It was just the right touch; wry, bitter, Met black humour. It stiffened us; gave us a little of their professionalism.
‘I’ve had a little talk about you with my boss. He sends his sympathetic regards. And a few bits of advice.’ He counted them off on his stubby fingers.
‘One. Anything ambiguous – anything that you can’t make out what it is – call us in straight away. Don’t think you’re being a nuisance – we’d rather be safe than sorry. You were a bit silly yesterday – that box could’ve contained anything. Even semtex explosive. The IRA are not above dumping stuff quickly if they get into a jam. And even if it’s been under water, a bomb can still go off under certain circumstances . . . I’m only glad we’re not here this morning picking little bits of you off the telephone-wires . . .’
That got the start of a snort of grim laughter. It is quite nice to think you might have been blown to bits, and instead still have two arms and two legs. It makes you feel ahead of the game.
‘Two. You can expect to find almost anything. That Pond is a dumping ground for guilty secrets – half of London’s guilty secrets, for all we know. It wouldn’t surprise me if you found more infant bodies – there were a lot dumped in the old days, when we didn’t have these NHS abortion clinics, and it still happens sometimes, even now. Use your noses, and you’ll save yourselves a lot of grief.’
There it was. Out in the open. Talked about in a matter-of-fact way. A normal, if grim, part of life. Something the Met had to handle every day, and if they could handle it, so could we . . .
‘On the other hand, I’m expecting you to find some rifles too. Not an IRA cache.’ (He actually smiled.) ‘No, a lot of poor buggers in the First World War, who were home on leave, and didn’t want to go back to the front, got into the habit of dumping their gear in the nearest standing water. Their kitbags usually floated, but the rifles went straight to the bottom. We sometimes get them turned in by people doing your kind of job when the Thames is at low water . . . mudlarks, we call them.’
Again a grim rumble of humour from the group. And also a prick of interest.
‘If you find a rifle, for God’s sake don’t fiddle with the trigger – a round up the spout can still go off after seventy years, and if the barrel’s blocked with mud, it turns into a bomb that can make quite a mess.’
They were really laughing now.
‘Likewise bombs and shells from the Second World War. I suppose you all know what a bomb looks like . . . ? Got fins on the end of it.’
Having got them in a good mood, he finished by saying, ‘You’re doing a public service. This pond has got to be drained, and once it’s drained, it’s got to be searched. We don’t want bombs or shells exploding under the new tennis-courts. And, frankly, the police have not got time to do the search themselves. You’re freeing us for our proper job, which is catching criminals. Thank you. Any questions?’
Rory looked up and asked, ‘How long before the Pond’s fully dry, sergeant?’
‘A long time yet. The fire brigade are on to a deeper bit at the south end. Even they don’t know how deep that is. But that’s quite useful, because the water from the rest of the mud is slowly draining into it. It should make your job a bit easier. Anything else?’
Everyone shook their heads sagely, and then they made a move for the door, sounding moderately cheerful. Only Hermione lingered behind.
‘What about . . . that baby . . . ?’
Crittenden stared at the floor. ‘Murdered,’ he said. ‘The breastbone was smashed in – they think by a blow with a sharp implement.’
Hermione went as white as a sheet. ‘When?’
‘They think . . . within the last ten years. That’s working from the type of plywood used to make the box. The strangest thing is . . . you know it was wrapped in something? Well, it was a piece torn from a linen bed-sheet. And there was a laundry-mark on that sheet and . . . it was the same laundry-mark as we found on that shirt wrapped around the