Third Degree Read online

  Also by Claire Rayner

  A STARCH OF APRONS

  THE MEDDLERS

  A TIME TO HEAL MADDIE

  CLINICAL JUDGEMENTS POSTSCRIPTS

  DANGEROUS THINGS

  LONDON LODGINGS

  PAYING GUESTS

  FIRST BLOOD

  SECOND OPINION

  Claire Rayner

  THIRD DEGREE

  A Dr George Barnabas Mystery

  ebook ISBN: 978-1-84982-026-4

  M P Publishing Limited

  12 Strathallan Crescent

  Douglas

  Isle of Man

  IM2 4NR

  United Kingdom

  Telephone: +44 (0)1624 618672

  email: [email protected]

  M P Publishing Limited

  First published 1995

  Copyright © 1995, 2010 Claire Rayner

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

  e-ISBN 978-1-84982-026-4

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  For Jackie Malton, many writers’ favourite copper,

  and this one’s in particular.

  With gratitude and affection

  Thanks for advice and information about death, detection, rags, fires and sundry other topics are due to: Dr Trevor Betteridge, Pathologist of Yeovil, Somerset; Dr Rufus Crompton, Pathologist, St George’s Hospital, Tooting, London; Dr Azeel Sattah, Pathologist, Queen Elizabeth II Hospital, Welwyn Garden City, Hertfordshire; Detective Chief Inspector Jackie Malton, Metropolitan Police; Dr Hilary Howells, Anaesthetist of Totteridge, Hertfordshire; Mr Laurence Barry and Mr Leo Collins of L. M. B. Co Ltd, textile recyclers of Canning Town, London; and many others too numerous to mention; and are gratefully tendered by the author.

  1

  Sounds. The faint splash of oars in fast moving water, the lapping of miniature waves against rough shingle, the rasp of wood against stone as a boat is dragged up above the edge of the water, footsteps crunching up a beach.

  And then a whistling gasp as someone catches his breath in surprise and perhaps horror and a faster somewhat erratic rhythm as the footsteps start again, scrabbling urgently through the shingle to disappear into the tangle of streets that line the Thames at Limehouse Reach. Now the river is alone again, flowing peaceably under an opalescent sky that is fast emerging from the deeper blue of the night, offering listening ears only the distant mutter of traffic from the Westferry Road on the north side and even more softly from Grove Street on the south.

  It is going to be a blazing day. The coolness in the air and the scent of the sea that the incoming tide is bringing upriver with it are deceptive. Another forty minutes or so and the sun will be well up and warning Londoners of another sweltering June day in which they’ll sweat and mutter and shout bad temperedly at each other as the streets fill with engine fumes and the river with pleasure boats loaded with tourists.

  When the sounds come back, they are loud and assured, and certainly there is no shock or horror in the matter-of-fact voices which fill the air. First the car draws up at the end of Gaverick Street beside the phone box and doors slam with scant concern for the people sleeping in the front rooms of the fancy new houses that stand in a neat carriage-lamp-trimmed row on each side. Then the voices come closer to the river as footsteps – more of them this time – start on the beach again. One of the voices is different, not loud and assured at all but whining and anxious, conciliatory and blustering by turns. It is not pleasant to hear.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be about this time o’ mornin’? Ain’t I got a right to make my livin’ best way I can? The buggers tell yer to get on yer bike and look for yer keep, so I do. Only my bike’s a boat.’

  ‘On night work, then, are you?’ One of the loud voices has a distinct jeer in it. ‘So’s you can see better, eh?’

  The old man – for he can be seen now, as the light steadily strengthens – sniffs lusciously and very disagreeably and looks at the other, a bulky man in a dark suit and carefully knotted tie looking even this early as though he’s been up and about and fully alert for hours.

  ‘Shows ’ow much you don’t know, that does,’ the old man says. ‘I bin mudlarkin’ on this river since I was a nipper – my dad took me out with ’im in the war years, when we bloody nearly ’ad it to ourselves an’ ‘e learned me ’ow to use me eyes, an’ to see what there is to be seen. An’ picked up. There ain’t much I miss. An’ I didn’t miss this.’

