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launch, F for Fox this time, growled away from the Mill Dam jetty and headed down river towards the sea. Mike Milburn was the sergeant in charge, a younger man than Leadbitter, but with plenty of experience on the river and, before that, in the Navy.
    He and his constable had done the up-river section of their beat on the first part of the shift and were now setting off for a leisurely circuit of the seaward end before it got dark. The fine December morning had given way to a mist with a threat of snow. At three-thirty, visibility was already poor. They slid between a pair of colliers waiting at the buoys and headed along the south bank of the river.
    â€˜Quite lively these past few days, sarge.’
    This driver was a talker, unlike Horace. He was talking about ships, not crime, nodding at the clutter of vessels in the lower reaches of the river.
    Milburn looked around, his sailor’s eyes identifying all the different craft. ‘Marvellous how quickly it can change – might come out in the morning and see damn all here!’
    The views slowly altered as they moved downstream as far as the hailing station opposite the pilot jetty. There was nothing beyond except the great open triangle of water between the granite piers. The constable swung the police launch around and by the time they got up to Smith’s Dock again, the light had almost gone.
    As usual, their thoughts turned to the imminent ‘cuppa’ back in the station office, but when they were level with a rusty old dredger, Milburn looked curiously through the side window at the ugly craft.
    â€˜What the hell they doing on the bucket-dredger – having a strike or summat?’
    More from the reflected lights of the docks and ships than from the sky, he could see a group of figures clustered on the bow of the clumsy vessel. Then there was a thin, bleating wail and a jet of steam from her funnel.
    â€˜She’s blowing her flipping hooter!’ exclaimed the constable from the driving seat. He sounded incredulous. ‘I never heard that in seven year on t’ river. Didn’t even know she had a one!’
    The sergeant slid back the Perspex side window and stuck his head out for a better look. ‘I think they’re waving at us – there’s the siren again. Take her over there, something’s going on.’
    The constable racked his wheel around and they swerved across towards the dredger which was moored both to the dockside and to buoys out in the river. By winching itself back and forth between these, it moved slowly sideways while scooping the mud from outside the dry dock gates.
    As they cruised up to it, Milburn could see that the crew were waving wildly at them. The great wheel at the top of the pithead device had stopped and the endless chain of huge buckets had ground to a halt.
    When they came alongside, Milburn clambered onto the launch’s gunwale and threw a rope to a ready hand on the dredger.
    â€˜What’s all the panic – you been torpedoed?’
    â€˜We was just going to send a boat ashore to ring up the station – then we saw you coming up river … we just raised a body.’
    The sergeant sighed. Their Division recovered a dead body from the river at least once a fortnight, so another would be no novelty. ‘Let’s have a look at it, then.’
    He jumped aboard and marched forward along the rusty deck.
    Though it was virtually dark, the bow of the dredger was well-lit, thanks to a battery of lamps hanging overhead. The rest of the crew were clustered around the deep slot in the centre of the vessel, where the chain of buckets vanished into the black water.
    â€˜Hasn’t got a bloody stitch on, sarge.’
    The captain of the dredger came up to Milburn and led him across the tangle of chains and cables to the side of the dredging well. He pointed at the third bucket from the bottom, which was about level with the deck.
    From the lip of the great steel scoop, a