Cold as Ice

Chapter 1

It was the first week in December and for three weeks the temperatures in the UK had plummeted so low that now the Regent’s Canal had completely frozen over. The gloomy silence was fractured by the boom and bellow of a massive building works programme going on in King’s Cross. Most days the sky played battlefield to giant industrial cranes but today visibility was limited to just twenty feet; it was just far enough to see across the canal, where it narrowed towards the gates then dropped eight feet and widened into a basin. The water hadn’t been flowing for two weeks and the canal boats were stuck, moored in ice.

A group of six lads walked down towards the frozen canal. Mouse, nicknamed a year ago when he was the smallest member of the gang, before he grew into a lanky skulker, dragged his feet, kicking the loose stones as he sloped along the towpath, hands deep in the pockets of his black hoody. He was nervous today. A lot was expected of him.

Leon, the leader of the boys, moved back along the ranks until he came level with Mouse. Mouse lifted his chin in the direction of the new boy. ‘I don’t see you asking him to do it?’

‘That’s cos he needs to wait his turn.’

The others sniggered and Mouse gathered phlegm and rolled it round his tongue before he spat the globule onto the path.

‘Anyways—’ Leon moved closer and walked alongside Mouse – ‘he don’t know how it works with the old man on the till. He don’t know how to distract him.’

Mouse’s eyes were furtive beneath the rim of his hoody. He shook his head. ‘No, man, he knows me; he won’t let me in the shop.’

‘He will.’ Leon put his arm around Mouse’s shoulder. The other boys turned and grinned at one another.

He shrugged Leon off. ‘I’m telling you he won’t. I tried to buy something for my mum last week. He wouldn’t even let me do that.’

‘You scared of the old man?’

Mouse tried a laugh but it came out shrill and false in the frozen air.

‘You need to stay calm. Stay cool.’ Leon sucked in the air through the gap between his big front teeth. ‘Be happy; don’t worry.’ As he talked he leant his weight on Mouse and they stepped closer to the canal’s edge. One of the boys picked up a stone from the towpath and threw it across the frozen water.

‘Oi! Stop that!’ The man stood at the other side of the canal and stared at them. Another stone skimmed over the top of the ice, leaving a frosted trail. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ he shouted again.

‘What’s it to you, old man?’ Laughter rang out amongst the obscenities as one of the lads prised up a loose slab from the side of the towpath and launched it across the ice.

‘I work here, that’s what. It’s dangerous. Now bugger off home.’

Mouse joined in the whistling and the jeering across the canal. When he turned his attention back to his mates he found them standing in his way, corralling him in; his back to the canal. A play-fight ensued between him and Leon. Mouse struggled to slip his wiry frame from Leon’s firm grip and finished being tipped backwards towards the ice, dangling. He tried to laugh as he clung tight to Leon, who seemed about to haul him in but instead dropped him. Mouse bounced on his back and then slid across the surface. His friends whooped with delight as they watched him struggle to get to his knees, fall and slip sideways. He tried again, still managing to see the funny side of his predicament, inwardly so grateful that the ice had held his weight, but now all he wanted was to get off it fast. He steadied himself, turned over onto his knees and placed two hands down on the frozen surface and then stopped laughing. He scrambled to move away from that spot. His hands began to stick to the ice. His face was just an inch from the surface and his eyes slowly focused on the scene beneath his hands. He was winded, he couldn’t scream; he couldn’t talk. He heard the sound of his friends laughing. He tried to make out the shape he was looking at: the first thing he saw was the grinning mouth, the next her eyes, swollen lids opening just wide enough to stare back at him. There between his hands, inches from his face a woman stared up at him through the frozen surface of the canal.

Mouse’s scream was lost in the wail and boom coming from the building site nearby.

Chapter 2

By midday, the day was as light as it was going to get. Freezing fog shrouded the canal above St Pancras Lock. It wrapped around Detective Inspector Dan Carter’s thick-set frame like a wet blanket. He tucked his stripy cashmere scarf into his overcoat and pulled the collar up around his neck.

