be. Traced them up to here. In that corner there, specifically.’
‘So… what? A bank of TV screens, or something?’
Adrian gave a grim smile. ‘It’s the twenty-first century, boss. All you need is a laptop and the right software.’
‘And our man had that.’
‘Oh yes.’
Phil shook his head. Adrian Wren loved a gadget. He would be in his element with this line of inquiry. ‘So,’ said Phil. ‘This was planned. Premeditated, yes?’
‘Meticulously, I’d say.’
‘Would we be able to trace him from the equipment? Find him from where he bought it? I’m assuming this is specialised stuff. You won’t get it at Currys.’
‘You’re right there. It could be government-issue. Army. I’ll be looking in to it.’
Phil frowned. ‘Why did he leave it behind? Didn’t he know we’d find it?’
‘I don’t know. He’s taken his laptop. Maybe he’s got another set of cameras and can start again. Maybe he got what he wanted here and didn’t need them any more. But that’s not all.’
Phil’s stomach flipped. He didn’t like the tone of Adrian’s voice, the look in his eye when he said that.
‘There.’ Adrian moved forward. Phil followed.
Two rows of bottles, the kind of specimen jars a doctor provides, were displayed neatly along the last door before the wall. All of them containing something off-white and viscous.
‘We’ve had a look at one of them. Human semen. He’s been knocking one out and saving it. Collecting them till he’s got the set. Don’t know what for, though.’
‘Tributes?’ suggested Phil. ‘Saving it all up for the woman he loves?’
Adrian grimaced. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day. Lovely.’
‘Get them analysed. Might get a DNA match.’
‘Already doing it.’ Adrian sighed. ‘He was living here, too. Bottling and boxing up his waste, leaving it under the floor. It looks like he had a sleeping bag here too.’
‘Food?’
‘Few remains. Wrappers from energy bars, that kind of thing. Red Bull cans. Maybe he went downstairs if he wanted anything else, helped himself when Suzanne was out.’
‘And there’s no trace of him now.’
Adrian shook his head. ‘Place is cold. My guess is he took Suzanne and headed out with her. Got what he wanted, no need to come back here.’
Phil stood staring at the scene before him, saying nothing, thinking.
Working out what to do next.
‘The others,’ he said eventually.
Adrian listened.
‘Julie Miller. Adele Harrison. Was he watching them?’
‘He might have been…’
‘I’d say he definitely was.’ He looked round, suddenly anxious to be out of the loft, on the move. ‘Can I leave you with this?’
Adrian nodded.
‘I’m off to check the other women on the list, see if he’s been there.’ He sighed.
‘Just what we need to be looking for. An obsessed survivalist. Brilliant…’
64
‘Hello? Mr Buchan…’
No reply.
Anni could see the crime scene on the lightship from where she stood. King Edward Quay on the Hythe stretched away from the Colne Causeway Bridge with the upscale apartments either side of it to a series of newly installed mooring points. The walkway had been block-paved with new trees planted in specified circular areas at regular intervals. Each mooring point had a heavy metal tie for the rope to be looped round and a power-point post providing an electricity supply for each berthed vessel. The electricity substation hummed behind a spiked metal fence over the road behind her.
The boats varied. Some were narrowboats, freshly painted and decked out in traditional livery and colours. One was a larger boat, part home, part business, with a sign on the deck offering river tours alongside plant pots and chained-up bikes. Some were old fishing vessels extended into house-boats.
Eventually the pavement, the trees and the power-point posts ran out. On one side of the narrow road the businesses faded away leaving only piles of greening timber and full skips behind spiked metal railings and rusting ‘Keep Out’ signs. Piles of rubble formed small mountain ranges on old, cracked, weed-infested concrete forecourts. What buildings there were were single-storey, over forty years old. Like an idea of the future from a sixties Gerry Anderson puppet series and just as accurate. Next to them was a huge, old, square building, the Colchester Dock Transit Company announced on the side in faded, peeling capital letters. It was all rusted and mildewed corrugated iron cladding with an ancient crane and cabin outside. The walls were covered in graffiti bringing unexpected, surprisingly welcome bursts of colour to the drab, depressing surroundings. Boarded-up doors carried warnings that inside was unsafe and to stay out.
The boats moored along this section mirrored their surroundings.
No mooring posts or power points or trees here.
Just old rusting wrecks, mostly unserviceable, superannuated fishing boats, their water-going days long behind them. Now left to rust away to nothing, float, piece by piece, out to sea on the tide.
It was one of these that the next contact on Anni’s list had given as an address.
‘Hello… Mr Buchan…’ She called again. With more trepidation this time.
Still no reply.
There was nothing on the deck to show that the boat was lived in or even habitable, apart from a hand-painted sign hanging at an angle on a death trap of a boarding ramp: ‘Rani’.
She looked round. No one about. Even though it was another hot, sunny day with a cloudless blue sky, she felt a damp chill run through her because of her surroundings. The boarding ramp was open. The door to the hold looked unlocked. She gave another quick look round, stepped on to the boat.
The tide was out and it was pitched at an angle on a mud-bank. Anni crossed the deck, careful of her footing as some of the wooden planks felt soft and rotten beneath her feet. She reached the wheelhouse, leaned across and pulled on the small wooden door. Unlocked. It opened slowly on creaky, horror-movie hinges. Before her was darkness, a steep set of stairs leading down.
‘Mr Buchan?’
Nothing. Just an echo.
She took another look round. Then went slowly and carefully down the steps.
The only illumination in the hold came from gaps in the wooden ceiling and rusted walls. Jacob’s ladders of light criss-crossed in front of her, dust motes dancing in the rays.
She looked round. Grimaced.
On the floor were a sleeping bag, some old newspapers, dirty underwear and T-shirts. Opened and emptied food cans lay about, with varying degrees of fungal growth attached to them, looking like an Al-Qaeda chemical weapons breeding lab. It stank of waste, decay. Scratching, scuttling noises sounded underfoot as Anni moved.
That was bad enough. But it was the walls that really made her gasp.
Pictures, everywhere. Dotted around randomly, culled from different sources. Some cut from newspapers, grinning topless models and celebrities. Others, their open legs, naked bodies, faked ecstasy and even more fake breasts betraying porn mag origins. Some actual photos. Anni took out her mobile, used the lighted screen for illumination as she examined them more closely.
