30. Eel Man
The road to Appledore ran north through barren fields scarred by old plow marks, the ruts shining with groundwater. Several villages passed by, each a tiny outpost in the emptiness; Old Romney, Brenzett, Snargate.
"It's not so hard to imagine this as a no man's land," Sally said softly.
"And that's after several centuries of human interference," Liam said. "Forcing back the sea. Holding it there."
"With the Rooks in the midst."
Liam grunted. "We'll need to talk to Mayhew. McMaster too. If we're serious about going after them."
Sally nodded. She'd been thinking the same thing. "Armed Response Officers. Maybe a dog team."
"Dog team's a good idea. A chopper on standby."
"If Bledd comes through for us."
The road curved west. Appledore village lay low, a handful of stone houses, a pub, a church tower.
On the far side, the Royal Military Canal appeared without fanfare; a wide channel running alongside the road, its surface the color of old pewter.
Soon they passed Iden Lock where the RMC flowed into the River Rother; a broad, meandering expanse of mud-colored water, lined with willows trailing their fingers in the water.
Sally took them over the bridge then turned left on a dirt trail, passing a few quaint cottages to reach three houseboats moored by a towpath. No sound carried except the trickle of the river and the distant complaint of a crow.
She stopped the car and they got out.
A line of iron rings were set into concrete anchors, with stern ropes tied off to the three long, shabby houseboats.
Smoke curled gently from a tarnished brass chimney.
All the boats had been roughly repaired in places with tarps and duct tape; temporary fixes over gold filigreed woodwork that might once have been glossy.
They checked the names, each stenciled on the bow in elegant but peeling cursive.
Eurydice. Time's Arrow. Ephesian Tears.
No Ingoldsby.
"Bledd's not here," Sally said.
"Check this," Liam said, pointing to the final, empty docking point. An upturned tin bucket sat on the bank beside the mooring, with a handwritten note in a plastic sleeve on top, held down by a smooth stone.
Sally picked it up.
The handwriting was spidery but legible, written in pencil on the back of what appeared to be an Environment Agency flood advisory leaflet.
Jack – rhubarb left round the side under the tarp. I'm out for the day, back by nightfall probably. A.B.
Liam looked over her shoulder. "That's a man without a phone. And people say social media has made us inane."
Sally looked around. There was no obvious 'side' to the river, except maybe past the mooring point. She headed into the foliage off the towpath, where she found a low mound covered in a green tarp and held down by stones. She peeled back a corner.
Within lay a stack of bright pink rhubarb stalks.
"Huh," she said.
"Goes great in a crumble," called a voice from behind.
Sally dropped the tarp and turned. Jack Mercer stood on the towpath behind them, dressed in jeans and a polo sweater, again with a steaming mug in his hand and a faintly amused expression on his face. He looked as if he'd just stepped out of his living room.
"DI Mercer," Sally said, swallowing her surprise. She scanned the houseboats, remembering what Mayhew had told her. "You moor here?"
"I do. Sally. Liam." He nodded. "And call me Jack, please, everybody else does. Even Arthur." He pointed toward the note.
Sally glanced back the bucket. "You know Arthur Bledd? We're looking for him."
"Well, he's not in that pile of rhubarb." Mercer grinned. "Last he told me, he's off on a consult today."
"On a consult where?"
Mercer thought for a moment, then pointed southwest along the river. "It'll be down at Scots Float, barely five minutes. It's a pumping station on the marsh."
"What's he consulting on?"
"Ah, yes. He's a drainage expert, Arthur. Knows more than the uni. grads they've got on staff, and tells them so often." He smiled and sipped his tea. "Tells me all about it too. I know more about swales and riprap than any honest man should."
Sally smiled. "And you're friends?"
"Sure. Back in my day, we were drinking buddies. Now I'm back from London, we typically moor together. Shoot the breeze over whisky most evenings." He leaned against his boat, Ephesian Tears. "Can I ask why you're looking for him?"
Sally almost answered, then looked at Liam. He noticed and nodded, as if appreciating her pause.
"Routine questions," he said. "We're doing the rounds."
"Rounds of the marsh," Mercer mused. He clearly didn't believe that, but didn't press further. "Well, I hope he can help. And as ever, any time you need me, come on out. We're 10 minutes from Rye, here, and I'm always happy to lend a hand."
"Of course," Liam said. "Thanks, Jack."
They filed past him, up to the bank where the Mustang waited. Sally looked back once, and Mercer waved cheerily.
"He wears it lightly," she said, climbing inside the car.
"Wears what?"
"All this." Sally rumbled the Mustang into a tight U-turn. "The weight of the murders."
"Right. I guess retirement helps with that."
"I guess it does."
They drove southwest toward Rye, Liam checking his phone.
"Scots Float Sluice," he read off the screen. "Looks like it controls the outflow from the Romney Marsh drainage network into the River Rother, one of a handful of industrial pumps along the RMC."