From where Carter was standing he could see the naked legs of a young woman’s body. Her swollen white limbs had a blackish hue.

He looked up as Detective Constable Ebony Willis came striding back along the towpath towards him, tucking her notebook back inside her jacket as she did so. He thought how she didn’t seem to notice the cold, didn’t feel it like he did. Today the cold and damp in the air sank into his bones; he just couldn’t get warm. Ebony didn’t even have gloves on. She was wearing her self-imposed uniform of black trousers and a fitted black quilted jacket. Her afro hair was scraped into a ballooning ponytail at the back of her neck.

He waited until she reached him. ‘What’s the score?’ he asked, keeping his voice low and banging his leather-gloved hands together to counteract the cold.

‘Basically – he says she wouldn’t have gone far in this canal.’

Carter looked past her to the man in the dark overcoat walking away.

‘Is he the lock keeper?’

‘No, he’s the man who was here when the boys were messing about and fell onto the ice. But he knows all about the Regent’s Canal – he works in the Canal Museum just down the road. He said that different types of locks allow for different water levels and movement between sections of canal.’

Carter swivelled on his heels to look around him and get his bearings. ‘Plenty of ways to get down here, especially with all the development that’s going on. There’s two acres of Camley Park on the other side of the canal for a start. Did he mention if there was any CCTV?’

‘The nearest is two hundred metres away, Guv.’

Carter stepped closer to the side of the canal and knelt to pick up a piece of the broken ice.

‘Got to be two inches thick.’ He turned it over in his hand. ‘We’ll need to wait for the ice to thaw before we can get the divers in to search.’

‘Yes, Guv – forecast isn’t good. No more snow for a few days but then it’s coming back.’

Carter’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of journalists on the bridge that spanned the canal up to their right. He could just about make them out: dark shadows moving through the fog. He heard them clanking their equipment as they hurried down as far as they were allowed onto the towpath. They stopped fifty metres away from where Carter and Ebony stood; just near where their car was parked. Next they heard an officer on the edge of the crime scene talking to them, directing them to where they could stand. Carter scowled.

‘They didn’t take long to find out.’

‘No, Guv. The canal man said the lad who fell on the ice took pictures on his phone; his friends wouldn’t help him out till he put it on Instagram.’

‘Little bastards. Where is he now?’

‘In a cell; he’s given his statement already. Now he’s waiting for someone to be free to tell him he can leave.’

‘Good. Make him sweat for a few hours.’ He shook his head, trying to shake off a headache. He’d spent the evening reminiscing with an old friend and a bottle of JD and now he was beginning to feel the hangover start. He rubbed his face and sighed. ‘What’s the matter with people? Should have respect for another human being. Now we’ve got the frigging newspapers before we’ve even had a chance to assess the situation, let alone inform the family.’

Carter pulled back the entrance to the crime scene tent and stooped as he stepped inside; Willis followed. The smell hit Carter so hard that he was in danger of throwing up. He instinctively drew his scarf up over his nose.

‘Doctor Harding?’

A blonde-haired woman in a white forensic suit was kneeling beside the remains of the woman, which were bloated and blackened by the water. The woman’s head was inside a polythene bag. She had wounds as big as teacups that had eaten into her body.

Doctor Harding looked up and nodded. She didn’t smile. She wasn’t one for automatic gestures of politeness. ‘Willis . . .’ She handed Ebony a pair of gloves. ‘Help me with the body.’ A police photographer moved around and between them in the small tent as he took pictures of the body.

Carter spoke from behind his scarf. ‘How old do you put her, Doc?’

‘Mid-twenties.’

‘Any birthmarks, operation scars? Anything that might help us to identify her?’

