Gillard couldn’t get the image of the dead man out of his head. Extraordinary injuries, something squeezing the very life out of him. Hoskins’ contention that it might have been an accident of some type, someone working illegally, had much to recommend it. The fact that no one had reported the man missing, too. That he or someone else had removed his clothing before he got wrapped in the mesh. That spoke of a certain level of preparation. But then chucking a body into the Thames in that area wasn’t the smartest idea. It was probably the most packed part of the river in terms of houseboats and barges. There were hundreds of them. If the man was killed nearby, okay, that might explain why the body had been quickly disposed of at that point in the river. The Tagg’s Island bridge was one of the few car-accessible routes to the river in that area. But if he had died some distance away, it wouldn’t make much sense to transport him here, where there were so many eyes and ears.

There were plenty of suspicious ingredients. Bizarre injuries on the body. No clothing. No one reporting him missing. Add a splash, give it a quick stir, and you are halfway to a cocktail of murder.

Chapter Five

At the same time, less than a hundred miles away in the village of Grendon Underwood in Buckinghamshire, the man now known as Neil Wright sat alone in his new room at Spring Hill open prison, practising a signature to match his new identity. Born left-handed, he had spent every spare moment since arriving at the jail practising writing with his right. He admired his handiwork and had to admit it was now pretty neat and bore no resemblance to the left-handed scrawl he had used for most of his life.

Neil Wright Neil Wright Neil Wright