.
Janusz watched just long enough to make sure it was Kasia, then straightened and checked his watch, frowning, and tried to block out the alkaline reek of old semen in his cubicle. The music came to an end, only to be followed by another, smoochier number. Cursing softly, he glanced up at the ceiling and reached into his pocket.
He could still hear the smoke alarm wailing as he leant against the club’s rear wall enjoying his smoke – his fourth, or maybe fifth, cigar of the day. The last punter, a paunchy guy in his forties wearing a chalk-stripe suit, stumbled out of the fire exit, head bent as he finished fastening his fly. Noticing the big man in the old-fashioned trench coat, he straightened, and pulling out a pack of cigarettes, asked for a light.
Janusz sparked his lighter, although the guy had to bend forward to reach the flame. Then, blowing out a stream of smoke, the punter planted his feet apart and jabbed his chin over his shoulder. ‘Did you see the bird in there?’ he asked, with a man-to-man chuckle. ‘I’ll bet that’s a road well travelled.’
Janusz’s face remained impassive, so the guy didn’t notice his right hand clench reflexively into a fist, nor realise how close he was skating to a broken jaw.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Janusz, taking an unhurried draw on his cigar. ‘I just work here sometimes.’
The guy gave him an assessing look, trying to work out the accent – posh-sounding, but some foreign in there, too. ‘Yeah? You a bouncer then?’
Janusz shook his head.
‘Work behind the bar?’
Another shake. Then Janusz looked the guy in the face properly for the first time.
‘Look, it’s supposed to be hush-hush,’ he said, ‘but what the hell, today’s my last day in the job.’ He ground his cigar stub out on the wall and discarded it, then leaned closer. ‘I rig the hidden cameras in the peepshow booths,’ he said in a conspiratorial murmur.
The guy stared at him: ‘Cameras? I’ve never seen a camera in there.’
Janusz shrugged. ‘That’s because I’m pretty good at my job.’
The guy’s face was going red now. ‘So you’re telling me … they film the blokes watching the shows?’
Janusz
