Ritual Read Free Page B

and finger round her wrist '. . . is here. Right here where it came away from the arm. The CSM's with me on all of this.'

Caffery stood in front of her, looking at her hair and her thin arms in the thermals. She hated it. She never quite felt her skin was on properly when she was surface-side, where other people did sophisticated things with their relationships – and that was why she'd always be better under the water. Mum, she thought, Mum, you'd know how to do this. You'd know to look normal, not surly like me.

'Well?' he said, studying her thoughtfully. 'What could have made an injury like that?'

'Could have been a boating accident, maybe. But those happen further out – in the estuary. Then there's people coming off Clifton Bridge. Suicide Bridge, we call it. If someone takes a dive round here, nine times out of ten it's off there. They can get dragged up and down the river and sometimes, sometimes , if the tide's right, they'll get washed quite a long way upstream.' She shrugged. 'I suppose theoretically if they'd come off the bridge, got cut by a boat out in the river, a stray hand might've just got past the stop gates, ended up in the harbour. Or come up through the Cut.' She pushed her hair behind her ears. 'But no. That's impossible.'

'Impossible,' said Dundas. 'It's about a million to one. And even if it came from the Frome River or higher up the Avon, down through Netham lock and into the feeder canal . . .'

'. . . it would only have happened if there was flow in the harbour, which is usually when the sluice gates are open.'

'Which happened only once in the last two days. After the sighting was called in. We checked.'

'You're saying it was dumped?'

'We're not saying anything. Not our job.'

'But it was dumped?'

They exchanged a glance. 'It's not our job,' they said simultaneously.

Caffery looked from Flea to Dundas and back. 'OK,' he said. 'It was dumped.' He checked his watch again. 'Right – so what shifts are you two on today? What do I need to do to keep you in the water?'

'Oh, I shouldn't worry about that if I were you.' Dundas smiled, getting his all-weather gear off the hook and pulling it on. 'We haven't signed off with the harbour master yet. And, anyway, we're always interested in overtime. Aren't we, Sarge?'

3
25 November

All he's ever wanted to do is get off the gear. It'd sound crazy to anyone who's seen him spending 100 per cent of his time and energy on scoring to hear that actually what he wants, what he really wants more than anything, is to see a way through it all and get clean. It's November and he's standing with Bag Man, the one they call 'BM', in the shadow of the tower block, over by the waste disposals where most of the dealing is done. A grey autumn wind is whipping up the litter and the plastic bags. BM is wearing a grey hoodie with 'Malcolm X' written on the breast pocket, even though he's white, and Mossy is raging because BM's just told him there's no more credit.

'What?' Mossy says, because he and BM have serious history and there's no reason for him to go cold like this so suddenly. 'What the fuck're you talking about?'

'Sorry,' BM says, looking at him really straight. ' 'S all gone too far. Can't help you this time, man, not any more. This is the end of the line.' He pinches Mossy's arm and pulls him closer. 'It's time you got yourself into counselling.'

'Counselling? What d'you mean, counselling?'

'Don't push me, mate. Given you a tip. Don't push me more.'

Mossy does try, though, just a bit more, tries to convince BM to give him something, just a little something. But BM's determined and digs in his heels, and in the end the only avenue for Mossy is to slouch away, half thinking about killing BM and half thinking about what he's said about counselling. He surprises himself to find that by the afternoon he's in the West of the City, going into a counselling session in a weird little clinic with an old woman receptionist who is honestly totally scary. One day