Kicking The Air

by Graham Ison

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

When a woman's body is found by the Thames river police, floating opposite the Houses of Parliament in London, it doesn't take DCI Brock long to work out that she has been murdered. Further investigation reveals the woman was one of a stable of prostitutes run by a shadowy figure wanted in his native Australia. But the investigation presses other names upon Brock and Poole, and they must suffer several missed turns and pay the price for their assumptions before they get their man.

Release date: October 14, 2015

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 352

Sample

Nine o’clock on Wednesday evening.

‘I think we’ll call it a day, Dave,’ I said to my sergeant.

We’d been making our brains hurt trying to put together a report for the Crown Prosecution Service on a guy we’d arrested for murder, a task often more difficult than solving the
murder itself.

That’s when the call came in.

The car we normally used had a sticker from Transport Branch on the windscreen declaring the vehicle unroadworthy due to a transmission problem, whatever the hell that meant. Why not fix it
instead of going about plastering little notices on the damned thing? We both muttered oaths and took a cab for the half mile or so to Waterloo Bridge from our office at Curtis Green.

Not many people – including, believe it or not, the police – know that Curtis Green is tucked away behind Richmond Terrace Mews, just off Whitehall, and long, long ago was part of
New Scotland Yard. Before the Yard got overcrowded and was shifted to Victoria, that is. Unhappily, however, the new headquarters is similarly overcrowded, and is also called New Scotland Yard, a
decision that confuses those tourists who rely on outdated guide books, and who trot down Whitehall in search of it.

But even fewer people – and that still includes the police – know that Curtis Green houses Serious Crime Group West and that it has the responsibility for investigating all major
crimes from there to Hillingdon.

Well, nearly.

Just for the record, that responsibility excludes what is known – daringly for the now terrifyingly politically correct Metropolitan Police – as ‘black-on-black’ crime,
which is dealt with by something called Operation Trident. The onus of investigating serious sexual crimes falls on Project Sapphire. Oh, and there’s something called Operation Emerald that
looks after witnesses and victims.

And there are probably one or two other ‘specialist’ squads that I have yet to come across.

What’s left is down to poor bloody sharp-end coppers like me. And Dave Poole, my black sergeant bag-carrier. Why he hasn’t been snapped up by Operation Trident is a mystery, but he
reckons that if he stays in the shadows they won’t be able to see him. Dave has a quirky sense of humour, which is why he sometimes refers to himself as Colour-Sergeant Poole.

Come to think of it, there are so many specialist squads at the Yard now, it’s a wonder that there’s anything left for the Serious Crime Group to deal with at all. I’ve even
heard there’s a squad that spends all its time – well, Monday to Friday, nine to five – dreaming up new code words for new squads. But that might just be a malicious rumour put
about by those who do the real work, few of us though there are these days. Nevertheless, I think I must have gone wrong somewhere to finish up where I am. I know of one superintendent with twenty
years’ service who, after his two years of ‘foot’ duty – which he did in a car – has been ensconced in a nice, warm office ever since.

However, enough of this philosophizing. As it turned out, we needn’t have rushed. When we got to Waterloo police station there was just a body bag – with a body in it – on the
landing stage.

In case you’re wondering where a landing stage fits into all this, Waterloo is London’s only floating police station and is manned by what used to be called Thames Division. Until,
that is, it was renamed the Marine Support Unit by the aforementioned ‘new names and total confusion squad’ at Scotland Yard.

The victim had been found floating in the river by the observant crew of a police launch. They are always observant in such matters because they get a bonus for recovering bodies from the murky
waters of the Thames.

As it is beneath the dignity of the Water Rats – as river coppers are known to us of the elite – to hang about guarding a dead body, two police officers had been summoned from
Charing Cross police station to ensure, presumably, that it didn’t fall into the hands of a latter-day Burke and Hare.

One of the officers, I subsequently discovered, was ‘learning beats’, which means that she had just emerged from that forcing establishment they call the Hendon Training School,
doubtless still starry-eyed and intent on working for a safer London. Good luck. She was a girl with a blonde ponytail that reached her shoulder blades, silly bitch. She clearly had yet to discover
that some yob would seize it and swing her round like a rag doll at the first punch-up in which she got involved.

Her male companion – optimistically styled a ‘tutor constable’ – was chatting to an unsavoury youth in what used to be called plain clothes, although there was nothing
plain about his ensemble. I assumed, and later discovered, that he was a CID officer, God help us.

Dave immediately set about asking questions of this trio in the hope that they might have something useful to tell us. A vain quest.

