‘We always have to deal with that problem. The locals are the worst, but so are some of the tourists with throwing in plastic drink bottles, stolen bikes. You’d be surprised what turns up if we drain part of the canal.’
‘Do you do that often?’
‘It’s necessary sometimes. The canal silts up, and the banks need restoration work. The canal’s been here for two hundred years, so it’s bound to require maintenance.’
‘And the houseboats?’
‘They need to find somewhere else, but there are precious few places for them to go.’
‘You’ve heard about the discovery in the canal today?’ Larry asked.
‘Who hasn’t? It’s not every day a body is fished out.’
‘It was hardly a body.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was only a torso.’
‘No head and limbs?’
‘Precisely.’
‘It’s a first for the canal, although we’ve had the occasional body in there; some murdered, the occasional drowning. It’s not deep, no more than six feet in most places, but it can be mighty cold sometimes. They jump in after a drunken night out, sometimes for a dare, at other times because they’re too daft not to, and what happens? The water can be close to freezing under the surface, and then they find out they’re not as good a swimmer as they thought they were.’
‘Expensive around here?’ Larry asked. He had admired the houses as he parked his car.
‘That’s why there are so many houseboats. They’re in the best part of London at a fraction of the cost of a building on land. Mind you, they still have to pay for mooring, and the maintenance can be expensive, but all in all they're an excellent way to live.’
‘You live in one?’
‘For the last thirty-five years. Once I retire, I intend to travel the canals of England in my home.’
‘If we could come back to the body in the water,’ Larry said. ‘Could it have come from one of the houseboats?’
‘It’s possible, but if, as you say, it’s been dismembered, it would make an awful mess. Have you been inside a houseboat?’
‘No.’
‘There’s not a lot of space. It’s more like a long caravan than a house. I wouldn’t be looking there for an answer, and besides, why?’
‘Why someone dismembered the body, instead of taking it to the Thames and weighing it down with concrete blocks or burying it in the ground?’
‘I see what you mean.’
‘That’s a question we need to answer,’ Larry acknowledged.
***
Meanwhile, as Larry was discussing the case at the Canal and River Trust, Wendy was moving up and down the road adjacent to the murder site. Warwick Crescent, affluent and expensive, with an elegant Regency terrace house on the corner which fronted onto Westbourne Terrace Road at the western end close to the bridge. Next to it was a large block of flats. To Wendy, they looked to have been built fifty years previously, an attempt to blend into the surroundings by painting the exterior off-white and affecting a fake Regency styling. The real estate signs in the area indicated that they were for sale, but she knew they would be outside her price range. The signs plastered on the railings outside stated that any bikes chained to them would be removed and disposed of. Wendy was not sure if they were strictly legal, but she was there to ask questions, not debate a point of law. There appeared to be over one hundred flats. She had been joined by a couple of uniforms, although without a time of death other than in the last day, she felt that their efforts may well be wasted. She was adamant that this one road was to be the limit of her knocking on doors until she had more specifics.
***
Isaac busied himself in the office. It had been rough for a while on his previous case when he had been sidelined, but now he was back in his seat, safe and secure. Or, at least, as confident as anyone could be with a commissioner who’d had his nose put out of joint after his man, DCI Seth Caddick, had failed to make his mark. Isaac had only spoken to Caddick on a couple of occasions and neither time had been an enlightening experience. Still, the man had not disturbed his office too much; even managed to water the plant that Bridget and Wendy had bought him in the past when he had been going through a difficult patch in his love life. Even now, that was patchy, almost non-existent, if he was honest.
Larry Hill had told him to find a good woman and settle down, and he had wanted to with Jess O’Neill, but it had not worked out. They kept in contact, met up occasionally for a social drink, but there seemed no way they could rekindle the previous intensity: too much water under the bridge, too many unspoken truths, or at least one, Linda Harris. Not that he had heard from her for a long time, and Isaac still did not know for sure whether she had committed a murder or not, but it was moot, as the case had been closed, and there was no way the current government would allow it to reopen.
Isaac, too long a DCI, and with enough experience and ability to make detective superintendent, knew that forces beyond his control were holding him back, as well as his superior, Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard. The man had been marked for a commander’s position, but people in high places had ensured he would have to wait a few more years.
Not a man to reflect for too long, Isaac decided to phone Gordon Windsor, the crime scene examiner. It was still too soon to expect a result back from the pathologist, although the time of death would help. Larry had a fair idea of the canal’s flow rate, and it should be
