by S W Kane
‘Raymond!’ he shouted, frantically looking around. Where the fuck was he? ‘Raymond!’
He suddenly heard a noise ahead, from where Lloyd had appeared, and took off. Goddamn you, Raymond, thought Kirby, as branches scratched his face and tore at his trousers. The torch on his phone at least enabled him to make out a vague path through the jungle-like undergrowth, but he was no match for someone who knew where they were going. He eventually came to a small clearing and stopped. He held his breath in order to hear properly, his own breathing making so much noise that it masked anything else; but there was nothing, only silence. As he shone his torch around, he realised that there was some kind of structure ahead, covered in vine and knotweed and all but invisible.
He made his way over to the small building and aimed his phone’s beam inside. A hatch in the floor lay wide open, exposing a narrow flight of steps – it had to be the way into the tunnels Connie had mentioned, and where, presumably, Raymond had just gone. He quickly texted Anderson and Kobrak a rough location of where he was – then, shining his light down the steps, he began his descent into what he knew must be the lake room. He just hoped that he wasn’t too late.
CHAPTER 46
Connie was following Palmer towards what he said was the house, but she wasn’t so sure. Since they’d emerged into the garden his demeanour had changed, and she felt as if an invisible leash tied them together. Running away in this fog would be problematic; she could barely see a few feet in front of her. He had saved her, she kept reasoning, so maybe she was being paranoid. Why would he have saved her if he had something more sinister in mind?
Palmer walked faster now, and she was having a difficult time keeping up; his steps had a purpose beyond her well-being – they were almost arrogant.
‘I’m sorry, but can we stop for a minute?’ Connie’s energy levels were low, and she felt chilled to the marrow. ‘I need to make a call.’
Palmer slowed down but kept moving. ‘Surely you want to get to the house as soon as possible, then we can put an end to this traumatic event.’
‘Well, yes, but—’ At that precise moment her phone pinged in her pocket, indicating a text, and then began ringing. The signal must have kicked in, backlogged messages finally coming through. She pulled the phone out of her pocket and saw that it was Kirby calling. Before she realised what was happening, Palmer had wheeled round and snatched the phone from her hands.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked, confused.
‘You won’t need that,’ he said, slipping the phone into the inside pocket of his coat and grabbing her arm. ‘This way.’ He began pulling her towards a bank of trees, which appeared out of the thick fog ahead. ‘The quicker we are, the sooner we can put an end to all this.’
‘An end to all what?’ she said, struggling to free herself from his grasp. ‘What the hell are you—’
‘Just do as you’re told,’ he said, yanking her arm painfully and continuing to drag her through the snow.
‘Let go of me!’ she yelled.
‘Save it. You’re going to need all the lung capacity you’ve got.’
Desperately trying to free her arm from his grip, Connie kept tripping and stumbling; Palmer dragged her along regardless. Snow was going down the tops of her boots, and her jeans ripped on something as she desperately tried to remain upright; all the while, her brain was fighting to make sense of what was happening.
As he hauled her along, she became vaguely aware of a building ahead, and the air becoming noticeably colder. They must be nearing the river, and she realised the building had to be the old boathouse. A sudden vision of Ed being thrown into the river came into her mind, and she felt panic starting to rise in her stomach.
‘No,’ she shouted. ‘Please.’
The boathouse emerged out of the fog, and next to it the weeping willow, which in summer was a curtain of bright green but was now a snow-covered shroud, its white branches hanging like tendrils towards the dark water below. Maybe if she screamed loudly enough, a passing boat would hear her. Then she realised what a ridiculous idea it was; no one would hear her from here. She wondered whether Kirby was at the Lodge yet and would realise something was wrong. Her only hope was that Raymond had simply been scared off by Skinny, rather than anything more serious, and that he could tell Kirby where she was.