In the meantime, I unzipped the body bag sufficient to study the victim’s face. She was a young brunette – about twenty-five, I reckoned – and pretty, and there was something
that looked like a bootlace tight around her neck.

‘Find out anything?’ I asked when Dave returned.

‘The clown in fancy dress claims to be a CID officer from Charing Cross police station, guv.’

‘How fascinating.’ I beckoned to this vision to join us. ‘And what’s your part in this drama?’ I asked.

‘The DI sent me down to liaise, sir.’ Preening himself slightly, the youth announced that he was a detective constable.

‘So liaise, my son. What, for instance, d’you know about this?’ I asked, waving at the body.

‘Er, nothing, sir.’

‘I see. Well, now that you’ve played a significant part in this investigation, you may as well go back to the nick and do some work.’

Somewhat relieved, I imagine, the DC scurried away.

‘According to the “feet” ’ – Dave gestured at the two PCs – ‘the river police spotted the body just opposite the Houses of Parliament.’

‘She’s not an MP, I suppose?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Doubt it,’ said Dave, glancing down at the girl’s face. ‘She’s too good-looking.’

‘Pity. Which side?’

‘Which side?’

‘Which side of the river,’ I repeated patiently. ‘If the body was nearer the Lambeth side than the Westminster side, it’d be down to SCG South.’

‘I don’t think the commander will let us get away with that, guv,’ said Dave thoughtfully. ‘After all, it’s on our side now.’

I didn’t think we’d get away with it either. But I should mention that the commander, a life-long Uniform Branch wally, had – in the twilight of his career – been turned
into a paper detective by someone in the Human Resources Branch at Commissioner’s Office, as we of the cognoscenti call Scotland Yard. Unfortunately for me and my colleagues, the commander
had a misplaced notion that the more murders his officers investigated, the greater would be the glory reflecting upon him. And would doubtless culminate in the award of the Queen’s Police
Medal for Distinguished Service, or something even more prestigious. Naïve fool! The only award I’d ever received was my Woodman’s Badge when I was a Boy Scout. Apart, that is,
from my Police Long Service and Good Conduct Medal, which the governor handed me one day when I happened to be passing his office.

‘Has someone sent for the pathologist and the rest of the circus?’ I enquired, looking round.

‘I have.’ Dave had clearly been busy on his mobile. ‘The crime-scene examiners are on their way, guv, and so’s Henry.’

Henry Mortlock, an exponent of black humour that rivalled that of most detectives, was the Home Office pathologist who always managed to turn up for my dead bodies. Perhaps he enjoys my company.
On the other hand, it may just be that that’s how the roster works out.

And, as if on cue, Henry arrived.

‘Well, Harry, we meet again.’ Mortlock rubbed his hands together and looked at the woman’s face. After a moment’s contemplation he undid the body bag fully.
‘Hmm!’ he said, and for a few moments gazed at the naked body. ‘Well, there’s not much I can do here. No good taking her temperature.’

‘I suppose not,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t look as though she’s sickening for anything. Not any more.’

As usual Henry ignored my flippancy. I think he thought he had the monopoly on smart remarks. ‘Get it to the mortuary, Harry, there’s a good chap.’ He stood up and hummed a few
bars from Mozart’s Figaro.

There wasn’t much I could do either. The absence of clothing would make identification that much more difficult, and I had a nagging suspicion that it would be some time before we found
out who she was. But, unusually for me, I had a bit of luck there.

Two of the scientific lot’s white vans arrived on the road just above the police station. After a short delay, during which time I imagined that the technicians of murder were donning
their white overalls, Linda Mitchell, the chief crime-scene examiner, appeared on the landing stage.

She looked down at our body. ‘I understand she was pulled out of the river, Mr Brock?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s why she’s wet.’

‘In that case, photographing the victim is about all we can do on site,’ said Linda. She too had a tendency to ignore my smart remarks.

‘And fingerprints,’ I suggested.

‘Of course,’ said Linda, and shot me a withering glance that implied I was doubting her professional competence.

Meanwhile, Dave was busy making telephone calls to God knows who, arranging for the removal of the body to Henry Mortlock’s butchery.

I went into the front office of the nick. ‘I’m DCI Brock, Serious Crime Group West,’ I said to the station officer, a weary sergeant who looked as though he wished he were ten
years older and thus eligible for a pension. ‘Where’s the boat’s crew that found this body, Skip?’ I cocked a thumb towards the door.

‘Back on patrol, sir.’ The sergeant’s expression suggested that I’d just made a fatuous enquiry.

‘Did they, by any chance, happen to mention the ligature around the victim’s neck when they brought her ashore?’ I didn’t try to disguise my sarcasm.