‘There’s a tattoo running up the outside of her left ankle.’ Harding turned the victim’s left leg over. ‘I think it’s something written in Norse. I saw something like it once before, on a bald-headed man. That time it turned out to be an ancient proverb meaning: A cleaved head no longer plots.’

‘Yeah,’ said Carter. ‘I remember that guy – had it around his crown, didn’t he? Drug dealer from Croydon, came up to deal with the Turks on Caledonian Road. It proved to be a perfect guideline for someone to cut the top of his head off like a boiled egg. Let’s see if our mermaid shows up anywhere on the system.’

‘Yes, Guv,’ said the photographer.

‘Whoever she was, she’s definitely undernourished,’ said Harding.

‘How long’s she been in the water?’ asked Carter.

‘A few months, at least. She went in when the water was warmer. Decomposition started but then slowed right down.’

Carter hovered nearer and looked directly down over the body at the plastic bag covering her head. ‘Her face looks like something from a waxworks horror museum,’ he observed. He moved closer. ‘It looks like it’s made of cheese.’

The photographer stood where Carter had been to take his shots of the head. Carter pulled back.

Harding nodded. ‘It’s called adipocere – the absence of oxygen and plenty of moisture inside the bag have caused the fats from her face and her brain matter to fuse, turning her face into soap.’

‘Prostitute maybe?’ asked Carter. ‘A client went too far: got carried away with the bag, and killed her by accident then dumped her here?’

‘Pretty risky getting undressed in the middle of King’s Cross,’ Harding answered as she turned the woman’s head towards Ebony and searched for the best place to begin cutting open the bag.

‘People enjoy taking risks,’ Carter disagreed. ‘Might have been a warm summer evening. Maybe this was an experimental sex session gone wrong – he asphyxiates her and then dumps her body straight into the water.’

Harding decided on an entry place for her scalpel and Ebony held the plastic out, away from the woman’s face, whilst the doctor slit down the centre of the bag and peeled it back gently. She finished cutting the bag through. Ebony moved the clumped strands of dark auburn hair away from the woman’s face and neck for Harding to get a better look. She splayed them out, medusa-like.

‘Except . . .’ She turned the head to one side – ‘she wasn’t asphyxiated; she was strangled and the bag was an afterthought. Someone used huge force too; they crushed her windpipe, and broke the vertebrae in her neck, snapping her spinal column – usual injuries we see in someone who’s hanged themselves, but there are no rope lesions. But there’s a necklace, protected by the plastic,’ Harding added as she worked a chain loose that was embedded in the flesh of the neck and eased it free. Turning it till she found the clasp, she pulled two rings around with it, threaded onto the chain. The photographer leant over the body whilst Ebony rested the rings on her open palm so that they could be photographed. Harding undid the chain and handed it to Ebony to bag up. Ebony showed Carter the rings as she did so.

‘Two very different types, aren’t they?’ he said.

‘Of rings, Guv? Yes, I think one is an antique, maybe worth something. Think the other one is cheap.’

‘Anything else on her?’ asked Carter.

‘Not that I can see,’ answered Harding.

‘She look British to you?’ asked Carter. ‘What about the hair? Red hair is very popular with Eastern European women. We have a lot of those living in London.’

‘Yeah, but this wasn’t dyed,’ answered Harding. ‘Celtic, maybe.’

Ebony was still kneeling beside the body, studying the woman’s face. Carter stood back and watched. He was marvelling how Ebony could get that close to the smell and not seem to notice it.

‘What is it, Ebb?’

‘She’s got make-up on.’

Harding rubbed the woman’s cheek with a swab of cotton wool and looked at the resulting red stain on it.

‘You’re right. Must have been industrial-strength to survive this.’

‘There are remnants of blue eye-shadow,’ said Ebony. ‘She’s even got some sort of black eyelashes painted above her eyes. It’s as if she were going to a party.’

‘Dressed as what? A pantomime dame?’