They’d reached the old boathouse by now, Palmer’s grip beginning to cut off the blood flow in her arm. With one final burst of energy she lashed out, managing to scratch him on the face, while desperately trying to free herself from his grip. It was no use – he was too strong – and soon he had pushed her face first against the side of the boathouse, her arm twisted up behind her. An agonising pain shot through her shoulder, and she was sure he was about to break her arm.
He leant his body weight against her so that she couldn’t move, pinning her to the side of the wooden building, his breath hot on her neck. ‘There’s no point in trying to run,’ he hissed. ‘We’re way beyond that now.’
Keeping his weight on her, he unlocked the door to the small building, the padlock making a dull thud as it fell to the ground, and pushed her inside. She landed awkwardly on the floor, against something metal and sharp, and lay there dazed. The arm that had been twisted behind her back felt limp and numb, and she tried to get some feeling back into it. The door slammed, bouncing on its hinges, the latch not catching, and for a moment they were in total darkness. The only sound was coming from below, and it took a few seconds for Connie to realise what it was: the river, gently lapping against the underneath of the boathouse, like an animal licking a wound. She struggled into an upright position, and with her good arm began feeling about the floor for anything that she could use in self-defence. Her hand had just found something cold and metallic when the light came on. It was blinding, and for a few moments she couldn’t see anything. Within seconds Palmer had grabbed her parka and was dragging her along the floor towards the far end of the boathouse.
‘Let me go!’ she yelled as her hands desperately tried to grasp on to something; splinters pierced the tender flesh under her nails as she scrabbled at the wooden floor. The end wall had a large set of double doors in it, which opened out on to the river. She’d seen them, that day on the boat trip, flung open as though expecting a boat at any moment; tonight, they were padlocked shut with a heavy chain. Perhaps that would be her chance – when Palmer was unlocking them, as he’d need two hands for that. She stopped resisting in order to preserve her strength, and hoped the feeling in her arm would return when she needed it.
However, Palmer didn’t make for the doors, instead stopping a few feet away. He released his grip on her so unexpectedly that she crumpled to the ground. ‘Wh-what are you going to do?’ she asked, her teeth chattering with the cold. No wonder she couldn’t feel her arm; her fingers were now blue.
‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ He placed his foot on her arm and slowly began to put his weight on it. ‘Yet.’
She tried to claw at his legs with her other hand, managing to partially roll over and grab his shin. If she could just bite him hard enough he might release his foot, but she didn’t get the chance. He kicked her away with his other foot, and she remembered what he’d done to Skinny in the lake room, as the cold, gritty leather sole of his shoe made contact with her cheek. She tasted blood in her mouth and lay gasping, looking up at the ceiling, where a faded kayak hung suspended from the rafters. When she looked back, Palmer was heaving open a trapdoor in the floor of the boathouse, which she hadn’t noticed until now. With a grunt of effort, he lifted one side of the pair of doors. The sound of the river beneath was now much louder, its tang stronger. With one side open, the other door flipped up easily, and Connie could make out the inky blackness below.
Rolling on to her front, she tried to crawl back towards the entrance, but Palmer grabbed her by the hood of her parka and yanked her back. ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said, dumping her dangerously near the edge of the hatch, where sh
e lay on her back cradling her arm, which was now throbbing violently.
‘Up,’ he said, nudging her in the ribs with his toe.
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘No such word. Surely your mother taught you that.’ His foot nudged her again, this time harder, and she felt the edge of the hatch on her back.
With effort, she managed to roll away from the open hatch and haul herself on to all fours – or rather, all threes, as her left arm was now virtually useless; she even wondered whether it might be broken. After a great deal of concentration, she eventually managed to push herself off the floor and into a standing position. Once upright, her head swam and she felt herself sway. Instinctively, she reached out to steady herself, only there was nothing there – Palmer had stepped back, just out of reach, and she teetered. The snow had numbed her legs, and when she looked down she was surprised to see blood on her jeans. She must have cut herself while being dragged along, her leg too numb to feel anything.
