The Detective Tag

North Greenwich. Late May. Three hours before sunup and the river was

deserted. Dark barges strained upstream on their moorings and a spring tide

gently nosed small sloops free of the sludge they slept in. A mist lifted from

the water, rolling inland, past unlit chandlers, over the deserted Millennium

Dome and on across lonely wastelands, strange, lunar landscapes – until it

settled, a quarter of a mile inland amongst the ghostly machinery of a half derelict aggregate yard.

A sudden sweep of headlights – a police vehicle swung into the service

route, blue lights flashing silently. It was joined moments later by a second

and a third. Over the next twenty minutes more police converged on the

yard – eight marked area cars, two plain Ford Sierras and the white transit

van of the forensic camera team. A roadblock was placed at the head of the

service route and local uniform were detailed to seal off riverside access.

The first attending CID officer got onto Croydon exchange, asking for

pager numbers for the Area Major Investigation Pool and, five miles away,

Detective Inspector Jack Caffery, AMIP team B, was woken in his bed.

He lay blinking in the dark, collecting his thoughts, fighting the impulse to

tilt back into sleep. Then, taking a deep breath, he made the effort, rolled

out of bed and went into the bathroom, splashing water onto his face – no

more Glenmorangies in standby week, Jack, swear it now, swear it – and

dressed, not too hurried, better to arrive fully awake and composed, now the

tie, something understated – CID don't like us looking flashier than them –

the pager, and coffee, lots of instant coffee, with sugar but not milk, no milk

– and above all don't eat, you just never know what you're going to have to

look at – drank two cups, found car keys in the pocket of his jeans, and,

bolted awake now on caffeine, a roll-up between his teeth, drove through

the deserted streets of Greenwich to the crime scene. There his superior,

Detective Superintendent Steve Maddox, a small, prematurely grey man,

immaculate as always in a stone-brown suit, waited for him outside the aggregate yard – pacing under a solitary streetlight, spinning car keys and

chewing his lip.

He saw Jack's car pull up, crossed to him, put an elbow on the roof, leaned

through the open window and said: 'I hope you haven't just eaten.'

Caffery dragged on the handbrake. He pulled Rizlas and tobacco from the

dashboard. 'Great. Just what I was hoping to hear.'

'This one's well past its sell-by.' He stepped back as Jack climbed out of the

car. 'Female, partly buried. Bang in the middle of the wasteland.'

'Been in, have you?'

'No, no. Divisional CID briefed me. And, um—' He glanced over his

shoulder to where the CID officers stood in a huddle. When he turned back

his voice was low. 'There's been an autopsy on her. The old Y zipper.'

Jack paused, his hand on the car door. 'An autopsy?'

'Yup.'

'Then it's probably gone walkabout from a path lab.'

'I know—'

'A med-student prank—'

'I know, I know.' Maddox held hands up, stalling him. 'It's not really our

territory, but look—' He checked over his shoulder again and leaned in

closer. 'Look, they're pretty good with us usually, Greenwich CID. Let's

humour them. It won't kill us to have a quick butcher's. OK?'

'OK.'

'Good. Now.' He straightened up. 'Now you. How about you? Reckon you're

ready?

'Shit, no.' Caffery slammed the door, pulled his warrant card from his

pocket and shrugged. 'Of course I'm not ready. When would I ever be?'

They headed for the entrance, moving along the perimeter fence. The only

light was the weak sodium yellow of the scattered streetlamps, the

occasional white flash of the forensic camera crew floods sweeping across

the wasteland. A mile beyond, dominating the northern skyline, the

luminous Millennium Dome, its red aircraft lights blinking against the stars.

'She's been stuck in a bin liner or something,' Maddox said. 'But it's so dark

out there, the first attending couldn't be sure – his first suspicious

circumstances and it's put the wind up him.' He jerked his head towards a

group of cars. 'The Merc. See the Merc?'

'Yeah.' Caffery didn't break step. A heavy-backed man in a camel overcoat

hunched over in the front seat, speaking intently to a CID officer.

'The owner. A lot of tarting up going on around here, what with the

Millennium thing. Says last week he took on a team to clear the place up.

They probably disturbed the grave without knowing it, a lot of heavy

machinery, and then at oh-one-hundred hours—'