I continued smoking the cigarette until it was down to the butt, then I used it to light another one. When that one was halfway down, I knew I could hold back no longer. The thing is, I can never sit still when there's a new investigation starting, particularly a murder. I get a kick out of catching killers – maybe for the wrong reasons, I don't know, but it makes me feel good letting them know it's me who put them down, fucked up their whole lives.
And, if nothing else, getting involved in this one would at least stop me mulling over matters I could do nothing about.
So I stubbed out the cigarette in the already overflowing ashtray and headed down to Regent's Canal, the grimy scene of many a heinous crime.
4
It was twenty to ten and raining when I arrived at the murder site. A uniformed officer stood at the entrance to the towpath talking to a guy in a trench-coat who looked like a journalist. It's amazing how quick these people sniff out a story; it's like they've got an extra sense that can detect a fresh kill from miles away. I pushed my way past the journo, who gave me a dirty look but thought better of saying anything, and nodded to the uniform. I recognized him from the station, although I couldn't put a name to him, and he evidently recognized me because he stepped aside and let me through.
This part of the canal was fairly well looked after. The old warehouses had been knocked down to be replaced by office blocks that were built a few yards further back from the water's edge. A well-trimmed lawn had been laid down in the extra space with a couple of benches to add to the park-like feel.