This time she could go to the edge of the group and look through the railings. She could read the writing on the side of the boat: ‘Police’. That would be number six on her list. Two men were climbing down on a little ledge at the back of the boat. One of them had big yellow clothes on and gloves that looked like they were made out of rubber and he actually got into the water. Then men used ropes and they started to pull the thing out of the water. There were groaning sounds from the people on the boat and some of them moved away from the railings and Kitty got an even better view. Other people were holding their phones up. The thing looked strange, all blown up and blotchy and milky-coloured, but she knew what it was. The men wrapped it in a big black bag and zipped it up.

The two boats moved together and one of the men climbed from the other boat onto the lower deck of this boat. The other man, the one in the big yellow clothes, stayed on the other boat. He was fixing a rope and tying a knot. When he had finished he stood up, and he looked at Kitty at exactly the same moment that she was waving at him. He smiled and gave a wave and she waved back.

Nothing was happening now, so she went and sat down again. She wrote a number six and circled it and wrote ‘Police’. Then she looked at number five. Carefully, letter by letter, she crossed out ‘Whale’ until it was entirely obliterated. With great concentration she wrote: ‘M-A-N’.

2

Detective Chief Inspector Sarah Hussein and Detective Constable Glen Bryant climbed out of the car. Hussein fished her mobile from her pocket, and Bryant took a packet of cigarettes and a pink plastic lighter from his. He was tall and burly with cropped hair, big hands and feet and broad shoulders, like a rugby player; he was sweating. Beside him, Hussein looked small, cool, compact.

‘Something’s come up and I’ll be back late,’ said Hussein, into the phone. ‘I know. I’m sorry. You can give the girls pasta. Or there are pizzas in the freezer. I don’t know what time I’ll be home. They shouldn’t wait up. Nor should you. Nick, I’ve got to go. Sorry.’

A man was approaching them. His face was flushed and his hair was rough and untidy. He seemed more like a trawlerman than a policeman.

‘Hello.’ He held out a hand to Bryant, who looked sheepish but took it. ‘I’m Detective Constable O’Neill. Marine Policing Unit. You must be DCI Hussein.’

‘Actually …’ began Bryant.

‘This is Detective Constable Bryant,’ said Hussein, coolly. ‘I’m DCI Hussein.’

‘Oh. Sorry. I thought –’

‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it.’

Hussein looked along the river to her right at Tower Bridge and to her left at Canary Wharf and across at the smart new riverside flats of Rotherhithe. ‘Nice position.’

‘You should see it in November,’ O’Neill said.

‘I’m surprised it hasn’t been sold off for flats. Riverfront property like this.’

‘We’d still need somewhere to put our boats.’

DC O’Neill gestured at what looked like a large square tent made out of blue plastic sheets. Hussein pulled a face. ‘Really?’

‘It’s where we put them for a quick check. So we can decide whether to call you guys.’ O’Neill pulled the sheet aside and showed her through. Inside the sheets, two figures in plastic caps and shoes and white gowns were moving softly around the body. ‘Sometimes we’re not sure. But this one had had his throat cut.’

Bryant took a deep, audible breath and O’Neill looked round with a smile. ‘You think this is bad? You should see them when they’ve been in the water for a month or two. Sometimes you can’t tell what sex they are. Even with their clothes off.’

The body was lying in a large shallow metal basin. It looked swollen, as if it had been inflated with a pump. The flesh was unnaturally pale but also blotchy, marbled and bruised on the face and hands. It was still dressed in a dark shirt, grey trousers, robust leather shoes – almost more boots than shoes. Hussein noticed the laces were still double-knotted, and she couldn’t help thinking of him stooping and tying them, pulling them tight.

She made herself examine the face. There were remnants of the nose, little more than exposed cartilage. All the features seemed blurred, corroded, but the slashed neck was plain to see. ‘It looks violent,’ she said finally.

Bryant made a small noise of assent beside her. He had his handkerchief out and was pretending to blow his nose.

‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ said O’Neill. ‘Apart from the throat. The river really knocks them about, the birds get at them. And then in summer things happen more quickly.’

‘Where was he found?’

‘Up near HMS Belfast, by London Bridge. But that doesn’t mean anything either. He could have gone into the river anywhere from Richmond to Woolwich.’

‘Any idea how long he’s been in the water?’

O’Neill cocked his head on one side as if he were doing some mental arithmetic. ‘He was floating. So we’re looking at a week. No more than ten days, the way he is.’

‘That’s not much help.’

‘It’s a good way of getting rid of a body,’ said O’Neill. ‘Much better than burying it.’

‘Was there anything in his pockets?’

‘No wallet, no phone, no keys, not even a handkerchief. No watch.’

‘So you’ve got nothing?’

‘You mean you’ve got nothing. He’s your baby now. But, yeah, there is something. Look at his wrist.’

Hussein pulled on her plastic gloves and bent across the corpse. There was a faint sweet smell she didn’t want to think about. Around the left wrist there was a plastic band. She lifted it gently. ‘It’s the sort of thing you get in hospital.’

‘That’s what we thought. And it looks like it’s got his name on it.’

She leaned right down close. The writing was faint, barely legible. She had to spell it out for herself, letter by letter. ‘Klein,’ she said. ‘Dr F. Klein.’

They waited for the van to arrive, gazing out over the river glinting in the late-afternoon sun. The rain had cleared and the sky was a pale blue, streaked with rose-coloured clouds.

‘I wish it hadn’t happened on a Friday,’ said Bryant.

‘That’s the way of things.’

‘It’s my favourite day, usually. It’s like an extra bit of the weekend.’

Hussein snapped her gloves off. She was thinking about the arrangements she would have to cancel, her daughters’ crestfallen faces, Nick’s resentment. He would try to hide it, which would make it worse. At the same time she was running through the list of tasks that lay ahead, sorting them into priorities. It was always like this at the start of a case.

‘I’ll go with the van to the morgue. You find out who this Dr Klein is and what hospital that tag comes from, if it is a hospital. You’ve got a photo of it.’

Bryant lifted up his phone.

According to the plastic bracelet, Dr Klein’s date of birth was 18 November but they couldn’t make out the year. There were two letters and a series of barely legible digits underneath the name, alongside what looked like a bar code.

‘Missing People,’ said Hussein. ‘Male, middle-aged, reported between five days and two weeks ago.’

‘I’ll call you if I find anything.’

‘Call me anyway.’

‘I meant that, of course.’

The plastic ID came from the King Edward Hospital, in Hampstead. Bryant called them and was put through a series of departments until he ended up with an assistant in the executive medical director’s office. He was told very firmly that he would have to come in person with his request before they gave out personal information about staff or patients.