The Drowning Ground

by James Marrison

  He ordered me to go back to the house and unlatch the front door, where his partner was waiting for us. My brother thankfully had been out somewhere. They pushed me inside. A stifling Buenos Aires morning. Thunder and lightning rumbling far off in the distance. But no rain and no relief from the remorseless heat. Fans blowing everywhere in that strange chintzy old house.

  The two men were similarly dressed in a near-parody of a civilian uniform. Shirts a little open at the chest and out-of-date slightly flared trousers. One of them, the bigger of the two, was wearing a thin leather jacket. It was the meticulously polished shoes that gave them away – that, and the shotguns hanging by their sides. They pushed their way in, asked if I was alone, then looked around the house. Obviously, they were casing it for later, when they or other members of their battalion would come back and steal everything inside it. I did not recognize them. But no doubt the blond man el rubio, along with his companions, was eagerly waiting for me somewhere and had sent these two to come and get me.

  They seemed to be experts at it, and both appeared bored by the whole routine. The smaller one poured himself a drink from a decanter on the table, draped himself on the sofa in the darkened living room, placed his shotgun on the wooden floor and closed his eyes. The other one followed me while I went upstairs to fetch my identity card.

  I was wearing a River Plate football shirt. The big man seemed to approve. He closed the door. Suddenly he started talking about some of the players. He was very knowledgeable. The identity card should have been easy, as you had to carry it wherever you went, but I just couldn’t find it in a house that was still unfamiliar to me. I rummaged everywhere for it. But it just wasn’t in the room. All the while I could sense the man’s mood darkening. I was running out of places to look for it. I searched once again in a drawer by the bed, muttering, and heard a few bounding heavy steps and then felt a savage kick at my side that was so hard that it sent me into a sprawling heap on the floor.

  I managed to pick myself up and finally found it in a drawer in a small table on the landing. He let me put on some trousers over my boxer shorts and then we went downstairs. In the living room the decanter looked half empty and the smaller man was fast asleep. The big man reached into his leather jacket, pulled out some plastic cord, tied my hands tightly together in front of me and then placed one of my brother’s sweaters over my hands.

  He shook the other man awake. The small man grumbled, swore and picked up the shotgun. They led me into the street and shut the door behind them. I gazed up, wondering if I should call out for help. But the fear was already so great that I found that part of me had completely succumbed to their will. They hadn’t even done anything to me. Yet I was, in seconds, already acting the role of the prisoner. It was as if I were shrinking.

  They’d left the ignition on in the car and I heard the throaty rumble of the Ford Falcon before I even saw it. The polished metal grille shone out between the large oblong orange lights, and the Falcon’s engine rumbled greedily as we approached. The car was clean and as impeccable as the soldiers’ polished shoes.

  The small man got in the car first. I was led to the back. The streets were dark. No one about at all. What happened to me after this was of absolutely no interest to the men now sitting in the front of the car. These two soldiers in civilian uniform were just one small cog in a much larger machine that lay unseen all around the city. Somewhere my name was written out in black type along with an address. A docket perhaps or a file lying on a desk. Perhaps just a name on a long list.

  As I sat in the back, all I could think about was the ad that they had run all summer in the cinemas and on the TV. An excited slightly effeminate male voice repeated a slogan. It banged idiotically in my head. ‘Ford Ford Falcon. Falcon Falcon Ford. Ford Ford Falcon. Falcon Falcon Ford. Ford Ford Falcon. Falcon Falcon Ford. Ford Ford Falcon…’

  The images of the ad played out in my mind in almost minute detail. A child sleeping peacefully in the back. Silence! Four smiley faces at a petrol pump. Economic! A beautiful woman in a fur coat. Air conditioning! A disco packed with more sexy women. A tape deck! ‘Four speakers!’ A magician in a top hat popped open the boot. Hundreds of white rabbits and doves. The rabbits spilled out and flopped around on the floor. The doves flew out. Plenty of room!

