‘Sorry to call you out to this, guv. I’m not sure if it is your boy – his face is a bit bloated so I’d say he’d been in the water for a good few hours – but there are similarities to the description you put out for Eddie Phillips. Luckily for us he was wedged between two barges otherwise he’d have sunk to the bottom and probably not surfaced for a few days, and then he would have been totally unrecognizable.’
Bradfield looked around, sighing. ‘It would help if we had a bit more light for a start – you need to turn him over and shine a torch on his face.’
‘I was just making a sketch and some notes about the injury on the back of his head – there’s a big lump and cut.’
Bradfield borrowed a torch from a uniform officer, then knelt down and closely examined the injury wondering if it was from an intentional blow or accidental fall. DS Lawrence shone his torch onto the shirt. Bradfield followed suit and they could both see that it was pale blue with a floral print and frilled cuffs and had water-diluted bloodstains on the collar and some drops down the back.
Lawrence shone his torch further along the body and Bradfield saw that the trousers were purple velvet and the shoes suede and high-stacked.
He looked up at Lawrence. ‘Well, that’s a relief.’
‘What is?’
‘I don’t think this is Phillips as he doesn’t wear this type of poncey gear. Last time I saw him he was dressed in shitty, puke-stained clothes and dirty scuffed boots.’ He folded back the collar to see the make of shirt and Lawrence peered over his shoulder.
‘It’s a Mr Fish, they-’
‘I’m not in the mood for silly ironic water-related jokes after schlepping all the way out here for nothing.’
‘I’m being serious. Mr Fish makes and sells upmarket, fashionable clothes for elite customers like Mick Jagger and David Bowie. He’s got a boutique in Clifford Street, Mayfair. That shirt would probably set you back fifty quid and the velvet trousers at least forty.’
‘How do you know these things?’ Bradfield asked, still wondering if Lawrence was having a laugh at his expense.
‘I’ve dealt with a few rich people in my time. A Mr Fish suit would set you back over a hundred or more, unlike an off-the-peg from Horne Brothers for a few quid.’
Bradfield shook his head and sighed. ‘Can we just get this over and done with so I can get a pint before the pub closes? Flip him over so I can see his face.’
DS Lawrence grabbed the feet and asked the uniform officer to help. Together they slowly turned him over. Bradfield noticed there was also a frill down the front of the shirt. He moved the torch light towards the face. It was slightly bloated, with long, shoulder-length wet hair, and there was a fine white froth covering the mouth and nose. He knelt down again to get a closer look.
‘What’s that stuff round his mouth?’
‘The frothy foam is a mixture of water, air and mucus, whipped up by respiratory efforts to breathe, and indicates that the victim was still alive when he went in the water.’
Bradfield rolled up the left sleeve of the frilled-cuffed shirt and saw the faint injection mark.
‘Fuck it, this is Eddie Phillips,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘I’m glad I called you then,’ Lawrence remarked with a sigh of relief.
Bradfield looked puzzled as he stood up and looked at Lawrence. ‘Baffles me where he got this expensive gear from when he hasn’t got a pot to piss in. And what’s he doing over here in Central London?’
‘Maybe he was doing a bit of dealing,’ Lawrence suggested.
‘Was there anything in his pockets?’
‘Loose change and a soggy bus ticket from Hackney, dated yesterday,’ Lawrence said, holding up a clear plastic property bag with wet items inside.
‘Have you any signs as to where he might have gone into the water?’
DS Lawrence pointed to two barges a few yards away. ‘He was wedged in there and a bit further up by the bench under the bridge I found some blood drops, and these.’
He held up another property bag and shone his torch on it. The bag contained the paraphernalia used to inject heroin; a syringe, a darkened burnt spoon, lighter and a trouser belt. Lawrence took Bradfield over to the bench where he’d found the items and suggested a possible-case scenario was that Eddie sat on the bench, shot up, and once the drug kicked in fell, hitting his head on the ground. He shone his torch on the concrete pavement before continuing.
‘As you can see there are some blood drops in one area, then a trail towards the canal. Those coupled with the blood on his shirt collar and back suggest he might have fallen, banged his head, stood up then staggered forward and fallen into the water between the barges.’
Bradfield said nothing as he followed the blood trail, shining his torch onto the murky water between the barges. He then returned and looked at the body’s arms.
‘I hear you, but I can’t see a clear fresh injection site and there’s no empty heroin bag, which could mean he got a whack round the back of the head and was dragged over to the canal and thrown in.’
