Where the Devil Can’t Go. Anya Lipska

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       Four

      Kershaw was super-respectful to DS Bacon on her return to Tower Hamlets nick. Fair play to Streaky, he seemed to have forgotten the ruck they’d had that morning; in fact, he was surprisingly cheery as she drew a chair up to his desk, probably because she’d had the foresight to bring him a mug of tea and a chocolate Hobnob first.

      ‘The PM is this afternoon, Sarge, down at Wapping mortuary. I’ve not got anything else on and I’d like to go, if it’s okay with you.’ She knew that it usually fell to Crime Scene Investigators to attend post mortems these days – but she couldn’t bear to wait for the pathologist’s report to find out if there were any signs of injury on DB16, the girl with the Titian hair.

      Raising his eyebrows, Streaky leant back in his tatty swivel chair like it was a throne. ‘Well, well. Keen to see a slab butcher at work, are you? My old Sarge used to call it a poor form of entertainment.’ He paused, looking thoughtful. ‘All right, I’ll let you go this once, purely for educational purposes,’ he said, pointing his biscuit at her. ‘But try not to let the side down by chucking up on the Doc’s shoes, there’s a good girl.’

      She gave him a big grin. ‘Thanks, Sarge, I’ll do my best. Can I tell you what else I’ve got on the floater?’

      He checked his watch. ‘Make it quick, I’ve got a pressing appointment at the Drunken Monkey at two o’clock. Crucial meeting with a CHIS.’

      CHIS? It took her a moment to translate. Covert Human Intelligence Source – aka, criminal informer. Yeah, right, she thought, more like three pints and a dodgy pie with your dinosaur mates. All the same, she was beginning to realise she could learn a lot from an old-school throwback like Streaky. The other Detective Sergeants at Newham nick were younger, and mostly of the new breed. Smartly dressed and professional, they wouldn’t dream of drinking while on duty, but they seemed to her more like bank managers than real cops. So what if Streaky liked a few jars at lunchtime? Everyone knew he had a better clear-up rate than any of them. Which was probably why he hadn’t been shuffled off with a full pension years ago.

      ‘Get on with it then,’ he said, blowing steam off his tea.

      Kershaw checked her notes.

      ‘IC1 Female, I’m guessing in her twenties. Could have gone in the river anywhere up to Teddington Lock. No clothing or jewellery, but she’s got a tattoo with her name, Ela, and a boyfriend’s, Pa-wel,’ she said, struggling with the unfamiliar name. ‘Polish, according to the internet.’

      ‘It’s Pavel, like gravel,’ said Streaky. ‘Pawel Janas, played for Poland in the seventies – tidy left foot as I recall. I was only a tiny child at the time, of course. Any injuries?’

      ‘Need the PM results for that, Sarge, body’s all messed up.’

      Streaky chewed his lower lip. ‘So you’re thinking lover’s tiff, the boyfriend strangles her, stabs her – whatever ethnic tradition demands – strips her to get rid of any clues, dumps her in the river in the wee small hours, goes off to drown his sorrows in vodka?’ That brought an appreciative ripple of laughter from the guys – her fellow DCs, Browning, Bonnick, Ben Crowther, all in their late twenties, plus Toby Brisley, a civilian officer, were all at their desks today.

      ‘Something like that, Sarge.’

      ‘Hmm. Well, I wouldn’t usually be too optimistic about finding a perp in the circs, but having your prime suspect’s name tattooed on the victim’s arse does give you a major leg-up.’ More chuckles from the audience. She could only see the back of Bonnick’s PC screen but from his glazed look and half-open mouth she would bet he was watching Arsenal’s top goals on YouTube.

      ‘I’ll be the first to congratulate you if the Doc says it’s a murder,’ said Streaky. ‘And why is that, DC Kershaw?’

      That threw her. ‘Ah, because it’s the most serious crime, Sarge?’

      Browning made a two-tone comedy horn noise at the back of his throat, ie ‘you lose’, to more laughter, though there was sympathy in the look Ben Crowther threw her. Ben – the only other DC in the office who’d been to university – was the only one she’d really clicked with so far.

      ‘Why do we like a murder, DC Browning?’ asked Streaky.

      ‘Two reasons, Sarge,’ he said in that chirpy blokey tone that got on her nerves. ‘One, the job goes to Murder Squad but the body stays with us so we get the numbers if it’s cleared up. Two, murder means overtime.’

      ‘And what is overtime, Browning?’

      ‘The only perk a hard-working detective gets these days, Sarge.’