In THE JIGSAW MAN (March 16, 2021; Hanover
Square Press), Detective Inspector Anjelica Henley has a lot to deal with on
her first day back her from leave from the Serial Crimes Unit of Scotland Yard.
After nearly becoming a victim of the vicious serial killer, The Jigsaw Man,
just before he was put behind bars, she also has to contend with the subtle
digs and microaggressions that come with being the unit’s only black female
detective. Add a new trainee and a rocky marriage to the mix, and DI Henley
nearly has a full plate. Until the first call comes in...
Along the Thames, a fan of the Jigsaw Man and copycat killer has scattered two dismembered bodies along the shores like a jigsaw puzzle. When DI Henley sees one of the victims, a young black woman, is already being written off by her colleagues, she makes it her mission to solve the case, driving her to seek help from the original Jigsaw Man himself, Peter Oliver. Oliver, however, is determined to get to his copycat before Henley can, and sets into motion a series of events that puts Henley and her family in the crosshairs of two monstrous serial killers.
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Chapter Two
‘I
checked online, and high tide is at 9.55 a.m.’ Ramouter replied as he stepped
around a half-submerged car tire, his eyes glazed with anxiety. ‘Low tide was
at 3.15. Sunrise was at 6.32. A three-hour window for someone to dump whoever
this is and hope that someone would find it before the tide comes in?’
‘Maybe,’
Henley acknowledged. ‘But for all we know it could have been dumped after
sunrise or was dumped earlier upstream before being washed up here.’ She
inspected the glass façade of the Borthwick Wharf, empty commercial spaces and
work units that opened to the terrace and lacked security cameras. Henley
doubted that the local council would have extended their own CCTV cameras to
this part of the street. They had been neglecting this part of Deptford for as
long as she could remember.
‘Has
it been touched?’ Henley asked Anthony who had appeared at her side.
‘As
far as I’m aware, it’s in situ. It wasn’t touched by the woman who found it.
Matei, your builder, said that he hadn’t touched the legs but unhelpfully, it’s
covered in his vomit. I had a quick look at the arms that were found downstream
before I came here. From the looks of things, the treasure hunters may have
prodded around a bit.’
‘There’s
always one.’
The
wind dropped and the air softly crackled with the electricity generated from
the substation nearby.
‘We’re
isolating the recovery of evidence to the direct path from the alleyway to the
torso,’ said Anthony. ‘I doubt very much that whoever it was sat here and had a
coffee afterwards.’
‘They
may not have had a coffee, but if we go with Ramouter’s theory and the body
parts have been dumped then whoever it was certainly knows the river,’ Henley
replied. ‘We’ll let you get on. Ramouter and I are going to take a walk.’
‘Where
are we going?’ asked Ramouter.
‘To
meet Eastwood.’
‘And
you want to walk it?’
Henley
did her best to push aside her frustration when Ramouter pulled out his phone.
‘Google maps says that Greenwich pier is almost a mile away,’ he said.
‘Your
body-part dumper isn’t the only one who knows the river,’ Anthony shouted out
as Henley began to walk determinedly along the riverbank.
The gold scepters on the twin domed roofs of the Old Royal Naval College pierced the cloudless sky. The bare masts of the restored Cutty Sark completed the historical panoramic view that Greenwich was known for. It was a resplendent, whitewashed version of history that contrasted with the sewage that washed ashore. Henley stopped walking when she realized that she could no longer hear the sounds of Ramouter’s leather soles slipping on wet pebbles.
‘Where
are you from?’ Henley asked, waiting for Ramouter to take off his jacket and
loosen his tie. She moved closer towards the moss-covered river wall as the
tide began to encroach.
‘Born
in West Bromwich. Moved to Bradford when I was twelve.’ Ramouter tried to brush
off the bits of mud that had stuck to his trousers, but they only smeared more.
‘Lots of moors, no rivers. Surely it would have been quicker in the car.’
‘This
is quicker. Unless you fancy sitting in traffic for the next half hour while
they raise the Creek Road Bridge.’
‘You
know this area well?’
Henley
ignored the question. She didn’t see the point in telling him that she could
have walked this path with her eyes closed. That this small part of South-East
London was ingrained in her. ‘Whoever dumped the torso would have taken this
route. It doesn’t make any sense to come down here, go back up to the street
level and then drive up to Watergate Street. Out of sight, below street level.
Lighting would have been minimal.’
‘Body
parts are heavy though,’ Ramouter tried to quicken his step to catch up with
Henley. ‘The human head weighs at least eight pounds.’
