The boat was almost gone. It hadn’t been much to start with, but the fire and explosion had rendered it down to a black, rusted skeleton. A charred, blurred representation of what had once been moored there. A smudged after-image.
Phil stared at it, wanting it to give him answers. He looked round.
Fire teams had handled the blaze, stopped it from spreading. But King Edward Quay had been evacuated along with the apartments on the opposite side of the river, the house-boats and businesses sealed off, no access to anyone.
TV crews had been kept at a distance and the crews working the lightship murder site and Julie Miller’s neighbours had also been stood down until the area was declared safe. Uniforms were keeping watch, stopping any trespassers, so Phil had the place to himself.
He had phoned Marina, tried to tell her what was going on, but got only her voicemail. So he had left a message telling her about his conversation with Paula and for her to phone him back as soon as possible.
He closed his eyes, listened. Tried to get a feel for the area, for the space inside Ian Buchan’s head. For where he had been, where he would go next. He turned round. The old Dock Transit building stood behind him. Huge and hulking against the orange sodium darkness, holding shadows and secrets behind its boarded-up doors and windows. The corrugated, rusted metal along its roof making it look like the crenulated top of an old, haunted castle. Phil found a uniform, showed his warrant card.
‘Has inside there been checked?’
The uniform was middle-aged, greying hair, well-built. Time-serving but sharp-eyed. Doing his job but counting up the overtime. ‘A few hours ago,’ he said. ‘Didn’t get far. Place is a death trap. Doubt he’d be in there. Didn’t look like it. Could barely get it opened.’
Phil turned towards the building, back to the uniform. ‘Got a torch I could borrow? Just have a nose round for myself.’
The uniform handed it over. Phil thanked him.
Worth a try, he thought. From the way the officer had spoken, he doubted the building had been seriously searched.
He crossed the rubble-strewn, broken concrete forecourt, walked under the huge, rusting metal arm of the crane, approached the building. He could imagine it as it once was, a working building, the crane moving constantly, grabber sliding back and forth along the overhead beam, containers being emptied, filled and transferred, loading and unloading cargo from Europe, the dock alive with bustling activity. A confident place, making a serious challenge to Harwich.
And now. A rusted, wrecked shell. As much of a ghost as the burnt-out husk of a boat in front of it.
He walked up to where the door used to be. Now just several huge sheets of thick plywood decorated with ‘Danger – Keep Out’ signs, gang tags and graffiti art. He felt round the edges for some purchase, something to pull at, saw the rusting imprint of well-hammered-in heavy-duty nails.
Maybe the uniform was right, he thought. Maybe there hadn’t been anyone here.
Maybe.
Phil knelt down, felt all along the bottom of the wood.
Something gave.
Just a little bit, a slight movement accompanied by the creak of old wood against rusted nail. Not much, but enough to give him hope. He pulled, wondering which part of the building the uniforms had entered from. Or even if they had.
The wood didn’t want to give. At least not without a fight.
And Phil was in the mood for a fight.
He edged his fingers beneath, prising the wood away, catching his fingernails, feeling splinters embed themselves in his palms as he did so. He ignored everything but the need to pull the wood off.
More creaking, more straining as the wood reluctantly pulled away from its surrounding. Phil screamed with the exertion, fell backwards as the corner of wood came away. He sat up, looked at it. There was a big enough hole for him to squeeze through.
Just.
He put his arms through, managed to pull his body along.
As he did so, he was reminded of a similar crawl through a restricted space he had made several months before. He hoped this one turned out better than that.
He made it through to the other side. Lying on the floor, he looked round. Pitch-black, he saw nothing. The air was damp and cold. Fetid. He listened. Heard the wind playing through the rust-eaten walls, ghosts drifting.
He felt for the torch, took it out of his jacket pocket, switched it on. Swung it round. Saw small black shapes scurry away from the beam. The walls were mottled, discoloured, crumbling. The metal struts holding up the roof rusted and flaking. The floor pitted and broken concrete, a pile of old rags in a far corner, with a stack of old, stained cardboard next to it. Empty cans, bottles. Someone had been living there at some point. Not recently, though.
He stood up. Walked towards the centre of the building, looking all round all the time. Checking the dust on the floor as he walked. This place hadn’t been searched. Uniforms had probably decided to leave it for the morning.
Lazy bastards, thought Phil.
He swung the torch. The building had another floor towards the back, a metal staircase leading the way. He looked up to the ceiling. A metal walkway ran along the length of the building leading to the crane outside. No one up there. He walked on, towards the back of the building, ready to mount the steps to the next floor.
Stopped dead.
Something wasn’t right.
Tucked away in a shadowed corner were two large black boxes. Phil moved in closer. Wooden packing crates, rectangular. A concrete block, the kind used in roadworks, in front of each one. And before that a trough of water.
There was something in the water.
Phil moved quickly, fearing the worst.
His fears were justified. In the water was a body. Charred and burnt. Electrocuted, he guessed.
He looked round. Saw cables snaking into the water. He traced them with the torch. Saw that they connected to a generator in the corner. He crossed over, made sure the generator was switched off. Turned back to the trough of water, reached in, turned the body over.
A young woman, tall, brunette. Julie Miller or Suzanne Perry, he was guessing.
Too late. Damn.
He stood still, listening. Heard a sound. Scratching. Moving. Not the rats, too big for the rats.
Looked round. One of the crates was open, the end pushed out against the concrete block. The other block was still in place. Phil moved round the side of the water, bent down beside the end of the box.
‘Hello?’ he said.
The scratching stopped.
‘Hello?’ he said again. ‘Is there anyone in there?’
Nothing.
‘My name is Detective Inspector Phil Brennan. Essex Police. Is there someone in there?’
He waited. Eventually he heard a voice.
‘How… how do I know you are who you say you are?’
A woman’s voice. Phil felt a rush of adrenalin course through him. ‘Are you Suzanne Perry or Julie Miller?’
‘Suzanne…’
Relief flooded through him along with the adrenalin. He smiled to himself. ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get you out.’
She started to scream.
He tried to calm her down. ‘Hey, hey it’s OK. It’s fine. You’re safe now. You’re with me. You’re safe. Don’t worry. I’m going to get you out, OK?’
He waited. Nothing.