‘What happens n-now?’ she asked, attempting to focus on the boathouse wall behind Palmer. There was some old gardening equipment, a lawnmower and a kayak paddle, but there was no way she could get past him to reach any of it.
‘You’re going for a swim. That’s what’s going to happen,’ he said, pointing towards the hatch and the black water below. ‘You stumbled in the dark, the hatch had been left open, and you fell. A tragic accident.’ He smiled. ‘Just like your friend Blake.’
‘You m-mean this is where—’ Before she could finish the sentence, she felt the bile rise in her throat and, turning, she vomited into the Thames. When the retching finally subsided, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve and straightened up.
Palmer was watching her with mild disgust on his face.
‘But why?’ she managed to say, her throat sore from the retching.
‘Wrong place, wrong time.’ Palmer shrugged. ‘He saw me. Shame, he was a good-looking boy. But like I said, it was an accident.’
‘You lying bastard,’ she whispered.
CHAPTER 47
When the policeman took off after Lloyd, Raymond saw his chance and legged it. He careened through the undergrowth like a wild boar after carrion, and threw himself into the old pillbox at full pelt, stopping a moment away from tumbling head first down the steps. As it was, he took them two at a time and misjudged, missing one and falling the last few. Landing with a painful bump on his right hip – he was sixty-seven, after all – he felt in his pocket, his fingers finding the cork. Thank goodness it was still in place. He’d look a right idiot if he managed to impale himself.
He stood up and fumbled around in his other pocket for his torch, his hip aching from the fall. Where was it? There was no light in this tunnel, and either the door to the lake room was closed, or someone had turned the lights off. He checked all his pockets but there was no torch; he must have dropped it when he fell earlier, or left it at home. He had been down here before with no torch – it wasn’t as though he could get lost, as the tunnel only led to one place – but that was before the Creeper had started poking about. The darkness now scared him.
Feeling his way along the tunnel wall, he made his way as quickly as he dared. The sensation of walking in total blackness was unnerving, so he focused on the task in hand. He hadn’t been able to save Gregory all those years ago, or Nurse Abbott – but maybe, just maybe, he could save Connie. His heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest; he’d had an adverse reaction to a tuna sandwich once, which had produced a similar reaction, and he now regretted eating the packet of Jaffa Cakes. He silently burped, the bitter tang of the orange jelly making him grimace.
As he slowly felt his way along the tunnel, he became aware of the darkness ahead changing quality, and he knew the door to the lake room was open, the blackness ahead even deeper than that in the tunnel. At the door, he hesitated, listening for any sign of life, but all he could hear was deafening silence.
‘Connie?’ he whispered, groping about for the light switch.
When the lights came on, it took him a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but he soon realised that there was no one there. The door leading to the folly tunnel was open, and a feeling of dread blossomed in the pit of his stomach. Was he too late? He noticed a table had been pushed against the wall, and he could see marks on the floor. He moved closer and saw a few drops of blood and something else, paler. He bent down for a better look and recoiled. It was a tooth – or at least part of one. He couldn’t imagine Connie knocking anyone’s teeth out, and an alarming thought crossed his mind: the Creeper. He looked at the open door that led to the folly and knew there was only one thing he could do, Creeper or no Creeper. He flicked the tunnel lights on and began making his way along the elliptical passage. The overhead lights gently buzzed as he walked, slowly at first and then faster and faster until he was running, his steps bouncing off the metal walls. He didn’t want to be in there a moment longer than was necessary.
Fresh, cold air hit his lungs as he emerged into the folly, the gate mercifully unlocked. He stood on the threshold, panting, his breath pouring out into the garden in long plumes, heart thundering. His hip was now throbbing painfully, and he looked wildly about for Connie, cursing himself for losing the torch. Suddenly he noticed fresh tracks in the snow. A freezing fog was coming in off the river, but somewhere to his left he could make out a vague glow through the thick, white haze. He slipped his hand into his pocket, carefully removing the cork from the pearl-tipped hatpin, and began following the tracks in the snow. After a few feet, the tracks changed into drag marks, and at that point he knew he had no time to lose. He quickened his pace, his fingers tight round the hatpin, his thumb resting on the pearl that sat on its top.
