Strange Tide (49 page)

Much of Wapping High Street had been relined with new apartments, but the oldest part still retained its narrow cobbled road and its converted wharf buildings connected by iron walkways. The light was fading now, and the street lamps turned the rain into gilded needles.

‘He must be around here somewhere,' said Bryant, wiping the window with the back of his hand. ‘The MPU moorings are directly behind its headquarters.'

‘You honestly think he's right on the unit's doorstep?'

‘Killers have a habit of remaining in a tight geographical area,' Bryant pointed out, ‘and they often return to the same sites.'

May's BMW pulled up beside the blue steel gates of the MPU's vehicle yard. ‘How are we going to talk our way through this?' May asked. ‘We have no jurisdiction here.'

‘We don't need it,' said Bryant. ‘Wapping Police Stairs has a causeway leading straight to the moorings. It's part of the MPU site but it's accessible from King Henry's Stairs, the next staircase along. There are twenty-eight staircases along this stretch alone, but quite a few are illegally locked.'

May turned in his seat. ‘Arthur, it's dark now and raining, and the steps will be covered in algae. I've only just got you back; I don't want to lose you again. Why don't you wait here?'

‘I have to see for myself, John. We're wasting time.'

‘All right. On your own head be it.' He held the car door open.

Meera climbed off her bike and leaned through the window of the Renault, scowling at Dan's phone. ‘I thought you said the tracker was accurate?'

‘On roads, yes, but it's only approximate when it goes off-piste.' Dan and the others climbed out of the car and gathered on the pavement of Wapping High Street. The rain had grown heavier in the last few minutes, and the street ahead was deserted. ‘It says they're within a few metres of us. Maybe they're inside the marine unit itself.'

‘This thing started on the river. Isn't that where it has to end?' Fraternity crossed the road, looking around for access. ‘The tide's out. They have to be on the shore.'

They found the narrow ginnel that sliced between the buildings, but its gate was locked.

Colin needed no GPS to know where he was. The old pubs of London provided a ghost map in his head. ‘We're between the Captain Kidd and the Town of Ramsgate,' he pointed out. ‘They've both got river steps.' He set off in the direction of the swinging pub sign as the others followed after him.

As May had predicted, the worn stone stairs were virid and slippery with weed. Ahead lay the rocky foreshore, mournfully cloaked in rain. A jetty and the police launch moorings stood beyond, but all of the boats were tarpaulined and locked up.

‘There's nothing here, Arthur,' he called back. ‘Where else could he be?'

Bryant was concentrating on not tipping headlong down the rain-lashed staircase. ‘Crooms knew how to unlock and pilot old MPU cruisers,' he called back. ‘Nobody pays any attention to the police launches. They sit so low in the water that they can barely be spotted, and they're all but invisible on the river at night. Can you see anything?'

‘There's a boat moving,' called Meera from the top of the staircase. On the far side of the jetty a rusted cream and brown cruiser was slowly chugging away from the boarding platform.

Colin was on to it, closely followed by Fraternity. In seconds they had reached the wooden causeway and were pounding over the rain-slick boards towards the departing vessel. The pair reached the boat's departing stern and without hesitation jumped for it.

Colin slammed on to the starboard deck and landed on a coil of rope, noisily sliding into a stack of tethered yellow plastic crates. Fraternity, slightly behind him, was less lucky and only just managed to reach the side of the vessel. Colin grabbed his arms and pulled him on board.

‘They must have heard that. Why hasn't anyone come up?' Fraternity asked as they headed towards the bows of the cruiser.

Colin tried the door leading below deck and tore it open. Inside, an elderly skipper and his wife looked back at him in surprise. The skipper threw his joint out of the open window.

‘It's a no-go,' Fraternity radioed back. ‘Just some stoned old couple on a private vessel. They thought we'd come to bust them for smoking a doobie. We're heading back.'

‘Now what?' said May. ‘I hope you have another idea. I wouldn't be surprised if the Met was on the lookout for us by now.'

‘Water,' Bryant replied, checking his phone. ‘Freddie Cooper was seen being driven away from his office in Nine Elms an hour ago. He has to be drowned.'

‘How could you possibly know that?'

Bryant ignored him. ‘Where, though? God, we live in one of the wettest countries in the world and what do we do, build canals and ponds and fountains and lidos. He could be anywhere. Meera, call Cooper's company and find out if any of his trucks have moved away from their usual routes.'

She made the call and waited while the controller checked. ‘One,' she called back. ‘It's heading along Upper Ground.'

‘On the South Bank? In which direction?'

‘Going east towards Barge House Street.'

‘How fast can we get there?'

‘Buckle up,' said May.

The gun-metal-grey BMW was followed by an unmarked squad car outridden by Meera's Kawasaki. Traffic was light until they hit a jam on Blackfriars Bridge ten minutes later. London's deepening storm skies had driven many vehicles from the streets.

‘Where is it now?' Bryant asked.

Meera's headset crackled. ‘He's just turned down towards the South Bank, but the road's a dead end.'

May was puzzled. ‘It might be nothing. He could be making a delivery.'

‘Meera, contact the nearest local unit and get the truck pulled over,' said Bryant. ‘He's got his work cut out if he's planning to kill again. The whole area is smothered with cameras.'

‘There's some kind of event going on,' said Meera. ‘I can see lots of floodlights, banners and balloons, people milling around. You're not going to like this.'