  ‘Well, let’s have a look at it,’ grunts the bulky man. ‘And make sure you haven’t been wasting police time. I’ll have your guts for garters if you have – Hmm.’ He stops short as the other two men with him, one in a crumpled suit surmounted by a raincoat and looking far less alert than the bulky man, and the other in uniform, come to stand beside him and all four look down at the beach.

  The sky now is a pearly blue, and the men can see much more easily. It is even possible to identify colour: the brown shininess of the bulky man’s shoes; the dirty red shell-suit top the old man is wearing; and the dark brown shoe and yellow sock, both very soiled, that adorn the object at which they are all looking.

  A human leg, cut off just below the knee. The flesh is greyish where there is muscle, dirty yellow where there is fat. Two gleaming pieces of bone stick up neatly from one side of the leg, one smaller than the other, but of an equal length. The thing stinks. Even without bending forwards, the men standing around it are very aware of the reek and are clearly trying to control their revulsion. The old man, however, does not pretend; he sets his hand over his mouth and nose and says in muffled triumph, ‘See? Didn’t I tell yer? Didn’t I just? Just like I said. ’Uman remains, or my name ain’t Sid Martin.’

  By the time the river police arrived, Sid Martin was in a high old rage. Not only was it already getting warm – and the smell of the leg lying forlornly on the shingle inside its barricade of yellow police tape was becoming heavier in consequence – he was tired, he wanted his breakfast and he knew with every fibre of his being that he was being cheated by the other mudlarks who rowed by, their noses twitching with curiosity, shouting jeers when they recognized him.

  ‘It’s a sin an’ a crime,’ he cried passionately to the lightening sky. ‘That all on account of doin’ my citizen’s duty I go an’ get clobbered by you lot. I acts proper, tells you all I know about this bleedin’ thing, and will you let me go? Not bloody likely, an’ them out there collecting all manner o’ stuff as is mine by rights on account of I gets up so early, and my ulcer playin’ up an’ all.’ He clutched his belly piteously and stared venomously at the bulky man.

  ‘Give him a Rennie, Michael,’ the bulky man snapped over his shoulder at his companion in the rumpled suit, who had now taken off his raincoat and left it in a bundle at the top of the foreshore, well out of reach of the water. ‘Shut him up, whatever else you do.’

  ‘What’ll shut me up is being let go,’ Martin cried and the bulky man turned and glared at him.

  ‘Listen you, for two pins I’d take you down to the nick and ask you a lot of very difficult questions. Like what the hell were you doing here in the small hours of the morning and what do you know about this and if you’re such a busy collector, how come you didn’t take off the shoe? It’s a pricey one as anyone can see, and I’ll bet you’re not usually so squeamish about things like this, or finding stuff people haven’t realized they’ve lost till it’s in your bloody boat.’

  ‘Don’t you go pinnin
’ nothin’ on me!’ Martin was alarmed. ‘I just did my duty. I told you, I saw this, thought it might be somethin’ good, came and looked an’ at first I reckoned it was a bit o’ meat, a leg o’ pork or suchlike, gone off and stinkin’. But then I saw the shoe and I knew that couldn’t be no butcher’s meat. Fair turned me stomach, it did. As for the shoe’ – his voice became suddenly the acme of reason and commonsense – ‘what’s the bleedin’ good of one shoe, for Chrissakes? No one’ll buy one bleedin’ shoe, will they? Stands to reason. – And as for –’

  ‘Shut up,’ advised the younger plainclothesman, as his senior glared at Martin, and gave him a tube of Rennies. ‘Inspector Dudley’ll let you go soon’s he can, you may be certain of that.’ He had a soft Scottish burr to his voice. ‘And no one’s really thinking you had anything to do with it,’ he added in a lower voice as Dudley turned away to speak to the river police sergeant who had been crouching beside the leg. ‘He’s just bamming you. You did fine calling us.’

  ‘Much good it’s done me,’ Sid Martin said with deep gloom. ‘No knowin’ how much good stuff I’ve missed over this bleedin’ business.’

