When Jane Howard found Tomas’s dead body lying in front of the gate leading out of their mooring, she was shocked, of course. You don’t set out on an early morning walk and find one of your neighbours lying flat on his back, rope wrapped tightly around his neck, without some degree of horror. It was just that, as a retired nurse with more than thirty years’ service in various London hospitals, Jane reckoned she’d seen several hundred dead bodies. So, having immediately phoned the police on her mobile, fingers shaking, she nevertheless felt calm enough that curiosity overcame any repulsion she may have felt.
She squatted — doing her best to ignore the pain in her arthritic knees — to look more closely at Tomas’s neck. The nylon rope, made of bright red and startlingly white intertwined threads, seemed inappropriately jaunty for an instrument of murder. Just above the rope, to one side of Tomas’s Adam’s apple, Jane could make out a fairly small oval bruise. She glanced to the other side of his neck. She could see most of another, larger, oval bruise only partly obscured by the cord. Jane stood, groaning with effort, and gazed down at Tomas’s severely bloodshot eyes — a sure sign of asphyxiation — staring blindly at the sky.
She’d come across her neighbour alive and kicking the evening before, on her way home from a bit of late-night grocery shopping. Jane had often thought Tomas was probably malnourished. He was a skinny specimen. She could tell it was taking him considerable effort to heave tree logs that he’d obviously found — or stolen — onto the cluttered roof of his narrow boat, part of it already piled high with firewood.
“You won’t be needing those for a while,” she’d called to him. “Summer’s only just begun.”
“You never know in this bleedin’ country. Could be fuckin’ snowing tomorrow.”
As she carried on up the mooring path to her houseboat Jane had thought she’d have preferred Tomas’s usual response of a low grunt. Whenever he spoke actual words, they were invariably unpleasant.
Remembering their exchange, Jane grimaced at the thought that Tomas must have been killed not long afterwards. Suddenly the events of the night before took on a whole new complexion.
***
Jane was irritated when she’d been woken during the night by Tomas’s damn dog, Sasha, barking at the other end of the mooring. Tomas was in the increasingly frequent habit of passing out drunk inside his boat, leaving Sasha tied up outside.
Jane had hoped that, in the relative peace of locked-down London, she might sleep better, but she knew that interrupted sleep was inevitable. It went along with sore knees, dodgy digestion, and a couple of other ailments typical of an eighty-year-old. If it hadn’t been Sasha’s barks that disturbed her sleep, it would have been the roar of a motorbike, or the wail of an ambulance siren. She supposed she should keep her windows closed, but after sunny days like the one they’d had, the cabin of her houseboat was stifling.
She heaved herself onto her back and gazed at the reflections of the canal on the ceiling. The shimmering pattern could usually be relied upon to send her back to sleep, despite Sasha’s intermittent yapping.
Jane wasn’t sure if it was seconds or minutes later that she’d been jerked back to consciousness. Had she dreamt the sharp yelp that had woken her, startling as a swift slap? Bloody foxes, she concluded.
On her way to the toilet, she’d heard a shout, a male voice from somewhere further down the canal. Not unusual in normal times when lads were staggering across the bridge next to the gate at the far end of the mooring on their way home from a boozy night out. But since the lockdown Jane hadn’t heard a soul.
She nodded off for a while sitting on the loo, another unwelcome quirk of old age. She more or less sleepwalked towards her bed but was stopped in her tracks by a series of loud squeaks emanating from somewhere outside. She stooped to peer out of her open window at the public-housing flats — the ‘projects,’ as her disdainful neighbour, Sam, insisted on calling them — that lined the other side of the canal. Jane could clearly see a figure, silhouetted against one of the buildings’ outside lights. The person’s arms were extended up to one of the revolving, carousel-like clotheslines, a feature in all the flats’ handkerchief-sized front yards.
Safely back in bed, Jane reached for her mobile to check the time. Why on earth would anyone be hanging out washing at three o’clock in the morning? She supposed they could be taking in dry clothes. Maybe a nurse on an early shift, retrieving a clean uniform. As she drifted off, Jane thanked her lucky stars she’d never had to work through a pandemic
***
The appearance of half-a-dozen alien-like figures interrupted Jane’s ruminations. They trooped through the mooring gate, swathed in hooded, white boiler suits and matching rubber boots.
“Mrs ‘oward?” called the lead figure, his London accent discernible by Jane despite his white fabric mask. “Can you please wait down there. I’ll be with you in a tick.”
He indicated with the wave of a white rubber-gloved hand a couple of rickety folding metal chairs by the side of the canal at the far end of Tomas’s narrow boat.
