‘Probably.’
‘Larry, you were here before me. Anything to add?’
‘Male, in his thirties, Caucasian, dressed in a tee-shirt and shorts, an iPhone strapped to his upper arm, running shoes.’
‘Early-morning jogger?’
‘I’d say so. No identification though.’
‘You’ve checked the phone?’
‘Water ingression. Forensics might be able to dry it out, get access to the memory. Apart from that, there doesn’t seem to be any other way to identify him.’
‘No credit cards, driving licence?’
‘Not that we can see. I’ve not checked him that closely, nor did the medical men, only what was necessary to administer first aid and to see if he could be resuscitated.’
‘How long in the water?’
‘You should ask Gordon Windsor when he arrives.’
‘He’s the senior crime scene investigator, but you should be able to come up with a rough idea.’
‘One to two hours. It was raining heavily last night, and it’s unlikely a jogger would have been in the park. I can’t be certain about that, as some of them can be fanatical about their daily adrenaline hit.’
‘A crazy bunch,’ Isaac agreed, remembering back a few years when he ran each day.
‘The body’s not showing any signs of exposure to the elements, although the water’s cold. It’ll take more of an expert than me to be more exact.’
‘Why murder?’
‘A heavy object to the head, some bleeding.’
‘Drinking more than you should?’
‘It helps,’ Larry said.
‘Helps with what?’
‘It helps with coming down to Hyde Park on a Sunday morning to see a dead body.’
Chapter 2
Midday, the scene of crime officers (SOCOs) were in full force at the murder scene. Celebrities in their own right, as the hordes of tourists stood close to the crime scene barriers watching the proceedings.
‘Inspector Hill’s right on this one,’ Gordon Windsor said. A smallish man with thinning hair, he barely came up to Isaac’s shoulder.
‘I thought he was,’ Isaac said. Not that it quelled his anxiety about his inspector. The conversation earlier about Larry’s level of alcohol consumption, his reply that seeing dead bodies was the cause, didn’t ring true. The man had never shown aversion or disgust at a murder scene before, so why now and why this body?
Isaac had welded together a good team, he knew that; almost like a family in that each helped the other, played off each other’s strengths. Back in the office, Bridget Halloran, a wiz with a computer; she dealt with the department’s paperwork – prepared the prosecution files, followed up those responsible for collating the evidence, filing the reports, made sure the myriad of other sundry bureaucratic requirements was dealt with. She also had the added responsibility of helping Detective Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, her best friend, with her reports. Bridget was fifty words a minute on the keyboard, Wendy was lucky to manage five, and then there would be grammatical mistakes. Not that Bridget complained. She and Wendy had pooled their resources and were sharing Wendy’s house, strictly platonic. Wendy was glad of the company after her husband had died. Her cat – inherited from an old woman in a previous case who had grieved and subsequently died after viewing her dead son’s body – had helped, but it slept a lot and only came near when it was feeding time. Bridget, financially secure, thanks to a wealthy aunt who had left her some money, had grown tired of her layabout lover and had kicked him out.
Larry was attempting to find out if anyone else had seen anything at the crime scene. The Chinese tourist who had found the body had not been able to give any more information. The body lay on the ground, ready for moving to Pathology after consultation with the pathologist. Gordon Windsor was wrapping up and removing his coveralls.
‘No identification?’ he said.
‘Not on this one. You’ve not found anything?’ Isaac said.
‘Nothing that helps. The man’s in his thirties, good physical condition; before obviously.’
‘Jogger?’
‘You’ve already asked, but yes. The clothing doesn’t offer much help. Made in China, no doubt you can buy it here as in any other country. The running shoes, Nike, are expensive, good quality. New, only been worn a couple of times. Forensics will give you a better idea on that.’
‘A local?’
‘Probably, but it’s not conclusive.’
‘The time of death?’
‘Early this morning, probably still dark when he was attacked.’
‘Attacked, are you sure?’
‘A severe blow to the head. No other reason for him to be in the water.’
‘In the water unconscious doesn’t mean that he would have drowned.’
‘He may have been able to run, but that doesn’t make him a good swimmer. If his fat content was low enough through excessive running, then he might not have been a natural floater.’
Isaac could understand that. When he had been running competitively in his youth, short distance, not marathons, he was all muscle, very little excess fat. He had never been a great swimmer, the reason, apart from the cold, that he had not received more than a neutral coloured medal for competing in the Christmas race on the lake that was in front of them. There had been a group of them from Challis Street, young, keen, all proud of their physical prowess: Ben Tidworth, an up and coming sergeant at the time, Sally Jenkins, an educated woman who was very ambitious, very aggressive at the station when she thought she was being sidelined because of her sex, and Archie Corker, a Scot from Glasgow. A hard drinker, a hard man, who was popular in the station on account of his optimistic outlook on life, and his willingness to join every club he could and to enjoy life to the full. The only bane in his life was when someone called him Scotch. ‘That’s a damn drink,’ he would say. ‘I’m Scottish.’
Of the four of them, Ben, Sally, Archie, and
