Human Trials by Karen Hastie

Author:Karen Hastie [Hastie, Karen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-01-30T00:00:00+00:00

30

CHILDS

Eel Pie Island. Twickenham. Sunday. 1.00pm.

Gates was already at the scene when Marshall pulled into Water Lane. His team was hauling equipment over the small footbridge, which was too small for a car, towards the small island sitting in the middle of the River Thames.

‘You took your time,’ quipped the pathologist, handing her a hazmat suit. ‘Thought you might be off today.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Marshall growled taking the suit out of the plastic wrapper. She didn’t need reminding that she’d been on earlies for five days now. The shift patterns really screwed with her body clock, something only copious amounts of caffeine managed to resolve.

He waited while she pulled on the suit and then she followed him onto the footbridge.

Halfway across, Marshall looked over the wooden railings towards the two police boats that sat in the fast-flowing river. Their powerful engines churned the waters white while divers tried to untangle the pale body from the roots of a tree.

‘Must have washed downstream from London,’ Gates explained, coming to stand beside her. ‘This part of the Thames is tidal, there’s a lock at Teddington.’ He pointed to the west.

Marshall knew this side of the river well. Her parents had lived most of her adult life in Chiswick and there had been many summer days spent messing around in boats along this stretch.

‘Eel Pie Island has an interesting history,’ he continued as they walked up over the bridge. ‘There used to be a hotel here, famous for its bohemian excesses. The Rolling Stones played here in sixty-three, as did The Who, The Yardbirds and Pink Floyd.’

His voice grew a little distant as they reached the end of the arched bridge. ‘That must have been one hell of a time to be young.’

Marshall was only half-listening, her attention focused on the retrieval of the body.

‘Are you sure it’s definitely Childs?’

‘What? Yes, the lady who discovered him sent a photo from her phone. Actually, she posted it on the local WhatsApp group and one of the more astute amongst the locals alerted the police.’

Stepping onto solid ground, they walked down a street lined with ramshackle sheds and workshops. It felt like something out of another time, the muddy path rutted with the tracks of wheelbarrows and handcarts.

Marshall peered through the cracked windowpanes, catching glimpses of shelves full of rusting tins, old tools, and the skeletal frames of half-finished wooden boats. She smelled the sharp tang of creosote, varnish, and something more unusual.

‘It’s always been a magnet for alternative types: artists, poets and inventors,’ he continued. ‘Even William Hartnell, the first Doctor Who, lived here.’

‘And weed,’ she added, sniffing the air.

‘Ah yes, that too.’

They reached the central boathouse which was the largest wooden structure on the island. Modelled on a Tyrolean chalet, it boasted three floors and numerous extensions. The building was looking a little tired. Its blue paint peeled from the flaking clapboards. Driftwood and other scavenged objects were rigged around the entrance to create a grotto-like porch.

They stepped into what seemed to be more of a tack room than reception area.

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