  ‘Is there that much around?’ The detective constable, Michael Urquhart, sounded genuinely interested. ‘I wouldn’t have thought –’

  ‘Is there much?’ Sid stared up at him from his perch on a piece of driftwood set on edge in the shingle. ‘There’s wood for a start, an’ it’s well popular if it’s fit to burn. There’s geezers in the fancy flats’ – he jerked his head downriver – ‘’oo pay a bomb for firewood for their modern gaffs all done up with Victorian fireplaces.’ He laughed, a fat contemptuous sound. ‘An’ if the wood’s all funny shapes there’s idiots there – artists, round the studios in Wapping – as’ll part with real money for ’em. They polish ’em up and calls ’em objays troovay and sell ’em for a packet.’ He shook his head in a ruminative manner. ‘Takes all sorts, I suppose.’

  ‘Is that a living?’

  ‘Nah, not on its own. It’s all the stuff together, see? Bits o’ this an’ that what falls over the side from the tourist boats. It’s amazin’ what’ll float. I’ve ’ad binoculars carried along by the air inside the waterproof cases they’re in, an’ cameras likewise, an’ any number o’ good jackets an’ so forth. A few bob at the cleaners an’ they’re fine. I sell ’em in Wentworth Street or Watney Street, down the markets. Or if they ain’t, I take them to Connie over at St Saviour and get a bit there.’

  ‘And who might Connie be when she’s at home?’ the policeman said and Sid quirked his head at him.

  ‘Blimey, you ain’t bin on the job long, ’ave you? Everyone in these parts knows Connie.’

  ‘Well, so they may.’ Mike was nettled. ‘But I don’t. And I’ve been at Ratcliffe Street nick for the last four years. If your Connie’s at St Saviour’s, which is over the other shore, she’s outside my patch. I couldn’t be expected to –’

  The old man snickered. ‘Connie’s a fella. Constantine Georgio-somethin’-or-other. ’E buys a lot o’ my stuff what I finds – when I’m allowed to be about me business, that is.’ And he turned and glowered at the man in charge, who was still in colloquy with the river police.

  ‘I’ll see what’s happening,’ the other said good naturedly. ‘Just you shut your bletherin’, there’s a good chap. It upsets him.’

  ‘Well, ’e upsets me,’ Sid said darkly. ‘You’re all right, but ’e’s a right bugger.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ the young man said.

  Sid looked at him sharply and then laughed, his almost toothless mouth opening into an unlovely gape. ‘You’re all right, ain’t you?’ he said. ‘What’s yer moniker?’

  ‘Michael Urquhart. If it’s any of your business. Now be quiet, and I’ll see what I can do to get you on your way.’

  Sid watched him join his colleagues as he sat there gloomily sucking one of his few remaining teeth and occasionally muttering as flies, attracted by the all-pervading stink of the putrid leg, zoomed at him.

  At last Mike came back and Sid looked up hopefully. ‘No joy,’ the policeman said. ‘Sorry. We’ve sent for the Soco and once he’s cleared things you can be on your way. I’m hoping it’ll not be too long. I’d gladly get away from that thing …’ And he looked over his shoulder at the focus of everyone’s attention.

  ‘Soco?’ said Sid, looking alarmed.

  ‘Scene-of-crime officer,’ Mike said. ‘Has to check it all, do the pics and so forth. An hour or so should see you free to go.’

  ‘Ah, shit,’ said Sid and went on to more comprehensive and explicit swearing that seemed to give him some comfort as Mike went back to Dudley’s side to wait for instructions.

  Dudley was snapping the aerial back into his mobile phone and as he stowed it away in his pocket he looked pleased with himself.

  Mike looked at him, his head quirked. ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Dudley said, almost cheerfully. ‘We just have to wait till they get here.’ He chuckled then, an odd sound from someone usually so dour, thought Mike. ‘That’ll show ’em.’

  ‘Show what?’ It was the river sergeant, who had joined them, and Inspector Dudley looked at him and grinned.

  ‘Well, her, really,’ he said. ‘The doctor.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The river sergeant, a tall thin man with a young face and an almost completely bald head, whose name was Slavin, looked interested. ‘That’ll be Dr Barnabas? I’ve heard about her. Bit of a goer, ’n’t she?’

  ‘You could say that,’ Dudley said a little grimly. ‘Bit full of herself, the way these feminist women are, is how I’d put it. Drives you barmy if you let it.’

  ‘Dyke, is she?’ Slavin said with a sympathetic but slightly avid air.