“It’s Ms. Howard,” Jane called back, as she headed off to sit on one of the chairs, some seventy feet away from where two of the team knelt to inspect Tomas’s body. Three others started to scour the immediate area. Appearing satisfied that everybody was about their business, the man who’d addressed Jane strode toward her. He grasped the back of the second chair and moved it a good six feet away before sitting down.
“I’m Marsh, Detective Sergeant Marsh. Are you okay to tell me exactly what happened?” he asked.
With most of his face obscured by his mask it was difficult for Jane to tell his age. Judging by smooth skin at the corner of his eyes — an attractive shade of blue, she noticed — she pegged him at mid-thirties.
She related her habit of waking up at dawn.
“I make tea, then go for a half-hour walk before breakfast. “
“Bit early at this time of year, eh?” said Marsh.
He laughed. Somewhat nervously, thought Jane.
She smiled, she hoped reassuringly, and went on to describe how she’d come across Tomas’s body as she’d walked from her houseboat at the other end of the mooring.
“And these boats all have people living on them, full time like?”
“Normally, yes. But of the seven boats on the mooring, only myself, Tomas, and Sam are here at present. The others went to live elsewhere when the lockdown began.”
At that moment another alien figure appeared, wheeling a gurney through the gate.
“What, already?” shouted Marsh.
“It’s not rocket science, Sarge,” replied one of the figures, a woman, who’d been examining the body.
Then Jane heard her say to the others, in a lower voice, “This is his first.”
The young detective’s frown above his mask was unmistakeable. Jane felt a wave of sympathy.
“Where does this Sam you mentioned live?” he asked.
“On this houseboat behind us, next to Tomas’s narrow boat.”
Just then, one of the people who’d been scouring the ground approached.
“I was wondering, did the deceased have a sheep or summat?”
He held up a clump of white, matted hair.
“Sasha,” exclaimed Jane.
No sooner had the gurney carrying Tomas’s body disappeared through the gate than somebody shouted that they’d found a dog’s corpse.
“Would you mind taking a gander?” Marsh asked Jane.
Once they’d hefted the dog out of the water, Jane confirmed it was definitely Sasha.
“See how her skull’s caved in,” said Marsh. “And what do you suppose those black smears are along her side?”
While Jane considered the question — feeling somewhat flattered that the Sergeant seemed to have appointed her his co-detective — Sam emerged through the door of his houseboat, which was always immaculately maintained, especially obvious in contrast with Tomas’s wreck of a narrow boat.
“What in God’s name is going on?”
Sam was a short, irascible man. Jane had only ever known him to wear jeans and an oversized pullover, no matter the weather. Seeing him in boxer shorts and T-shirt, which he’d obviously been wearing when he crawled out of bed, Jane could see he was more muscular than she’d thought. His Doc Martens boots were unlaced. It was clear he’d slipped them on in haste.
Marsh quickly outlined to Sam the events of the morning. Sam seemed disturbed — distressed even — but, it seemed to Jane, not particularly surprised.
“How the hell was he … killed?” asked Sam.
“Strangled,” said the detective.
Jane wasn’t quite sure why — too many episodes of Murder She Wrote, perhaps — but she didn’t think it wise for Marsh to divulge the modus operandi of the murderer.
“How?” asked Sam.
Jane threw Marsh as stern a look as she could muster, to zero effect.
“Rope,” he said.
“It’ll be that lout across the canal,” said Sam, so abruptly that Jane forgot to be exasperated with Marsh.
“What lout?” asked the detective.
“Hulking great bloke. He and Tomas were always at each other’s throats,” replied Sam.
“Tomas was always arguing with somebody … including you,” said Jane.
Nevertheless, she remembered the man, and that he and Tomas had had several quarrels. The man lived in the ground-floor flat across from her boat. Where, it dawned on Jane, she’d seen someone fiddling with the clothesline — probably a rope clothesline — during the night. It must have been the “lout” who Sam had mentioned, but something about the scene she’d witnessed niggled her. She decided not to mention it just yet.
“It’ll be him for sure,” said Sam. “They had a bit of a barney the other day. He told Tomas that he’d ‘do for him.’ You must remember, Jane?”
As Sam talked, his right hand fluttered around his chin. Jane spotted angry red marks running the length of his forearm. He stared intently at her, as if willing her to confirm his story. She averted her eyes, down to his buffed black boots. If he didn’t tie his laces, she thought, he’d trip over them. Then she noticed something odd on the toe of his right boot. They were maintaining ‘social distance,’ so she couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a clump of white hair. She moved away from the two men and closer to Sasha’s body. Was it possible the black smears, so obvious on the white fur, were shoe polish? Or, more to the point, boot polish?
