The Consequences of Fear by Jacqueline Winspear (the best electronic book reader TXT) 📗

a collective gasp as the crane began the task of lifting the aircraft onto the barge. Waterstreamed from the fuselage, the cockpit cover open and hanging away from the aircraft. The pilot’s upper body lay slumpedacross the outside, as if he had tried to climb out but drowned in the attempt. Maisie put her hand to her mouth and felther eyes sting. A woman screamed. The crowd seemed to huddle closer together.

“Poor bugger,” said a man. “Poor bugger doing his bit for us lot, and he ends up down there.”

Muttering, the crowd nodded heads, many dabbing their eyes with a handkerchief brought from a pocket in haste.

“All right, everyone—let’s give the boy some peace.” Caldwell nodded to a couple of constables to disperse the gathering.“The lad went up there for us, and it’s only right we respect him now. Time to go on your way and get your work done beforeGoering’s lot come in for another go at us. Move along, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s get him out of there and into somewheredry.”

People began to leave with bowed heads, and as they passed Maisie heard a woman whispering to herself, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . .” She turned to watch as men clambered onto the barge and began to remove the young aviator’s body from the cockpit. They carried him as if he were the most precious cargo, lifting him with a gentleness they would bestow upon a newborn babe, before laying him to rest on a stretcher. Maisie recognized the pathologist as he covered the body with a tarpaulin, before two ambulance men loaded the stretcher into a waiting ambulance and drove off, followed by a Royal Air Force chaplain.

“Over here, Miss Dobbs—our bloke is over here,” said Caldwell. “They fished him out before anyone could see what was goingon. The audience was more interested in that poor boy in the Spitfire anyway.”

Maisie followed Caldwell, though in truth she wanted nothing more than to go home and try to contact her godson, Tom, a pilotin the Royal Air Force. She loved Priscilla’s sons as if they were her own.

The pathologist was already inspecting the body when Caldwell and Maisie reached his side.

“Caldwell, good day for it. Rain’s holding off.” The pathologist looked up at the detective, and then to Maisie. “Oh, MissDobbs—nice to see you again. Keeping well?”

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Jamieson. All’s well—though witnessing a Spitfire being winched out of the water rather took my breathaway.”

“Me too. A bit of emotion never hurt anyone in this job—I don’t hold with this idea that you have to be hard. Having a feelingfor the dead opens the mind.”

“Blimey,” muttered Caldwell.

“And don’t take any notice of that one.” Jamieson smiled as he nodded toward Caldwell.

“You sounded just like Maurice,” said Maisie, kneeling down beside the pathologist.

“Hardly surprising. The man who trained you also trained me. Now then—let’s get down to business.”

“Oh yes, let’s,” said Caldwell, rolling his eyes as he drew back his sleeve and looked at his watch.

“Right,” said Jamieson. “I’ll be doing a full postmortem back at the lab, but you can see where the blade entered here, and here.” He pointed to two livid serrations of the flesh. “Nasty weapon, make no mistake. And it is a weapon—not your average kitchen knife. One right there to the celiac artery and the next to the heart. The killer was a professional. He knew where to go and he did it fast.”

“Time of death?” asked Caldwell.

Jamieson shook his head. “You should know by now, Detective Superintendent, that being in that murky brine for any lengthof time messes up the usual indicators, but I’d say his luck ran out a few days ago and he was thrown in the drink withina very short time of death, possibly an hour, maybe two, judging by the decomposition.”

“Identity card? Ration book? Engraved watch? Anything to indicate who he is . . . was?” asked Caldwell.

Jamieson shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Dr. Jamieson, may I assist with the postmortem?” asked Maisie.

“Of course, though I won’t be able to start until later this afternoon—about four? The body will be going to my lab near Victoriastation.”

“I know where it is. I’ll see you then,” said Maisie.

“Don’t mind me, will you?” said Caldwell. “I’m only the copper around here—and I want to be the first and only one to hearwhat you have to say after you’ve taken off your aprons. Is that clear?”

“Very clear,” said Maisie. “I’ll come right over to the Yard with the notes as soon as Dr. Jamieson releases them—that allright with you both?”

The men nodded.

“Right then—let’s be on our way,” said Caldwell. “Drop you anywhere, Miss Dobbs?”

“Thank you for the offer, Detective Superintendent. I think I’ll walk from here.”

Maisie bid good-bye to the two men and began to walk away, looking back in time to see Jamieson unfurl a tarpaulin across the body of the unknown murder victim, with the same tenderness he had accorded the fallen airman.

 

The terrace houses on Collington Street in Lambeth were known as “back doubles” and shared walls on three sides, so that onlyone room had a door and windows. The front row of houses faced the street, and the attached houses behind them looked outupon a shared courtyard, where a series of WCs were lined up against a wall. The first-floor rooms where Freddie Hackett livedwith his family were accessed via the courtyard. As the Industrial Age gathered pace, and accommodation was needed for thefamilies who rushed in from the land to find work in the factories, back doubles had been built by the thousands in townsacross Britain, using cheap labor and even cheaper materials to house the lowest-paid workers. By the turn of the century,decades before the Hacketts moved into their two rooms, grateful to have a roof over their heads, the back doubles were knownto be unsafe, unsanitary and soul-destroying, yet with their low rents they were all the poor could afford.

Even before she stepped out of the taxicab, Maisie knew the geography of Freddie