Harding looked down the length of the woman’s body. ‘She’s had a tough life, whoever she is. The fish have capitalized on the decayed flesh.’ She stopped at the largest of the wounds on the woman’s thigh. ‘But all this tissue destruction wasn’t done in the water.’

‘Could you walk around with that kind of open wound?’ asked Willis.

Harding shook her head in response. ‘Can’t see how.’ She parted the frayed flesh and opened the edges of one of the wounds on the woman’s left thigh; the bone was visible.

‘What can have caused so many different sites of infection, and so deep?’ Carter asked as he took photos of the injuries with his phone. Willis helped Harding to turn the body on its side.

‘I think these wounds started as ulcers.’ Harding turned the victim’s arms at the elbows to take a look. ‘No obvious needle marks but these large open wounds might have started with skin-popping – injecting contaminated heroin under the skin.’

‘If she’s got that kind of drug abuse history we might find her fingerprints on file or she might be known at the needle exchange. We’ll check it out.’ Carter said as he moved back from the body. Ebony continued her fascinated examination of the woman’s face. Harding stood to allow the photographer better access.

‘Can you do the post mortem examination today?’ Carter had seen enough. He felt the need to get out of the confines of the tent. He wanted to breathe in something other than the putrid flesh of a body that had been at the bottom of the canal for months. Carter knew Willis would be happy to stay another hour or two. She came alive around the dead.

‘Yes. This afternoon. I’ll give you a call when we’re ready to start.’

‘Thanks.’ They left Harding in the tent.

‘The tattoo’s got to mean something to someone, Ebb,’ said Carter as he and Willis stepped back over the crime scene tape and walked back towards the detectives’ pool car: a black BMW. ‘We’ll get Harding to take a biopsy. The inks used might help us narrow it down to certain tattooists. Did you ask the canal man if he’d seen anything suspicious? He might have seen someone coming to try it for a location. Did you get a statement from him?’

Ebony nodded. ‘Yes, but nothing suspicious.’

Carter pushed past a journalist who called out ‘Excuse me, mate?’ as he passed.

‘Christ – no – you can’t have a frigging interview.’ Carter squared up to him. ‘If you vultures don’t get out of the way I’ll do you for obstructing a police investigation. And I’m not your frigging mate – got it? MOVE.’

The reporter backed off with two hands in the air in a mock show of compliance.

‘Just doing our job.’

Ebony looked across at Carter as he shook his head, annoyed. They’d worked together for a year. She knew him well. She knew he’d be cross because the reporter was right and, on most days, Carter would have chatted to the journalists, got them on his side. But today Carter was somewhere dark in his own head. He looked across at her and shook his head, exasperated.

‘Sorry.’

‘You all right, Guv?’

‘Yeah. Sorry – got a lot going on at the moment, Ebb.’

‘Guv?’

She raised her eyes towards the car to show where they’d left it and to show Carter that he was going in the opposite direction.

‘I know, I know,’ he snapped irritably.

Carter got into the driver’s seat and waited till Willis shut her passenger door and then reversed at speed, almost hitting the photographer who had just stepped off the kerb to get a photo of them leaving. Willis stayed quiet. She looked across at him. She’d worked with him long enough to know he’d tell her in his own time. She was waiting for him to calm down and get back to what he was good at. Carter was the best ‘people person’ she knew. Today was an ‘off’ day.

‘You want me to attend the post mortem on my own, Guv? It’s no problem.’

‘What, and let you have all the fun?’ He smiled gratefully. ‘No, I’ll be all right, Ebb. Nothing like the smell of a post mortem to get things in perspective.’

After the black BMW had passed him on the bridge, the man turned back to look at the white tent below. The fog was just beginning to thin and he could see it shine bright in the wisps of white. He smiled to himself. He was breathless. Something told him today was the day she would finally rise through the dark water to reveal herself to the world – reborn. And the game would begin again.

