Ritual

I'd better eat. Is there anything in the van?'

2

The Station had been the police boathouse before it was sold and renovated, and because of that the new owner said it'd be all wrong if he couldn't return the favour now and let the police use it in their hour of need. He'd given them a room at the back of the restaurant, next to the kitchens, and it was warmer in there than in the van. It used to be the police locker room; now it was the staff's changing area. Their street clothes hung on hooks, outdoor boots and bags tucked underneath the bench that ran all the way round.

While Dundas went off to ferret in the kitchens, Flea slung down her black holdall and began to get undressed. She peeled the dry suit and the force-issue navy thermals down to her waist. Keeping the thermals on, she rolled the dry suit down to her ankles, kicking off the dive boots. She paused and stared at her feet because she was alone and could afford to. She flexed them and inspected the little part between her toes, rubbing at the flaps of skin, making them go red. Webs. Webbing on her feet like a frog. 'Frog girl', they should call her. She took the piece of skin between the big toe and the next one and dug in her nails. Pain bolted up her body and lit her brain white, but she held on. She closed her eyes and concentrated on it, letting the heat move round her veins. The force counsellor at their six-month meeting had told Flea she needed to show someone her feet and talk about the way this problem had developed — and just remind me now? When did this skin appear? Was it about the time of the accident?

But she hadn't shown anyone. Not the counsellor, not the doctor. One day she'd need an operation, she supposed. She'd wait, though, until there was pain, or loss of movement, or something that might stop her diving.

A sound behind her, and she fumbled her socks out of her holdall and pulled them on quickly. Dundas came in holding a ciabatta wrapped in a flower-sprigged paper napkin, raising an eyebrow when he saw her sitting in her bra and rolled-down thermals, her hands wrapped protectively round her feet.

'Uh — maybe get some clothes on? The deputy SIO's coming down to tie things up. Told him where to find us.'

She pulled on a T-shirt, picked up a towel and began to rub her hair vigorously. 'Where's the SIO, then?'

'Got a meeting about Operation Atrium — not interested in us lollygagging around with a hand on the harbour front. Doesn't think the Major Crime Unit should be bothering with us. He was off twenty minutes ago.'

'I'm glad. Don't like him,' she said, thinking about the briefing earlier on. The on-call senior investigating officer had been okayish, but she'd never forgotten the look on his face when he'd first seen her at a dive briefing three years ago: just like all the other SIOs, sort of depressed because there he was, waiting for someone with a bit of authority, someone who'd answer the questions about the water, and what he got instead of reassurance was Flea — twenty-six and skinny, with lots of hair and these blue child's eyes that were so wide spaced she looked as if she wouldn't be able to open a bank account, let alone pull a dead body out of the mud under four metres of water. But they mostly did that to her, the senior ranks. At first it had been a challenge. Now it just pissed her off.

'Well?' She dropped the towel. 'Who's his deputy, then? Someone out of Kingswood?'

'Someone new. No one I've heard of.'

'What's his name?'

'Can't remember. One of those who sounds like a wasted old Irish soak. Old-school — beer and takeways. High blood pressure. Type who every year sends someone younger with a snide ID to do his bleep test for him.'

She smiled and peered down at her arms, flexing her biceps. 'Don't say the bleep word. Annual medical in two weeks' time.'

'Up to Napier Miles, is it, Sarge? Need to start eating, then.' He pushed the ciabatta at her. 'Protein drinks. Ice-cream. McDonald's. Look at you. Underweight is the new overweight — didn't you know?'

She took the sandwich and began to eat. Dundas watched her. It was funny the way he seemed protective of her when she was his boss. Dundas never wasted time lecturing his son. Instead he saved it for Flea. She chewed, thinking he was someone she could tell — explain what was really going on, explain what had happened last night.

She was trying to sort out the words, get them into a line, when behind them the door opened and a voice said, 'You the divers? The ones pulled the hand up?'

A man in his mid-thirties, medium height, wearing a grey suit, stood in the doorway holding a cup of machine coffee. He had a determined sort of face and lots of dark hair cut short. 'Where is it, then?' he said, leaning inwards, one hand on the doorframe, looking round the changing room. 'There's no one on the quayside except your team.'

Neither of them spoke.

'Hello?'

Flea came back to herself with a jolt. She swallowed her mouthful and hastily wiped crumbs from her mouth with the back of her hand. 'Yeah, sorry. You are?'

'DI Jack Caffery. Deputy SIO. Who are you?'

'She's Flea,' Dundas said. 'Sergeant Flea Marley.'

Caffery gave him a strange look. Then he studied her, and she could see right away he was holding something in under his expression. She thought she knew what. Men didn't like working alongside a girl who just squeaked in at under five five in her diving boots. Either that or she had crumbs on her T-shirt.

'Flea?' he said. 'Flea?'

'It's a nickname.' She got to her feet, holding out her hand to shake. 'The name's Phoebe Marley. Unit Sergeant Phoebe Marley.'

He looked down at her hand, as if it was something alien. Then, as if he'd remembered where he was, he shook it firmly. He released it quickly, and the moment he did Flea stepped away, out of his space. She sat down and self-consciously brushed the front of her T-shirt, off balance again. That was something else that pissed her off. She wasn't very good around men.

At least, not this sort of man. They made her think about things she'd put behind her.

'So?' he said. 'Flea. Where's this hand you pulled out of the water?'

'Coroner's let it go,' said Dundas. 'Didn't anyone say?'

'No.'

'Well, he did. The CSM sent someone to Southmeads with it. But it won't be done till tomorrow.'

'Pull a lot of hands out of the water round here, then?'

'Yup,' said Dundas. 'Got a collection up at Southmeads. Feet, hands, a leg or two.'

'And where are they coming from?'

'Suicides, mostly. Down in the Avon nine times out of ten. She's got a tidal race on her like you've never seen — things get bashed around a bit, hit with trees, debris. Get pieces turning up round here, right, left and arsenal.'

Caffery shot his hand out from his suit sleeve and checked his watch. 'OK, then. I'm done here.'

He had the door open and was halfway out when he went a little still, his back to them, his hand on the door, facing out into the kitchen corridor, maybe feeling the two of them watching him silently.

He took a few beats, then turned back.

'What?' he said, looking from Dundas to Flea and back again. 'It's a suicide. What do you usually do with a suicide?'

'If we haven't got a hotspot? If we haven't got a witness?'

'Yeah?'

'We, uh, wait for it to float.' Flea went softly on the word 'float': in the team they used it so often they'd got easy with it, forgot sometimes what it meant: that a corpse had to get so full of decomposition gases it rose to the surface. 'We let it float, then do a surface snatch. In this weather that'd be in a couple of weeks' time.'

'That's what I thought. It's what they do in London.' He started to go again, but this time he must have seen Dundas throw a glance across at Flea, because he paused. He closed the door and came back into the room. 'OK,' he said slowly. 'You're trying to explain something to me. Only problem is, I haven't a clue what.'