experienced committee man negotiating his way into a position of relative advantage. What it had to do with catching villains he wasn’t sure.
‘Is that the missing girl investigation?’ Brock asked.
Forbes looked startled. He turned to Inspector Rickets, who glanced at Brock. ‘PC Sangster briefed you on that, sir?’
‘She mentioned that was why she was at Silvermeadow in the first place.’
‘Yes, well, she won’t be aware that there have been further developments in that case, sir. A body has been found.’
‘At Silvermeadow?’
‘Not quite. But there seems to be a connection.’
‘And that being the case,’ Forbes broke in, ‘we may well find ourselves conducting an Area Major Investigation right where you want to be discreet and inconspicuous. Hence my thought that some measure of co- ordination, co-operation…’
Brock had a distinct feeling that he was being manoeuvred, though he couldn’t yet see the point. ‘Do you think that’s going to be called for?’ he asked dubiously. ‘An Area Major Investigation?’
‘We’re not sure yet. The status of the case is currently being reassessed. But it has some disturbing, not to say intriguing features, Brock. And I was wondering if we might possibly prevail upon you, with your considerable specialist expertise, to lend us an hour or two of your valuable time to give us your own assessment. It might just avoid a great deal of unnecessary difficulty further down the track.’
Insurance, Brock thought, that’s what he’s after, in his pompous, roundabout way. Fireproof me with your considerable specialist expertise or I’ll get in your way and stuff up your case.
Perhaps it was an uncharitable thought, and in any case, Brock had never been one to walk away from a murder with disturbing, not to say intriguing features.
‘DS Gurney has some homework to do,’ Brock said, ‘reactivating Criminal Intelligence records on North’s connections in this part of the country. While he’s doing that, I’d be glad to offer whatever assessment I can on your other case. Only I missed lunch. Any chance of a sandwich to eat on the way there?’
Forbes beamed. ‘You shall have the best our canteen can offer.’
He turned to Rickets, who looked doubtful. ‘I believe the workmen have cut off power to the kitchen, sir, but we’ll do our level best.’
2
D etective Sergeant Gavin Lowry opened the door of the patrol car for Brock as soon as it came to a halt outside Number Three Shed, introduced himself and led him through the tall metal doors into the cavernous interior. Brock had an impression of vast scale, a shadowy Piranesian dungeon lit from high above by a few blinding industrial lamps, whose baleful glare illuminated a cardboard hillside, an unstable-looking avalanche of compacted cardboard blocks with the texture of a giant’s breakfast cereal.
‘They found her down there, sir,’ Lowry said, pointing to one corner, around which the figures of scene of crime officers in white nylon overalls were crawling. ‘One of the men was loading the waste onto the back of that truck. The bale split open and she was inside.’
‘How long ago was that, Sergeant?’ Brock asked, watching the man reach into the inside pocket of his black suit. A sharp dresser, mid-thirties, gel in his hair, after-shave, a smoker. His accent was standard Estuarine, Essex Man, delivered with a cool reserve, anxious to impress, Brock guessed, without showing it. He pulled the wallet of Polaroid pictures from his pocket and offered them to Brock.
‘The foreman placed a triple niner at eight forty-three this morning, sir. Reported the discovery of a body.’ He looked at his watch and automatically straightened his cuff again. ‘I’ve been here over five hours.’ He recounted briefly what steps he’d taken: the disposition of the SOCO teams, photographer, medical examiner.
‘The body’s been removed?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Brock put on his reading glasses and studied the photographs, peering at the strangely distorted figure coiled tight, pale and naked, inside a clear plastic wrapping, disconcertingly like some pre-packaged meal, a chicken leg perhaps, all ready for the microwave.
‘What did the FME have to say?’
‘Naked human, probably female, probably young, possibly adolescent, five to seven stone, between four six and five six, shoulder-length fair hair. No indication of cause of death, or time.’
‘Couldn’t get much vaguer than that.’ Brock turned to get more light onto the square glossy images.
‘She’s inside a heavy-duty clear plastic bag, as you can see, sir, and the doc didn’t want to open it up here. He reckoned she’d been crushed in a machine.’
‘A machine?’
‘Yeah, a compactor. The guy who runs this place is over there. He’ll explain the technicalities.’
‘No identification, then?’
‘We could see a ring on one of her fingers. It matches the description of one worn by a missing person, Kerri Vlasich, age fourteen, disappeared Monday, sir.’
They walked towards an incongruously dressed figure: bright yellow yachting jacket, white slacks and espadrilles, a navy peaked cap on his head.
‘This is Mr Cherry, sir. The manager of the plant,’ Lowry said.
‘FD, facilities director,’ Cherry corrected tersely. He looked impatient and tense.
‘Perhaps you could tell me what’s going on here, Mr Cherry?’ Brock asked.
‘I’ve already explained it half a dozen times.’
‘For my benefit, if you don’t mind.’
Cherry pursed his lips with frustration, then spoke rapidly. ‘This is one of four WTE plants…’ He saw the look on Brock’s face and checked himself. ‘Waste-to-energy plant,’ he said. ‘Two thousand TPD rating, mixed WTE facility with front-end processing of mixed MSW.. .’
He spoke hurriedly, as if preoccupied with some overwhelming inner problem, so that the incomprehensible acronyms spilled out of their own accord.
‘TPD? MSW?’ Brock interrupted mildly.
‘Tons per day,’ Mr Cherry replied automatically. ‘Municipal solid wastes.’
A phone began sounding from an inside pocket of his jacket, and he snatched it out. It was the same bright yellow colour as his coat. ‘Christ! What now?’ He hunched away from the police and barked, ‘Yeah? No, no, no, don’t do that, sweetheart… Just be patient, yes? Please… Hang on…’
He turned back to Brock. ‘How long, you reckon? Before you’ll be through with me?’
‘Hard to say, Mr Cherry.’
‘Shit.’ He turned away again, tucking the phone into his shoulder for privacy but making the gesture futile by raising his voice. ‘There’s some chicken and stuff in the galley, sweetheart… no, the kitchen… and a bottle of bubbly in the fridge… Did you? Oh, well, there’s more in the cupboard in the corner… Lie down, have a rest, eh?… How can you be seasick when you’re still tied up to the berth?… Take a walk outside, sweetheart. I’ll ring you back in half an hour.’
He put the phone away, took a deep breath. ‘Right. Okay. What do you want to know?’
‘Has this happened before, Mr Cherry?’
‘What?’ He looked alarmed. ‘With…?’ His voice trailed off. ‘Oh, you mean the body?’
‘Yes, the body.’
‘No, never. They joke about it, the lads, but this is the first time it’s actually happened.’
‘Maybe if you explained to me in laymen’s terms what goes on here, at the plant. You dispose of refuse, do you?’
‘In a nutshell, yeah. It comes from all over Essex and east London. We do some front-end processing to the mixed waste for general recovery and recycling in the building near the front gates. The rest goes up the ramp for processing into RDF-refuse-derived fuel.’