Chapter 3

Tracy Collins was still in her dressing gown watching telly while she got ready for work. She was on a late shift today. She worked on a cosmetics counter at Simmons department store on Holloway Road. Because Christmas opening hours had just begun, her shift started at two today and would go on until nine.

Her husband Steve had left for work already so Tracy didn’t have to bother about anything other than putting on her face for work. She liked the noise of the television to keep her company while she got ready. She listened to the news as she wandered in and out of the bathroom between applying layers of make-up.

‘Damn.’

It all seemed to be going so well then she dropped an eyelash just as she was about to glue it into place. Tracy knelt on the lino and tried to pick it up between her finger and thumb but her acrylic nails were too thick at their ends. Instead she licked the pad of her forefinger and pressed it down on the lash. She stood back up and deposited it on the side of the sink, stopping to listen to the reporter on the telly in the other room.

‘Today a woman’s body was found beneath the ice in the Regent’s Canal at King’s Cross.’ Tracy walked back into the lounge, looking at the TV screen – at the image of the fog and the frozen canal. ‘Police are not yet able to identify the woman and are treating her death as suspicious. They are appealing for any witnesses and anyone with any information to come forward and ring the number on the screen.’

Tracy moved closer to the screen to get a better look at the canal and the crime scene tent. She knew the area well. She’d had many walks along the canal. She knew that exact spot. As she swung her head in disbelief and squinted at the images of the crime scene tent she caught a glimpse of an Italian-looking detective with immaculate black shiny hair and a stripy scarf pulled up around his chin. Then, a few seconds later, she saw a blonde-haired woman in a white forensic suit emerging from the tent. Just as she was absorbed with watching the report the phone rang and made Tracy jump. She ran and grabbed it from the bathroom where she’d left it on top of the toilet cistern.

Her heart thumped as she looked at the number on the screen.

‘Yes?’ she said abruptly.

She hadn’t meant to sound so jumpy. The news, the disturbance to her routine had done it. She was jittery.

‘Is it a bad time?’ It was a woman’s voice on the other end of the line.

‘No. Sorry. You just caught me, that’s all. I’m getting ready for work.’ She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

‘Is it still okay for today?’ the woman asked.

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Tracy said, her voice metre swinging too high. ‘I’m looking forward to it. But – I’m sorry – I don’t have long. It will just have to be a quick chat today. You do understand? It’s Christmas opening hours and we’re going to be really busy in the shop.’

‘Yeah. You said before.’

‘Oh sorry . . . of course . . . I’m just nervous. Are you still bringing your son with you – Jackson, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t have a choice. He only goes to school in the mornings.’

‘And you know where it is?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s fine, as I said, there’s a Christmas Fayre just around the corner from me. We can meet there by Santa’s Grotto.’

‘Okay. See you there.’

‘But I don’t know what you look like.’

‘I’ll know you,’ the woman answered.

‘Oh . . . all right. Well, I’ll see you at four then. I’m looking forward it.’ Tracy was just about to ask her how she would know her when the phone went dead. ‘Hello? Danielle?’ Tracy looked at the phone in her hand for a few seconds. Had she handled that well? Had she come across okay? She sighed and set about saving the number: new contact.

Tracy felt butterflies in her stomach. Some of it was guilt. She hadn’t told Steve what she was up to. She didn’t know why but it didn’t seem a good idea; not until she was sure what would come of it. She went back into the bathroom and applied fresh glue to the eyelash on the side of the sink. As she waited for her hand to stop shaking she looked at her reflection. Danielle must have come into Simmons and seen Tracy behind the counter. What had she thought? She always tried to make a good impression and to look her best. Had she looked okay that day? She must have, she supposed, otherwise Danielle wouldn’t want to see her, let alone bring her son.

Tracy paused, eyelash on her finger, and looked into her reflection. She felt old suddenly. She looked at herself and frowned. Thirty-six wasn’t old. Deep inside she was still the same girl she used to be. She still wore the same make-up she’d worn as a teenager. Her hair was dyed to keep it looking vibrant. Her skirts were longer now. But inside she was the same girl who’d got pregnant at fifteen.