As he went, he thought back to Lloyd as he’d come running out of the undergrowth. Lloyd hadn’t looked like a man who’d done something bad that he’d enjoyed; more like a man who’d been denied his prize. And as far as Raymond knew, there was only one person who could do that.
As he ran, the truth began trickling into his brain, like chocolate sauce running down one of Mrs Muir’s steamed puddings, a sense of finality looming. There was only one person who could stop Lloyd doing something he wanted to do, and that person was Lloyd’s father.
CHAPTER 48
The Thames was a dangerous river, full of eddies and undertows that could pull you down within seconds, not to mention the cold and the obstacles you’d encounter along the way, such as boats, piers and bridges. If she survived going into the water, which was extremely unlikely, it would be down to luck and nothing more. She peered into the blackness, and the drop and the moving water increased the feeling of dizziness that washed over her. Dragging her eyes away from the water, she tried to focus on Palmer. She had to keep him talking – she was too weak to fight him, as he was a fit, strong man. It was her only option.
‘I want to know what this is a-about,’ she said. ‘It has to be about Ena. T-tell me what happened.’
Palmer grinned. ‘You really want to know?’
‘Y-yes,’ she stammered. ‘You owe me that, at least.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Okay, I’ll give you the short version.’ He folded his arms and stared at her. ‘That bitch, Ena Massey, killed my mam. There you have it.’
‘Y-you’re Tom Ellis’s son?’ Connie gasped, searching Palmer’s face for any trace of similarity between father and son and finding none. ‘You do know he’s dying?’
‘Dying? No, I didn’t. Well, maybe that’s something he’ll be good at. He certainly didn’t stand up for his fiancé, let alone his son.’
‘What are you t-talking about?’ She nicked the end of her tongue and tasted blood. Her entire body was becoming numb; she needed to move and get the circulation going. A sudden vision of Sir Ranulph Fiennes slicing his own fingertips off with a microblade flickered across her mind. Fuck, how was she going to get out of this?
Palmer suddenly started laughing, his breath clouding around him. ‘Nid Charles Palmer ydwyf.’
/> ‘What?’ What was it, Welsh?
‘Nid Charles Palmer ydwyf,’ he repeated. ‘You don’t get it, do you? You really don’t get what’s going on.’ Amused, he moved closer, and when he spoke his breath felt deliciously warm on her face. ‘I’m not Charles Palmer,’ he whispered.
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. It was too late anyway, Palmer’s hand gently rested on her chest, and with one, sharp push she was falling.
It was as though the world had entered into slow motion: she felt her balance going; the sensation of falling backwards; her heels on the edge of the ledge; her right foot stepping backwards into the void; the anticipation of the coldness that would soon engulf her entire being as the water entered her lungs. She wanted it to be over. Just let it happen. Then, all of a sudden, she caught a flash of movement over Palmer’s shoulder. A shape came through the door and lunged at him from behind, just as she felt her right foot hitting something solid. Her left foot followed instinctively, and she crashed backwards expecting the Thames’ icy grip to drag her under at any moment. But it never came; instead, she found herself hitting a hard surface, one leg painfully twisting up underneath her thigh, and the other desperately trying to grip the wooden floor as it pushed her body away from the edge of the hatch.
By some miracle, Connie had managed to step over the corner of the hatch, landing on the other side. It took her a few moments to realise that she wasn’t in the water, that she wasn’t about to die from hypothermia or a wheel spoke through her brain. She was alive, and more importantly, on dry land. Lifting her head slowly, she saw a figure wrestling with Palmer on the opposite side of the hatch. Through her blurred vision, she gradually recognised the coat, the scarf.