forehead.
‘I’d say that was a given.’ Phil looked at his watch. ‘CSI on the way?’ Phil hated saying that. But since the TV franchise had conquered the world the department insisted.
Rose nodded. ‘Ben called them on the way here.’
‘Probably stopped for an ice cream,’ said Mickey Philips, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his gloved hand.
Phil ignored him.
‘No one touch anything,’ Phil said then looked pointedly at his DS. ‘No sweat and certainly no more vomit. Let’s get this crime scene sealed off.’
The three of them left the boat as the uniforms stepped in and did their job. The roads were cordoned off, blue and white tape stretched across all access routes, traffic stopped down the road and turned back. The CSIs would assume the largest possible area for a crime scene then circle inwards, blue-suited birds of prey, narrowing their scope of reference down to just the body. Then, using their painstaking, occult sciences, hopefully recreate the path it took to reach there. And, more importantly, tell Phil and his team who put it there. And maybe even how to catch them.
There was a man sitting on a wood and concrete bench in front of an urban regeneration mural. Middle-aged and balding, in a blue polo shirt with an exercise-free stomach spilling over the complaining waistband of work trousers. He looked visibly shaken. A uniformed officer who had been sitting with him stood up, crossed towards Phil.
‘That the guy who phoned it in?’ said Phil.
She nodded.
‘Made a statement?’
She nodded. ‘Came to open the garage as usual. Saw some seagulls – an unusual amount, he said – congregating on the deck of the boat. Crossed over to shoo them away, saw the body.’
‘He see anything else? Hear anything? Vans? People acting suspiciously?’
She looked down the length of the quay. ‘You know what some of these firms are like down here, boss. If it wasn’t for suspicious characters they’d have gone out of business long ago.’
Phil sighed. ‘Point taken. But take him through it again. You never know, something might trigger a memory. Thanks.’
The officer nodded, turned her attention back to the seated man. Phil turned back to the boat. He couldn’t see the body for the lip of the boat’s side but he knew it was there.
Mickey Philips came and stood alongside him, his eyes as focused as Phil’s, his hood pulled down. The departure of Phil’s previous DS had been traumatic, murdered in the course of work, an act which had devastated the whole team. He knew Mickey Philips was aware of that, knew his attempts at humour, however misplaced, his strained bonhomie, were just his way of trying to fit in.
Phil gave him a quick glance. The DS was unzipping his blue suit, pulling his shirt away from his chest to allow air to circulate. Mickey Philips was a burly, rugby-playing type. Stocky and muscled, like a shaved and domesticated bull. He was dressed like every policeman was supposed to be. Well-cut – but not flashy – suit. Polished shoes. Short, spiky haircut. Cufflinks, even. Under his paper suit, Phil looked the opposite. And deliberately so. Jeans. Superdry trainers. An untucked, flowered shirt with a suit jacket over the top. Hair spiked and quiffed. When he had graduated from uniform and joined the Major Incident Squad he had been adamant he wouldn’t be swapping one uniform for another. And he had stuck to his word. In fact, he was well dressed by his usual standards.
DS Rose Martin came over to join them, her paper suit dispensed with altogether. Phil got his first real look at her. Tall and big-boned yet fit and lean, her straight black hair was cut into a long bob with a fringe resting below her eyebrows. And with her jeans, T-shirt, boots and designer-looking, collarless leather bike jacket, she looked like she fitted Phil’s work ethos better than Mickey Philips. But appearances, he knew, were deceptive.
Phil hoped there wouldn’t be tension between these two. He already had trouble with another of his DCs, Anni Hepburn. She had put herself in for promotion when the DS position needed filling, been unsuccessful and was consequently harbouring resentment about it. He had tried to call her, get her to join him this morning, but she had already been called out on another matter. He wondered whether she had arranged that deliberately.
He just hoped his team could put aside whatever differences they had and work together. They had to. It was his job to ensure that.
‘Right,’ said Phil, ‘before we start, any questions?’
‘Boss…’ said Mickey.
‘Yes, Mickey?’
‘Well…’ He glanced round at the boat, back to Phil. ‘I’m just wondering. I know I’m new here, coming from the drugs squad an’ that, but this looks pretty serious. Less like a one-off and more like a serial in the making, you know what I mean?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Well, shouldn’t we think about getting a profiler in?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ said Phil.
‘D’you know any good ones?’ said Rose.
‘One or two,’ said Phil. ‘One in particular.’
‘Worth a call?’ said Mickey.
Phil became thoughtful. Marina Esposito was the best profiler he had ever worked with. She was also his partner. His soulmate. The mother of his child. And the cause of his problems he had tried not to bring to work with him that morning. Right now she was distant. Hard to read, to talk to. Secretive, even. About where she went, what she did. Something wasn’t right. He would have to sort it out, talk to her. Work it out between them. It had taken so much to get them together, he wasn’t going to let anything pull them apart.
‘Not at the moment,’ said Phil. ‘She’s… busy. Anything else?’
They both shook their heads.
‘Good. Oh, and one more thing.’
They looked at him expectantly.
‘Welcome to MIS,’ Phil said.
4
‘Hi.’
Marina Esposito sat down in the chair provided, looked at the man opposite her. He was still, his face, his posture serene, in an attitude of listening. She gave him a small, tentative smile.
‘Traffic was awful,’ she said. ‘Murder coming up past the station. Everything rerouted, for some reason.’ She sighed. It covered up the awkwardness she was feeling. ‘But I made it. Wouldn’t want to miss our session.’
She was dressed in a long, black linen skirt, white linen top, jewellery. Large-lensed sunglasses pushed up on the top of her thick, dark, curly hair. It felt good to be out of the house. To get dressed up for something. For anything. Even to come here.
Marina pulled the chair round, positioned it the way she wanted. The windows were open, the late spring/early summer air and morning sunshine giving the institutionalised room a warmth and life it didn’t often have.
‘Right then…’ She sighed again. Then found things that needed doing before she could next speak. Physical actions that helped to compose her mind. She switched her phone to silent, rearranged the contents of her bag prior to placing it on the floor. Marvelled at some of the things she found there. Pushed her hair behind her ears, arranged her neckline. Pulled her top away from her chest, allowed air to travel down there, stop it sticking. Eventually, with nothing more to occupy them, her hands came to rest in her lap like grounded birds. The signal that she was finally ready to talk.
‘So…’ She glanced at him. His face was immobile. Waiting. ‘I’ll start. It’s been… OK. Yeah,’ she said, as if convincing herself, ‘OK. Josephina’s doing well. I’ve left her with her… with Eileen and Don. They love her. So that’s… that’s where she is this morning.’