  Mike opened his mouth to protest, caught Dudley’s eye and decided to be more cautious than valorous. But he scowled.

  ‘Might be easier if she was,’ Dudley said. ‘You know where you are with them. No, not this one.’ He slid his glance sideways at Mike’s disapproving expression. ‘Well, you’ll see for yourself soon enough, Slavin. Called her, didn’t I? That’ll get her out of bed. Or out of someone else’s.’ He looked at Mike again and said sharply, ‘See if anyone in those houses up there is willing to make a cuppa for a few tired coppers, will you?’

  Mike scowled even more. ‘It’s barely six in the morning. Won’t be up yet, will they?’

  ‘It’s worth a try,’ Dudley said and Mike turned and stomped away, every inch of his back showing his distaste for his errand. Dudley turned back to the sergeant.

  ‘Can’t say too much,’ he said. ‘Not in front of the children.’

  ‘What, that DC?’ Slavin looked surprised. ‘Looks a good enough bloke to me.’

  ‘Yeah, but the Guv’nor’s best mate, if you ask me. A bit too pally, seein’ he’s just a DC. Mind you, the same goes for the Guv’nor with the doc, too pally by half.’

  ‘No!’ The other man was clearly fascinated. ‘Is that a fact?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dudley said. ‘It’s a fact. I swear she spends as much time in his bed as her own.’

  ‘Are they married? To other people, I mean?’ Slavin settled to a good gossip.

  ‘No,’ Dudley said, almost regretfully. ‘No, they’re footloose enough. The Guv’nor’s always been too busy with the job and his fish-and-chip shops to get himself caught, as far as I can tell, and as for her …’ He shrugged. ‘I dunno. She seems to like blokes well enough. Maybe a bit too well. I remember from her first case – well, I’ll tell you over a drink some time. It’s a long story.’ He scowled. ‘And then there was a case she really did meddle in. Made me look a right berk, she did. An’ how can I say anythin’ about it to the Guv’nor when they’re cuddled up all cosy like that?’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s proper, is it?’ The river sergeant looked dubious. ‘Could it make trouble at the nick, like, the doc and a senior officer?’

  ‘Listen, they meddle with our private lives enough, we all know that, but they don’t actuall
y check where you puts your ding-a-lings, not to the best of my knowledge. As long as it’s not with one of the villains’ women, or another copper’s wife, you’re all right.’ Dudley looked pugnacious. ‘I don’t want no more fuss than we have to. But I get right fed up with this bloody woman.’

  ‘Well, that’s women for you,’ the other said with an air of having said something very perceptive. ‘Look, do you need us here any longer? There’s not a lot more we can do. We’ve noted the leg, done a bit of checking on the way it lies so we can make a stab at where it might have entered the water. We can go and look for the rest of the poor bugger now, if you’re finished.’

  ‘I’ve sent for Soco as well as the doc,’ Dudley said. ‘You might be needed. To explain about tides and so forth.’

  ‘Then we’ll wait,’ Slavin said. Then he raised his voice as Mike came crunching back over the foreshore. ‘Hey, did you get that tea?’

  ‘No. As I thought, people are still asleep,’ Mike said.

  Dudley glared at him. ‘Yeah, I know. You didn’t knock too hard in case you woke ’em.’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ Mike said, looking at him very directly. ‘Don’t like to get complaints about the way we deal with the public, do we?’

  Dudley, remembering a recent pep talk on that very subject by Superintendent Whitman at Ratcliffe Street, looked blacker than ever and the river sergeant, picking up the vibes, grinned.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I might have the makings on the launch. I’ll just go and see what we can do.’ He took himself off to the edge of the water where the shallow-bottomed police launch rocked on the tide, which was still running upriver and was well towards the full. ‘I hope they hurry up,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Your Soco and the doctor. Another couple of hours and all this foreshore’ll be covered. High tide’s just after nine at London Bridge and it’s well after six now. Another … well …’ He squinted at the water and then at the leg lying untended and ignored in the middle of its patch of shingle. ‘Another hour and that’ll have to be bagged and removed, if it isn’t to go back into the water.’ And he climbed into his launch and went forward to talk to his companion who was waiting for him.