“There would likely have been an argument, a struggle,” said Marsh. “Did you hear anything?”
“No,” said Sam. “But I sleep like a baby, it takes a lot to wake me.”
Only a week before, Jane remembered, she and Sam had discussed what light sleepers they were. He’d said that he’d resort to sleeping pills except he worried about becoming a “pill popper.”
Jane moved nearer to Marsh, closer than six feet. He looked at her, clearly startled. She stared into his eyes and then looked down at Sam’s boot and jerked her head in its direction. When she looked back at Marsh, his eyes were narrowed, he was clearly puzzled. She repeated the manoeuvre. Marsh turned his head to look down at Sam’s boots.
“Sir, would you mind handing me your right boot?”
Sam, obviously taken aback, looked down at his boot.
“Oh, for God’s sake, that fucking dog’s hair is all over the mooring. I’d be surprised if we all didn’t have some on our shoes.”
Marsh extended a hand, clearly indicating that he wanted the boot.
“This is preposterous,” spluttered Sam. He seemed almost hysterical.
“What about the rope?” he gabbled. “I’ve only ever seen that cheap red and white rope on clothes lines outside those flats. That monster obviously came over here with some of it for the specific aim of strangling Tomas.”
Jane had to stop herself from yelling “Gotcha!”
Marsh hadn’t mentioned any colour of rope. Sam couldn’t possibly have known the rope around Tomas’s neck was red and white unless he’d put it there himself. He’d only emerged from his boat after the body had been taken away. She supposed he could have discovered Tomas’s dead body before she did, but if so, why wouldn’t he have reported it?
In Jane’s mind everything pointed to Sam. Smears of boot polish on Sasha’s coat, her hair on Sam’s boot, and bruises on his forearm — doubtless made by Tomas yanking on it as Sam throttled him.
A video of the previous night’s events started playing in Jane’s mind.
Sam, exasperated with Sasha’s barking, emerges from his boat and viciously kicks the dog to death. Tomas, hearing Sasha’s excruciating yelp (the one that woke Jane a second time), confronts Sam (the shout Jane had heard on her way to the toilet). Sam, in an uncontrollable rage, strangles Tomas with his bare hands, hence the finger- and thumb-mark bruises Jane had seen on Tomas’s neck. Then Sam, aghast but remembering Tomas’s quarrel with the tall man across the canal, crosses the bridge (during the time Jane dozed on the toilet) to steal incriminating rope from the man’s washing line.
Jane’s earlier niggle, she realized, was because she’d seen a short person — Sam’s height — reaching up to the washing carousel. Whereas the man who Sam was trying to pin Tomas’s murder on must be six foot two at least and wouldn’t have needed to extend his arms upwards.
While Jane’s mental movie had been unwinding in her head, Marsh had turned away, as if to leave.
“I and my Inspector will be back to talk to you both again, if he’s out of hospital — he’s got the virus — once we’ve had a chance to interview the man you mentioned. Which flat is it?”
Sam, who seemed to Jane much relieved, started to point it out.
“Interesting about the rope,” she said, loudly. “Had you mentioned the colour, Sergeant?”
Jane, still relatively close to the young detective, threw him what she hoped was a meaningful look, eyes wide. Marsh’s brow furrowed for a second, but then his forehead smoothed. He gave Jane a little nod — of gratitude, or so Jane liked to think.
“No, Ms. ‘oward …”
“Please, call me Jane.”
Marsh nodded, the crinkling of the skin on either side of his eyes above his mask were unmistakeable proof to Jane that he was grinning.
“… I don’t believe I did mention the colour.”
Sam stared incredulously at Jane, then back to Marsh.
“I think it best if you come down to the station, Sir. You too, Jane, just for a witness statement, if you don’t mind.”
“It’d be my pleasure,” said Jane.
Sam let out a groan, his shoulders slumped, and his chin hit his chest.
Bio
Andrew Smith’s first novel, Edith’s War, was self-published and won a gold medal at the Independent Publishers’ Book Awards, U.S.A. Smith’s second novel, The Speech, was published by Urbane Publications, UK to critical acclaim. His short fiction has been included in the Journey Prize Anthology and shortlisted for the CBC Literary Awards. His travel writing has garnered a Western Magazine Award. He has published two non-fiction books: Strangers in the Garden, the secret lives of our favorite flowers and Highlights, an illustrated history of cannabis (co-author).