Chapter 4

Carter and Willis returned to Fletcher House, where they were part of the thirty-eight-man Murder Squad. Fletcher House was at the back of Archway Tube station and joined onto Archway Police Station. Just a door separated the normal goings-on of a police station from what they called ‘The Dark Side’. It was home to Major Incident Team seventeen, MIT 17, along with three other MIT teams that served Londoners north of the Thames. Each MIT team had its own, identically laid out, floor. MIT17 was on the third floor.

‘Sir?’ Carter knocked and entered Detective Chief Inspector Bowie’s office door. Since the retirement of Superintendent Tanner, Bowie was the most senior detective in MIT 17.

‘You got a callout this morning?’ Bowie asked from behind his desk. The desk itself was messy, littered with papers and personal effects. In pride of place were photos of his wife and kids.

Carter came to sit down opposite him. Despite his expensive suit and three-hundred-quid shoes, Bowie always had a dishevelled look; his shoes needed cleaning and his suit didn’t sit properly on his bony shoulders. He struggled to keep weight on. He was pale, tall and blond with watery blue eyes.

‘A woman pulled out of Regent’s Canal at King’s Cross, Sir.’ Carter took off his coat and scarf and hung them over the back of the chair.

‘Any idea who she is?’

‘Not yet. She’s pretty distinctive with long auburn hair, youngish – early twenties. She has a tattoo which we’re hopeful about.’

‘How did she die?’

‘She’d been strangled. Probable sexual motive. She had a plastic bag over her head.’

‘Maybe a sex game gone wrong?’

‘I was thinking the same.’

‘Dismembered?’

‘No.’

‘Heat of the moment then – he panics and throws her into the canal.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Carter. ‘Except Doctor Harding says the bag was put on after death.’

‘You’re SIO on this investigation. Operation Sparrowhawk.’ Carter nodded. Murder Investigations were named in alphabetical sequence, they followed groups. The last group had been towns in Australia; this time it was birds of prey.

‘Still, I think a prostitute seems likely,’ said Carter. ‘We’ll get officers out on the surrounding streets with a photofit of her and see if any of the regulars recognize her. SOCOs are out searching the surrounding undergrowth and along the towpath for any items of clothing or ID but I’m not expecting great results. Doctor Harding estimates she’d been in the water a couple of months, maybe three.’

‘Was she wearing any clothing?’

‘She was naked except for a chain around her neck with two rings on it. One of them is worth money – we’re running it through lost and stolen property files now.’

‘What’s the condition of the body?’

‘The drop in water temperature has kept it from decomposing too far. Skin is still there but it’s lifted and most of her fingers are gone. But she was in a bad way before she ended up at the bottom of the canal.’ Carter took out his phone and handed it to Bowie. ‘She has these wounds over her body.’

Bowie took the phone from him and slid his finger across the screen as he viewed the shots.

‘Nasty. Aren’t they caused by the pond life?’

Carter shook his head.

‘What does Doctor Harding say they are?’

‘She says they started out as ulcers left untreated – it’s possibly down to some contaminated heroin injected under the skin.’

‘Better see if there is some on the streets that’s capable of that.’

‘Yeah – doing it.’

‘Anyone interviewed the lad that found her yet?’

‘We took a statement from him earlier, much earlier.’ A smile crept across Carter’s face. ‘We’re holding him for a bit longer just in case we remember anything else we want to ask him. Then maybe he’ll remember his civic duty next time and call us first instead of posting a photo on Instagram.’

‘Jesus Christ – little fucker. Let me know what you need after you talk to Robbo. Let’s get it all set up. When’s the post mortem?’

‘Harding said she’d get started in about an hour. I’m heading over there shortly.’

‘Okay, keep me in the loop.’

