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here?’
    ‘How the hell do I get down there? That’s a thirty-foot drop.’
    ‘Men and their inches,’ said Jessie. ‘Always exaggerating.’
    Fry was furious, but Jessie was his superior. No doubt he’d vent his spleen in the pub later, telling everyone what a bitch she was.
    ‘There are some steps in the wall about a hundred yards back.’
    Fry peered over. In some places the water reached the wall. ‘But …’
    ‘Be careful of the run-off channels. We wouldn’t want to lose you to a sudden gush of effluent.’
    ‘You can’t be serious, guv?’
    Jessie narrowed her eyes against the sun’s low-lying sharp reflection. ‘Deadly.’
    Fry flounced off. Mark Ward, that bastard. Well, he picked the wrong girl to start a war with. She’d make him sorry he hadn’t simply put a bucket of water over an open door and been done with it. Jessie got on the phone to the riverboat police, the underwater team and the helicopter unit, then she went over to the first officer on the scene. ‘Hi, I’m Detective Inspector Driver, West End Central CID.’
    ‘PC Niaz Ahmet.’ He was lanky, with heavy hands that flapped like paddles at his sides. His narrow head was perched on a long neck, but his eyes were bright and alert.
    ‘Were there any markings when you got here? Tyre tracks, footprints?’
    ‘Indeterminate number of markings on the path. But the mud was flat as it is now. Except for where the water runs off the bank. Rivulets, I think they’re called.’ Jessie immediately warmed to the man. ‘Definitely no footprints, or tyre tracks down there.’
    ‘Anything resembling a skull?’ asked Jessie.
    ‘Not that I could see. But, like Detective Constable Fry, I haven’t been down there. Didn’t want to disturb the scene.’
    Jessie blew on her hands and rubbed them together. ‘Anything else?’
    ‘No. Few bits of debris, broken bottle, bit of metal pipe, trolley wheel, a dead jellyfish. But no footprints. I noted that especially.’
    ‘Follow me. I want you to take statements from the girls. And anyone else who turns up.’
    ‘Yes, ma’am.’
    She walked along the footpath to where the rowers still stood, huddled over cold coffee, exhaling clouds of expectant breath. Gold letters adorned the navy-blue tracksuits: CLRC. Jessie introduced herself and began her routine questions.
    Jessie climbed the frost-covered grass embankment on the other side of the pathway and peered overthe iron railings. The so-called nature reserve looked like a filled-in chalkpit or a disused water reservoir. Steep banks surrounded the rectangular expanse of water. It seemed a desolate place, offering none of the comforts the name suggested. She turned away and walked back down the path after Fry to the stone steps. Like the wall, they were covered in algae. The river’s mucus. Fry was f-ing and blinding as he fought through the mud. It was almost worth the humiliation to see him pick his way like a girl in Jimmy Choos. Jessie took a step down on to the slippery tread. The slightest pressure on her heel and she’d lose what little grip she had. There was nothing to hold on to and the stairs were very steep. If these remains had been brought to the river, they hadn’t come this way. Above her was a canopy of branches, stretching low and wide over her head. There was no lighting on the path above, nothing opposite and no residential buildings for a quarter of a mile. For central London, this was an extraordinarily deserted spot. Perfect. Suspiciously perfect.
    She rounded the wall and saw a tunnel entrance. No run-off channel emerged from the black mouth of the tunnel, but there was a silt fan. Did that mean the tunnel was active, or was the silt backwash from high tide? Jessie pulled a slim black torch out of her rucksack and pointed it into the darkness. Disturbed pigeons flapped past her. On the right was a raised stone walkway. Jessie mounted the slimy steps, stooped to the arc of theairless tunnel, and began to walk uphill away