‘What is it?'

‘According to the Londonist website the Mayor is here. Does something called the Thames Night Pageant ring a bell?'

‘I read about that – it's his new initiative, another public regatta,' said Colin. ‘Why do they always hold these things in winter?'

‘All the streets surrounding the pedestrian zone are closed off,' said Meera. ‘The truck won't be able to get any further.'

The BMW nosed its way through the slow-moving revellers, balloon-sellers and street-food vendors, but was forced to pull up on to the pavement. ‘It'll be quicker on foot,' said May, leading the way.

Along the embankment dozens of small craft were bobbing on the incoming tide. Some bore sponsor banners; others were decorated in styles from different periods of history. Red and yellow flags hung limply from the lamp-posts. Beneath them groups of bargees, watermen and sailors were represented in quilted jackets, leather breastplates and striped jerseys, monkey-coats and buckled shoes, flat tarred hats and fur caps. They held burning torches aloft as they pushed the wooden boats out with oars and bargepoles dipping into the murky water.

The lights flickering through the falling rain, the drums and yells, the pungent smell of river mud and burning wood lent the scene a pagan immutability.

‘How are you going to find anything in this?' asked Dan. ‘You haven't even told us what we're looking for.'

‘Janice, you were at the Athena boatyard,' Bryant said. ‘You saw the kind of vessels that were stored there.'

‘They were mostly light cruisers and small motor launches,' the DS replied. ‘Dan's right, we're not going to find anything in this chaos.'

‘Look for this,' said Bryant, unfolding a worn piece of paper and handing it to Longbright.

She studied it for a moment. ‘Linseed oil, drain unblocker, carrots?'

‘The other side.'

Janice found herself looking at a redrawn version of Gilyov's tattoo.

‘It'll be on the stern of the boat,' said Bryant. ‘We have to spread out.'

The team split into pairs and worked their way to the embankment railings, concentrating on the section between the two piers.

The illuminated crimson pageant banners strung between the embankment lamps reminded Bryant of Holman Hunt's famous painting of London Bridge beset by flags and torches. Wooden beach huts, reconditioned from the South Bank's annual Christmas festival, had been set up along the length of the road to sell hot toddies and roasted pork, so that the riverside gathering resembled a thawed-out frost fair.

Meera found herself crushed against the stone balustrade. Below, the water was streaked with crimson and emerald, lit by the crackling golden lanterns that hung from the backs of the festival vessels. It had started raining hard, but only the tourists seemed bothered. Most Londoners expected two things from any evening of public celebration: torrential rain and an aura of joyless melancholia. The only available shelter was under the bridge arches, and these were quickly filled.

Colin searched the seesawing craft, checking the painted sterns as they twisted and turned. The low smoke from the fair's braziers drifted above the heads of the crowd and was beaten down on to the shoreline, where the tar torches pierced the gloom with lambent shards. A stage erected at the end of the street bled electronic feedback, compounding the cacophony and sending echoes from the buildings across the river.

Even Fraternity wasn't sure how he managed to spot the rowing boat. Around six metres long, it was drifting away from the shore ahead of the other parade vessels. A lone oarsman stood poling his way from the rocky beach. He was the only one ignoring the chaos surrounding him, so intent was he on escaping the interlocking boats.

Fraternity and Colin were still a long way from the staircase to the shoreline. The crowd was a living creature, unyielding, enclosing, impossible to penetrate. Only someone as small and tough as Meera had any hope of getting through. They caught her eye and signalled to her.

She dropped low and shoved forward, causing revellers to yell and fall back as she hammered her way through. Emerging between the legs of a surprised brewer selling hot porter in commemorative tankards, she caused him to slop the boiling ale on his customers. The ensuing argument caused others to fall back, allowing her to reach the break in the balustrade that led to the beach staircase.

Popping up again, she surveyed the scene on the floodlit water before running for the steps. The boats along the shoreline were all attempting to set off, but were so densely packed that many could not get clear. Following Fraternity's mimed directions, she jumped on board the first vessel, hopping from one deck to the next, using them as stepping stones. At the outer reach of the last launch she threw herself forward as the rowing boat passed, and landed hard on its deck.

As the pilot raised his oar, Colin cried out a warning. Pushing forward, he tried to reach the shoreline but a group of incensed Indian lads shoved him back into place. He and the others could only watch, helpless, as the figure on the boat swung the oar at Meera, sending her over the side.

As Meera surfaced she fought to stay clear of the dancing prows and stabbing oars that surrounded her. May spotted one of the supervising MPU cruisers and prayed it would find the spot where she thrashed the bitter water. As its spotlight picked her out and Meera was pulled aboard, May tapped his phasing headset. ‘Fraternity, can you follow her path over the boats? Don't let Colin try.'

‘Getting hard to hear you, John,' Fraternity shouted back. ‘Not enough bandwidth.'

May waved his arms, pointing frantically to the route. Fraternity finally nodded back and set off.

‘Here, give these a go,' said Bryant, handing his partner a pair of pocket binoculars. ‘They're no use with my eyes even in the night-vision mode.' May was not in the least surprised that his partner should be carrying such an item. Bryant had been known to produce everything from a soldering iron to a portable easel from his inside pocket. He scanned the scene and quickly located the longboat with the Medusa logo.