Every day I wander the Lea Valley, looking for dead bodies. I poke my nose through railings. I drop into bolt holes littered with vodka bottles and withered condoms. I examine railway sidings and ponds. The signs of violent struggle are everywhere. A woman’s shoe. A pair of spectacles. A torn shirt hanging from a branch. Down in the rave hole twists of frayed rope are tied to tree trunks. Leathery strangle tubes snake over plastic bags stained with lipstick and teeth marks. What beast lurks here at night? What kind of monster prowls Hackney’s Edgelands…?