Carter left Bowie’s office and walked down the corridor to the largest office in the department – the Enquiry Team Office. Willis was sitting at one of the six long desks. Jeanie Vincent the Family Liaison Officer sat diagonally opposite her. When the office was full there were twenty detective constables and five detective sergeants in it.

Ebony was scanning through Missing Persons records.

Carter stopped at her station and looked over her shoulder at the screen. ‘Anything in Mispers?’ His eyes drifted up to nod a hello to Jeanie. Jeanie smiled back.

‘Not yet, Guv.’

‘Okay, you ready? We don’t want to be late for Doctor Harding.’

‘Ready.’ Ebony stood and picked up her jacket. ‘Are we walking over, Guv?’

Carter didn’t answer so Jeanie did. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course not.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You know he hates what the damp air does to his hair, Ebb.’

Ebony smiled.

‘And don’t forget you’re coming to Sunday lunch soon. Peter’s cooking it so you’re safe. It’ll be edible this time.’

‘Nice to know some things never change,’ said Carter as he waited for Ebony to shut down her PC.

Jeanie nodded. ‘Yep. It’s never a good thing to admit you can cook to a man – slippery slope. How are your parents, Dan?’

Carter nodded. He looked ready to say something and then changed his mind.

‘Give them my love.’ Jeanie’s eyes lingered on him.

‘Will do.’

They caught the lift down to the car park. Ebony looked across at Carter. She was used to the awkwardness between Jeanie and Carter. They had been a couple long before Ebony began working at the Murder Squad. They still found it difficult to work together. But Ebony had seen the way Carter hesitated at the question about his parents. She knew something wasn’t right. She’d met his parents many times when she and Carter had called in after work and been fed or given a coffee. She was very fond of them. She hadn’t been around to their home in Finchley for a couple of months.

He turned to see her watching him.

‘My dad’s really ill. He’s got throat cancer.’ Carter smiled sadly and shook his head. ‘Cigars have done it. That and a few brandies every night.’

‘Is he having treatment?’

‘Yes. He’s having an operation to remove what they can. It’s a terrible thing to feel so helpless. I can’t do anything to help him. He can’t eat. He sits in his chair in the lounge and he pretends to be fine about it but I can see the panic in his eyes. He’s scared.’ Carter started up the engine. ‘Still, where there’s life – there’s hope, huh? He’s a fighter.’

‘He’ll be all right, Guv.’

‘Yeah – let’s hope so, Ebb. And at least he didn’t end up at the bottom of a freezing canal.’

The fog had cleared and the man walked away from the canal bridge and back through the new building works in King’s Cross. He stopped to look through a peep hole at the massive construction site that encompassed the whole of King’s Cross Station and the surrounding area. The day stretched pale blue and a giant crane swung in the air. The ache and groan of steel being driven into the earth made him feel exhilarated. He felt the blood pump around his body as he stood watching the huge machinery languidly move its metal limbs and lower and lift.

A group of Chinese students passed, all chattering together. They didn’t notice him. A woman passed walking too fast for her skirt. She was in a hurry – going somewhere. She glanced his way; he stared back. He saw beneath the make-up, he peeled her open like an onion, folding back the layers of skin, fat, muscle and severing tendon and ligament, snapping bone.

She came level with him and he smelt her perfume. It made him want to grab her by the neck and pin her to the wall, squeeze her neck, lift her feet from the ground as he cut off the oxygen to her brain. He would watch her eyes widen, panic, stare at him, drift and lose focus and roll back in her head and he would part her thighs and enter her at that moment and the last thing she would feel was him inside her, the pleasure and the pain in death and ecstasy.

The woman stared back at him as if she knew what he wanted to do and was inviting him to try. Just fucking try. He smiled at her. She tossed her chin in the air and walked on by.

Didn’t she realize who he was? Didn’t she realize she was in the presence of greatness? He had complete control over other human beings – over her, if he wanted it. He had power at his fingertips that she would never