"Fascinating."
On their left the River Rother grew wider and looser, more overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. They reached Scots Float Sluice after around 10 minutes, barely a mile away from Rye.
"Think we've just circled the whole marsh," Liam said.
Sally pulled into the compound. A sign showed the Environment Agency crest. There was no gate until they reached the site office; beyond lay a wide dry channel running south into the marsh, its flat concrete floor stained with watermarks and moss.
A man in a hi-vis jacket approached them at the gate. The name badge on his chest read 'HOSKINS'. "You can't come in here," he said flatly, his accent strong and local. "What you looking for?"
Sally showed her badge. "You've got a consultant with you today. Arthur Bledd. We need to talk to him."
Hoskins frowned. "You're after Art? What's he done this time?"
"Can you open the gate please?"
He sighed, then shook his head. "Gonna set us right back, this is. We're already battling to process all this bloody rain. But all right, fine. He's down at the pipes. Pop on out and I'll take you down."
Liam frowned. "Pop out?"
Hoskins gave him a worn look. "Son, the footing's shit down there, all right, and I'm not going to let this muscle car sink, because I'll be the muggins towing it out again, won't I? So you're with me in the tractor. Today, if you please."
Sally and Liam exchanged a look, then she pulled into a vacant space and exited the Mustang.
"Bloody Norah," Hoskins muttered. "Not even got on wellies. Come on."
He ushered them into the office, where they signed in and had their warrant cards photocopied.
Then they were issued hard hats and hi-vis jackets, and Hoskins led them to a yellow digger with a large bucket scoop, ushered them into a Plexiglass cab mounted on the back, then took up the controls.
"We save this one for VIPs," he explained.
"Duke of Kent's sat where you're sitting, believe it or not.
He loved our trapezoidal channels. Here we go. "
The digger started away. It was a surprisingly smooth ride, though Sally clung to the seat back in front.
They drove across a broad, empty stretch of orange clay then continued alongside the dug-out channel.
It was wider than it looked on the map, perhaps 40 feet across, the floor slick with dried sediment and the odd clump of marsh grass.
At the end, at least a dozen large gray pipes sat half-submerged in the stagnant water of an inlet, their mouths gaping. The air smelled of silt and sewage.
"Recently raised all our sea walls half a meter," Hoskins said. "Pipes down there can churn a few hundred cubic meters a minute, if rain fills us up. And there's your man." He pointed.
Arthur Bledd was standing atop the pipe dam, a map spread on a folding table beside him, speaking to two younger Environment Agency staff with focused intensity.
He wore a waxed olive jacket with many pockets, a hard hat at a slight angle and cargo shorts that met black wellies at the knee.
He was perhaps 60 and lean, with a white ponytail and a beard braided into a single knot.
Hoskins dropped them off and they waited at the edge of the channel while Bledd finished his point.
"The problem isn't the pipe diameter, it's the gradient differential between Yokes sewer and here.
You've got three feet of fall over a quarter mile and you're asking it to shift winter surcharge from the whole western Romney system.
In a serious flood event, that's like pushing treacle through a straw, a single bloody point of failure!
I've been crowing about it for decades, and still nobody's done it. So get it bloody sorted."
"Mr. Bledd?" Sally called.
He turned to Sally and Liam, then looked at them for a long moment. At their clothes. At their shoes.
"What the hell do you pair want?"
"Officer Rogers," Sally said. "NCA. This is Officer O'Connell. We need your help locating someone on the marsh, Mr. Bledd."
Bledd snorted. "I don't think so. Not interested."
"Edwin Pike sent us," Liam said. "Something about a cabinet."
Bledd pulled off his hard hat and ran a hand over his ponytail. "I'll never hear the end of his precious bloody cabinet. He mention the eel?"
"He did."
"That eel had every right to be there! It was a living specimen, far more educational than anything in that case." He put the hard hat back on and walked toward them. "All right. Who are you looking for?"
Sally lowered her voice. "We're looking for Roarke Rook and his brothers. We think they're hiding in the marsh. Edwin Pike said if anyone could find them, it was you."
Bledd looked at her steadily for a moment. Something shifted behind his eyes; not reluctance exactly, more like calculation. "What've the Rooks done now?"
Sally looked at Liam. This time, he gestured for her to go ahead. "We think they may be involved in the murder on Dungeness somehow."
"Murder, huh?" He thought a moment then brushed past them. "All right, come on."
"Come on where?"
"Fetch the Rooks, of course. I already know where they are."
"You already know?"
He turned. "I know everything on the marsh. There's been a boat in the Black Gutter sewer since yesterday. Marsh boat, flat-bottomed, little outboard engine, and no business being there. That'll be them."
Sally's pulse picked up. "You saw them?"
"Not the boys. Was just a drone overpass. But it's them, I'd put money on it."
"Can you take us to them?"
He laughed. "I already am. Come on, you've got one hour."