My thoughts were interrupted by the sun breaking through a gap in the gauzy cloud. It gilded the estuary’s choppy surface with points of light. There was a sudden glare from the shore as the sunlight glinted off something; a bottle or shard of glass. Then the sun was veiled again and it vanished.
4
A reception committee was waiting by the oyster sheds. As we approached I could see several other people standing on the quayside, in addition to the police officers we’d left there. One of them wore heavy-duty blue coveralls, so I guessed he was the pathologist Lundy had mentioned earlier. Next to him was a tall woman in a pale mackintosh, who I supposed must be DCI Clarke, the senior investigating officer.
I didn’t know who the other two men were. They stood apart from the rest, at the far side of the quay. Both wore dark overcoats, and as the RHIB drew closer I saw the peaked cap that marked one of them as a senior police officer.
‘Oh, lord,’ Lundy muttered, when he saw the people on the quayside.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
The DI had spent most of the trip back from the Barrows at the prow of the boat, mindless of the cold spray dousing him each time the RHIB slapped into a wave. The pitching and bouncing didn’t seem to discomfort him at all. He showed every sign of enjoying himself, facing into the wind like a dog with its head out of the car window.
Now he gave a sigh, as though the brief boat journey had been an interlude all too soon over. He took off his glasses and began wiping the spray from them. ‘That’s Dryden, the Deputy Chief Constable. He’s got Sir Stephen Villiers with him.’
I turned back towards the quayside, beginning to feel apprehensive myself. I’d never heard of a DCC attending a straightforward recovery, let alone the victim’s parent. That was a bad idea, an unnecessary stress for both the relative and the police officers forced to work while they watched.
There was silence except for the marine unit sergeant’s terse instructions as we approached the oyster sheds. The engine dropped to a low chunter and the RHIB slowed, settling in the water. Waves slopped against the tubular hull as momentum carried the boat the last few yards to the quay. The water in the estuary had risen enough to allow us to moor alongside rather than use the slipway. The boat bumped next to a flight of concrete steps that disappeared into the water. Clarke and the others watched in silence as one of the marine unit jumped out and secured the RHIB’s line to a metal stanchion.
‘You next, Dr Hunter,’ Lundy said. ‘We’ll get the stretcher off last.’
Conscious of the solemn figures watching from the quayside, I caught hold of the steps and pulled myself from the unsteady boat, cumbersome in my waders and waterproofs. The steps were slippery and the sodden concrete was tinged green from algae. At the top I paused to wipe the slime from my hands, conscious of how muddy I was as the woman in the cream mac and the man in coveralls came over.
‘Dr Hunter? I’m DCI Pam Clarke. This is Professor Frears, the home office pathologist.’
Clarke was tall and thin, with frizzy ginger hair that blew around her pale face despite being tied back in an attempt to tame it. It was hard to put an age on Frears. The wavy hair was silver but the face below it was sleek and unlined, so that he could have been in his forties or a well-preserved sixty. Together with the flushed cheeks of a bon viveur, it gave him the look of a debauched cherub.
‘I won’t shake hands,’ he said cheerfully, holding up his to display his gloves. He looked thoughtful. ‘Hunter, Hunter. Name’s familiar. Have we met before?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, it’ll come to me.’
As he turned his attention to the activity on the boat, I glanced across at the two dark-coated men standing at the other end of the quay. They were out of earshot but it still felt uncomfortable having this discussion with the potential victim’s father nearby. Sir Stephen Villiers looked in his sixties. He wore a charcoal overcoat I thought was probably cashmere over a pale-grey suit. The thinning hair that blew across his scalp was grey as well, making him appear colourless as he watched the progress of the stretcher. There was nothing outwardly imposing about him, yet somehow he seemed to radiate far more authority than the senior policeman he was with. Dryden, the Deputy Chief Constable, was lantern-jawed and had the build of a rugby player, with deep-set eyes beneath the shiny peaked cap. He towered over the man next to him, yet it was the smaller man who commanded attention.
Sir Stephen’s face wore no expression as he stared at the body bag on the stretcher. Perhaps feeling my eyes on him, he suddenly looked straight at me. His gaze was incurious, without interest or acknowledgement. A moment later he resumed his study of the stretcher, leaving me with the sense that I’d been assessed and cursorily dismissed.
Lundy had clambered out of the boat and was hauling himself up the steps, puffing from the exertion. The stretcher was lifted out of the boat and carried up after him.
‘Careful,’ Clarke warned as it was hoisted on to the quay. ‘All right, set it down there.’
Grunting with effort, the marine unit lowered the stretcher. Water trickled from it and pooled on the concrete as they stood back. Frears went to stand by it.
‘Right, what do we have here?’ He gestured to the sergeant. ‘Let’s take a quick look, shall we?’
Although Clarke didn’t quite glance over at where Sir Stephen was standing, it was clear what she was thinking. ‘Shouldn’t we get it back to the mortuary?’
The pathologist gave a thin smile. ‘I don’t like working in front of an audience either, but since I’m here I’m going to do my job.’
His tone was affable but carried enough edge to deter any further interference. Clarke gave a curt nod to the marine unit sergeant.
‘Open it up.’
The sickly odour of decomposition rolled across the quay as the bag was opened. The pallid body inside it looked even worse against the black plastic, like a melted waxwork dummy.
‘I suspect matching dental records will be a challenge,’ Frears commented, taking in the shattered remains of the mouth and lower jaw. ‘Stature suggests a male, obviously been in the water for some time. Pull the bag open a little more, will you? There’s a good man.’
The sergeant bent down to do as he was told, then stopped. He peered closer. ‘Hang on, there’s something — Jesus!’
He reared back at a sudden movement inside the exposed gullet. Something coiled in what was left of the mouth, then surged out from it like a silver tongue. Sliding free, the eel dropped into the body bag.
‘Looks like we have a passenger,’ Frears said drily, though I noticed he’d pulled back as well.
‘Sorry,’ the sergeant mumbled. Clarke made an impatient gesture, her face colouring.
‘Don’t just stand there, get rid of it.’
The eel must have been hidden further down the gullet when we’d recovered the body. With his expression showing what he thought of the task, the sergeant reached into the bag next to the body. The creature writhed sinuously, twining round his gloved hand and wrist as he brought it out. He stood there uncertainly, holding it at arm’s length.
‘What shall I do with it, sir?’
‘Well, they’re delicious smoked, but I suggest you throw it back,’ Frears drawled. ‘Unless you’ve any use for it, Dr Hunter?’
I hadn’t. This wasn’t like a land recovery, where information might be gleaned from the creatures infesting the remains. In all likelihood the eel had just colonized a convenient food source, feeding on either the decomposing tissue or the smaller creatures that were drawn to it.