‘I
know.’ Henley pulled out her mobile phone, which had started to ring. She saw
who it was and ignored the call.
‘Head,
torso, arms, legs. That’s at least six individual body parts.’
‘I
know that also. So, tell me, what point are you making?’ Henley waited for
Ramouter to reach her before maneuvering him towards the river wall as though
she was chaperoning a child.
‘I’m
just saying that that’s a lot of dead weight to be carrying around at three in
morning.’ Ramouter paused and placed his hand against the wall, trying to catch
his breath.
Henley didn’t openly express her agreement. She fished out a black hair band from her jacket pocket and pulled her thick black curls into a ponytail. She had forgotten how much energy it took to walk across the gradient slope of the riverbank. Worse, she felt mentally unprepared for the job ahead, with a trainee struggling behind her who had no idea this was her first time as senior investigator in almost a year.
‘It’s a bit grim, isn’t it?’ DC Roxanne Eastwood shouted out as Henley finally reached the first crime scene. ‘Morning, Ramouter. Not a bad gig for your first day.’
Henley
had always thought that Eastwood actually looked and carried herself like a
detective. Now, Eastwood was poised on the riverbank, the sleeves of her jacket
rolled up with her notebook in her hand. She had come prepared for the river
and was wearing a pair of jeans and trainers that had seen better days.
‘Morning,
Eastie. How does it feel to be out of the office?’ Henley asked, her eyes
drifting to a crime scene investigator who was putting an arm into a black bag.
‘I
should be asking you that,’ said Eastwood, with a look of concern.
Henley
silently appreciated the empathy and placed her hand on Eastwood’s shoulder.
‘But
since you asked, it’s bloody terrible. I think I’ve got sunburn.’ Eastwood
rubbed a hand over her reddening forehead. ‘Forensics are going to be wrapping
up in a bit. Not that there’s much for them to do. Bag it and tag it.’
‘Where’s
Mr Thomas?’
‘Ah,
our illustrious treasure hunter. Last time I saw him he was heading towards the
shops. Said that he needed to get some water for his dog.’ Eastwood shook her
head, obviously not believing a word of it. ‘I’ve got an officer keeping an eye
on him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already uploaded pictures of his find
onto Instagram.’
‘I
want him taken back to the station. Ramouter can take another statement from
him.’ Henley said it purposely so that Ramouter would sense she was in control.
‘If he’s like most mudlarkers, he would have been out here first thing this
morning waiting for the tide to go out. Where exactly were the arms found?’
‘Just
over there.’ Eastwood pulled down her sunglasses and pointed towards the foamed
waves created by a passing river bus. The tide had already come in where X had
once marked the spot. A sense of urgency filled the air as the river regained
its territory.
‘Did
he say anything else?’
‘Only
that he found the second arm about three feet away from the first.’
‘It’s
a sick trail of breadcrumbs,’ said Henley.
‘You’re
telling me and before you ask about CCTV, there’re loads of cameras—’
‘But
none aimed at this part of the river.’
‘Exactly.’
Henley’s
mobile phone began to ring. She pulled it out and answered. After a quick chat,
she ended the call.
‘That
was Dr Linh Choi. You wouldn’t have met her yet but she’s our go-to forensic
pathologist. She’s just arrived,’ Henley explained to Ramouter. She wiped away
the sweat from the back of her neck.
‘So,
we’ve got two arms, both legs and a torso,’ said Ramouter. ‘Where’s the head?’
Good
question. Henley thought of the places between the two locations. A primary
school, two nurseries and an adventure playground among the flats and houses.
The last thing she needed was to find a head in the kids’ sandpit.
‘Can
I have a quick look?’ Henley asked the assistant from Anthony’s CSI team, who
had just bagged up the arm and was scribbling in her notebook.
‘Sure.’
The assistant unzipped the bag and pushed the plastic apart.
‘Fuck,’
Henley said under her breath. Her heartbeat quickened, her stomach flipped.
‘Oh,’
said Ramouter as he peered over Henley’s shoulder. One arm was covered with
gravel. Slivers of seaweed criss-crossed old scars. The second arm. Slender
wrist, the ring finger slightly longer than the index, broken fingernails.
Black skin. Henley could hear Pellacia’s words from earlier ringing in her
ears.
‘Too
early to say if it belongs to the same victim or if it’s more than just one.’
‘Call
DSI Pellacia,’ Henley told Ramouter. ‘Tell him that we’ve got two possible
murder victims.’
Published by Hanover Square Press
Nadine
Matheson is a criminal defense attorney and winner of
the City University Crime Writing competition. She lives in London, UK.
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