‘Yes, sir, they did mention that. That’s why we called Wapping.’

‘What’s Wapping got to do with anything?’ I asked. This was obviously going to be a tortuous conversation. ‘That’s the headquarters of the OCU, sir.’ The
sergeant pronounced it ‘ock-you’.

‘The what?’ I knew what he meant, but I hate acronyms. Along with all the other things I hate about today’s Metropolitan Police.

‘The operational command unit, sir,’ said the sergeant slowly, and in such a way that implied he was treating with an idiot.

‘And?’

‘They said to refer it to CX. That’s Charing Cross nick, sir. Er, police station.’

‘I see. So the boat’s crew, well knowing that this was a suspicious death, decided not to wait for me, and went back on patrol. Got that right, have I?’

‘They got a shout, sir,’ said the sergeant, playing his trump. ‘Bit of a punch-up on a gin palace, down near Blackfriars Bridge.’ He turned to his computer screen.
‘All quiet on arrival. They’re on their way back as I speak, sir.’

‘Obviously a priority,’ I muttered, and walked out of the office just as a launch was tying up. A sergeant and a constable stepped lightly on to the landing stage.

I introduced myself and Dave. ‘What’s the SP?’ I asked. SP is a piece of verbal shorthand that the police have culled from the racing fraternity and means ‘starting
price’, but when a policeman uses it he means ‘What’s the story?’

‘We were patrolling upstream, sir,’ said the sergeant, ‘when we spotted the floater just abeam the Houses of Parliament. Taffy’ – he nodded towards his PC –
‘got her inboard, but she was already dead.’

‘Probably because of the ligature round her neck,’ observed Dave mildly.

‘Given the tide at this time of year, Skip, where could she have gone in?’ I asked.

‘Ah, that’s a good question, sir.’ The sergeant took off his cap and scratched at his thinning hair. ‘And I can’t answer it until I know when she went
in.’

‘Thanks a lot. You’ve been a great help. DS Poole will take brief statements from you both.’

And then everything happened at once. Henry Mortlock went, the crime-scene white-suits left, the body was removed and the boat’s crew continued their patrol, no doubt to sort out a few
more revellers who were polluting the environment with their drunken carousing.

Thursday morning. An unidentified murder victim, no idea what to do next and the commander poking about in the incident room. What more could one ask?

‘What d’you think, Mr Brock?’ enquired the commander.

‘I’m waiting for the result of a search of fingerprint records, sir,’ I said. ‘Until we know who the victim is, we’re a bit stuck.’

A bit stuck! We haven’t got a bloody clue. Literally.

‘Mmm! Yes, I suppose so. Er, any thoughts on the cause of death?’ This despite the fact that Linda Mitchell’s team had already produced blown-up photographs of the dead woman,
including a close-up of the ligature around the girl’s neck. All of which had been posted on a notice board by the ever-efficient Detective Sergeant Colin Wilberforce, the incident-room
manager.

‘At a rough guess, sir,’ I ventured, with just a hint of irony, ‘strangled with a ligature.’ I pointed at the close-up with my pen. ‘That ligature. But, of course,
we’ll have to wait until Henry’s finished.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I’m just about to leave for the post-mortem.’

‘Who’s Henry?’ The commander knew fine who I was talking about.

‘Dr Mortlock, sir. The Home Office pathologist,’ I said.

‘I see.’ The commander wrinkled his nose. He always treated highly qualified medical practitioners with some deference, and would never dream of referring to them by their first
name. Perhaps he feared that one of them would one day declare him unfit for further service. Then he wouldn’t know what the hell to do with himself.

Henry Mortlock was always at his best when he was conducting a post-mortem. Attired in all-over white – tunic, trousers and rubber boots – he was lovingly sorting through his
collection of ghoulish instruments when I arrived.

‘Ah, Harry, you’ve got here. Now I can begin.’

After some consideration, he selected a scalpel and opened up the body from throat to pubis to the accompaniment of his very own hummed version of some obscure symphony. Well, it was obscure to
me.

It took an hour of incision, muttering and the occasional operatic aria before Henry declared himself reasonably satisfied. He was never more than reasonably satisfied.
‘I’ll let you have my report, Harry,’ he said, ‘but on the face of it, my professional opinion is that this young woman died as a result of strangulation with a ligature and
was dead before she entered the water.’

What a coincidence. I’d more or less worked that out for myself.

‘There’s some post-mortem grazing on the woman’s back,’ Henry continued, ‘and I’m of the view that she’d been dead less than twenty-four hours when your
fishermen dredged her up. Oh, and she’d indulged in sexual intercourse – probably consensual – shortly before dying. I’ve obtained a sample from the victim’s vagina.
Might be a good idea to send it for DNA analysis.’

