Like This, for Ever

river, he put the engine to idle to hold them in place. Behind them, two more police launches kept other river traffic at bay. On the downstream side of the bridge, Dana could see a couple of RIBs, Rigid Inflatable Boats, doing the same thing. She looked up. They were almost directly beneath the bag that held the body of Oliver Kennedy. The second launch, with Spiderman on board, moved slowly towards the third pier.
    ‘Tide’s high,’ said Mark conversationally as they waited, each holding on to the rail to balance against the rocking and pitching of the boat. ‘Moon must be full.’
    ‘Couple of days yet,’ said Cook. ‘But you’re right. It was nearly a metre higher than forecast at Tower Bridge an hour ago.’
    ‘Why didn’t he leave him on a beach this time?’ said Anderson, to no one in particular, as they watched Spiderman walk to the bowof the launch, take hold of the line his sergeant had already lowered from above and fasten it to a cleat at his waist.
    ‘Exactly,’ said Richmond.
    The sergeant on the bridge took up the slack on the safety line and Spiderman did an elaborate stretch then a fast little jog on the deck of the boat. On the shore, cameras flashed.
    ‘Half of me would love to see that twat dangling in the air with his arse uppermost,’ said Mark.
    ‘He is a pillock,’ said Cook. ‘But he’s something else when he’s climbing. He won’t slip.’
    ‘This is all wrong,’ muttered Richmond to herself. ‘This is not what he does.’
    ‘Am I good to go?’ asked Turner over the radio.
    ‘Dana?’ said Cook.
    Dana raised her radio. ‘Go ahead,’ she said.
    Several yards away, Turner made a long-legged stride on to the stone kerb of the pier. He shuffled his feet awkwardly, slid backwards, gave a little sidestep right, then the same to the left. He moved closer to the pillar and then gazed up at what seemed to be a sheer face. He looked as if he had no idea how to start. Dana felt sick. He couldn’t do it, they were going to look like idiots in front of the whole world.
    ‘What the fuck?’ said Mark, who rarely let a thought enter his head without articulating it.
    ‘He does this,’ said Cook. ‘He’s getting the measure of the climb. Give him a sec.’
    ‘Bloody theatricals, if you ask me,’ muttered Uncle Fred from the helm. ‘Here we go.’
    Once he started, Spiderman didn’t climb the bridge, he danced up it. He scaled the stone pillar as though he really did have sticky feet, and once on the ironwork, his feet hardly seemed to touch one bar before leaping up to find the next. He didn’t stop for a second. If he met a tricky section, he played with it, jumping to one side, then the other, sliding down a foot or two before springing back up again. At one point his feet lost contact altogether, he released one hand and swung like a monkey, grabbing another bar and swinging his legs back up until he was suspended upside-down. Then hewriggled up through the ironwork, until he was perched, frog-like, twenty feet above them. He looked directly down into the launch and Dana could have sworn he winked at her.
    From there, it was a short crawl to where the body of Oliver Kennedy lay in a black bag. Turner reached it and sat back on his haunches, as though thinking.
    ‘Net and a line,’ he said into his radio, a second later.
    His colleagues above were ready. Immediately, a line attached to a strong net was lowered down to where the climber was waiting.
    ‘How will they get him down?’ asked Richmond.
    ‘If he can, I imagine he’ll wrap that net round him and fasten it tight,’ Anderson told her. ‘Then lower it down to us.’
    ‘It’s coming on here?’
    ‘We’ll take it back to Wapping nick to do the initial examination,’ said Anderson. ‘The boss won’t make any announcements till we’ve been able to confirm that it’s Oliver.’
    Richmond ran a hand over her face. ‘I can’t believe I got it so wrong,’ she said.
    ‘We can’t second-guess these bastards,’ Anderson told her.
    ‘DI Tulloch.’ It was Turner’s voice, coming from directly above them, transmitted by the radio.
    ‘This is Tulloch,’ said Dana, who hadn’t taken her eyes off Turner since he’d begun his climb. He’d pulled the net around the bag and secured it.
    ‘Coming now,’ he said, looking directly at her. ‘Heads up, Ma’am.’
    As the small, black bag with its pitiful contents was lowered from the bridge, Dana counted a dozen flashlights going off and closed her