‘That is a good idea, Henry,’ I said, but my sarcasm escaped this eminent pathologist.

All I had to do now was find the guy who’d had it off with her. He might be the murderer, but knowing my luck, maybe not.

Dave and I grabbed a quick bite to eat and then hastened back to Curtis Green in time for Colin Wilberforce to announce that a piece of good news had flooded in. The
woman’s fingerprints were on record and we now had a name: Patricia Hunter.

‘What’s her form, Colin?’ If she was on record she must have been convicted of a crime within the past seven years. Otherwise a compassionate government would have declared it
to be a ‘spent’ conviction and rubbed it out. Bit like the victim herself.

‘One previous five years ago for shoplifting in Oxford Street, sir. Fined three hundred pounds plus costs. Her antecedents show her to have been an actress at the time.’ Colin looked
up and grinned. We both knew what that was a euphemism for. ‘And they also show that her fine was paid by a guy called Bruce Phillips. There’s no address for him.’

‘Have you got an address for the woman?’ I asked.

‘According to this’ – Colin waved the printout -‘she was living at nineteen Saxony Street, Chelsea, sir. But, as I said, that was five years ago.’

‘Age?’

Colin had no need to refer to the woman’s record again. ‘She’d’ve been twenty-six now, sir,’ he said promptly, having already worked it out.

I glanced at the clock: half past two. ‘Know where Saxony Street, Chelsea, is, Dave?’

‘Not offhand, guv, but no doubt I’ll find it,’ said Dave with a sigh.

Saxony Street was not far from Chelsea Embankment, which, given that Patricia Hunter had been found floating in the river, was interesting. But probably irrelevant.

We introduced ourselves to a svelte brunette of indeterminate age who told us her name was Clare Barker.

Once seated in her plush sitting room, we explained that we were trying to trace any friends or relatives of Patricia Hunter who had, according to our records, lived at 19 Saxony Street five
years previously.

‘Is she a missing person?’ asked Mrs Barker.

‘Not any more,’ said Dave.

‘Oh!’ That seemed to mystify Mrs Barker momentarily. ‘Well, my husband and I bought this house about two years ago,’ she said. ‘The previous owners had converted it
into three flats, but we changed it back and refurbished it, and now we occupy the whole house.’

‘So the name Patricia Hunter doesn’t mean anything to you?’

‘No, I’m sorry. I’ve no idea where you’d find her now.’

‘We have found her,’ said Dave. ‘Floating in the river.’

‘Oh, my goodness!’ Mrs Barker looked shocked and put a hand to her mouth. ‘Was it an accident?’

‘We don’t think so,’ I said. ‘She’d been strangled.’ That’ll give the Chelsea set something to chatter about, I thought.

‘How dreadful,’ was Mrs Barker’s further contribution to the conversation.

‘Can you tell me who you bought the house from?’ I asked hopefully. The death of Patricia Hunter was already showing signs of developing into a complex investigation. But little did
I know then that it was going to get considerably more complex before we found the woman’s killer.

‘I’ll ask my husband.’ Mrs Barker rose from her chair. ‘He’s in the study and he dealt with all of that,’ she added over her shoulder as she glided gracefully
from the room.

A few moments later she reappeared followed by a man in a Paisley shirt and chinos. ‘I’m Sandy Barker,’ he said. ‘How can I help you? Clare mentioned something about a
murder,’ he added with a frown.

I repeated what we knew and what we wanted to know.

‘As Clare told you, we bought the house about two years ago.’ Barker handed me a business card. ‘That’s the estate agent who handled the sale – they’re in the
King’s Road – and the people we bought the house from were called Mason. I think that was their name.’ He glanced at his wife and she nodded.

‘Any idea where these Masons moved to?’ I asked, hoping to short-circuit a visit to the estate agent.

‘No, sorry,’ said Barker.

‘Does the name Bruce Phillips mean anything to you?’

‘No, sorry,’ said Barker again.

Oh well, it was worth a try.

‘There’s nothing we can do until the morning, Dave,’ I said as we drove back to Curtis Green. ‘We may as well have an early night while we’ve
still got the chance.’

Not that Dave ever minded working late. His gorgeous wife Madeleine was a principal ballet dancer, and rarely got home before midnight.

As for my girlfriend Sarah Dawson, a scientist at the Metropolitan Forensic Science Laboratory, she’s grown accustomed to the bizarre hours I work. I think she even believes me now when I
tell her I’ve bee. . .