  It was dark down there in the back of the Ford Falcon. I knew that. And they were big too. Falcons had been a favourite with Argentinian middle-class families because they rarely broke down, were cheap and had a nice big boot. They were a favourite with the military police for exactly the same reasons. But the military always painted theirs a signature shimmering green. Los Falcons Verdes – a phrase that had quickly become synonymous with terror, torture and death.

  48

  Suddenly a lot of things seemed to happen at once. There was commotion around me. A muffled, dripping echo. I felt something tugging hard at a point just below my elbow. It lost purchase, then grabbed harder beneath my armpit, and this time it didn’t let go. Seconds later, I felt myself rising. The mud shifted at my feet and then, almost with a reluctant sigh, the mud let go. I surged forward, gaining speed, and was being dragged, scrambling, through the water and towards the end of a tunnel that seemed to have no end.

  * * *

  After a shower, I warmed up back in the trailer and drank two hot cups of very sweet tea in front of the heater, while Rose showered and got changed in a small annexe. When my teeth stopped chattering in my head to the extent that I could actually talk, I phoned the station and called it in. Rose came back just as I put the phone down.

  He gave me a long, critical look before he closed the door behind him and shook his head. He walked over to the kettle and put it on. He still seemed rather resentful and put out that he had been forced to save my life.

  ‘There’s going to be quite a lot of people here fairly soon,’ I said. ‘Would you mind taking them there? Back to the well?’

  Rose shrugged. ‘Sure, why not? As long as I don’t have to go in there again. What’s down there anyway?’ he said.

  I didn’t say anything straightaway. ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ I said, looking at the stranger who had pulled me out of there and by some miracle had known what to do afterwards.

  As if reading my mind, Rose said, ‘They make us do a course. First Aid. ’Elf ’n’ safety. Thought it was a waste of time … at the time.’ He let that hang in the air and shrugged before reaching for a cup. ‘Got us to practise on some dummy,’ he said, looking at me. ‘You know that you weren’t speaking English just now when I pulled you out of there?’

  ‘I wasn’t?’ I said, surprised.

  ‘Yeah. You were going on in Italian or something. French maybe.’

  ‘Spanish,’ I said.

  ‘Spanish. Right. And you kept on repeating something – a word, a place, or something. Over and over. Pilah or Piluh or something like that. I was wondering what it meant.’

  ‘Pilar,’ I said. ‘I was saying that, was I?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rose said brightly. ‘That’s it. Pilar.’

  ‘Well,’ I said shortly. ‘It doesn’t really mean anything. Pilar’s not a place or even a word. It’s a name.’

  ‘A girl’s name?’ Rose said, immediately interested.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  I took a deep breath. It was the first time I had heard myself saying the name out loud for years. I raised my cup closer to my lips. ‘So you’ll be here when they come,’ I said.

  Rose nodded.

  There was still some half-dissolved sugar in the bottom of the cup. I swigged it, licked my lips and placed the cup on the table. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t mention it. But you sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. But I still felt light-headed and weak, and my brain was pounding like the water against the ancient walls of the well. For a moment, I thought of what was down there and shivered. I looked across the brightly lit room, glad of the warmth and of the company, reluctant to leave all of a
sudden. I made myself stand up.

  I looked hard at the young man standing by the old kettle, feeling a bit sorry for him. He was wasted here in this dead-end job. Maybe, it was because he had saved my life, or maybe it was because I knew that I would probably never see him again, but I found myself saying in a very offhand way, ‘Actually, it almost happened to me before, you know.’

  ‘What, you got yourself stuck in a well before?’ Rose said.

  ‘No, no. I nearly drowned before.’

  ‘You did?’ Rose did not look all that surprised or interested.

  ‘Yes, it happened a very long time ago. There wasn’t anyone back then to pull me out, like you did just now. So if you ever feel like ditching this job, you let me know. I can help you out on that. And thanks,’ I said. ‘Thanks for pulling me out of there.’

  My car was waiting for me on the tarmac near the trailer. I stared fixedly in front of me, trying to bring some memory of Pilar into the light as I walked. But I had buried all of it deeply, and over the years the memory, of its own accord and with a definite purpose, seemed to have burrowed itself even more deeply into my mind. So that now, when I actually wanted to think about her, I could not.

  For a moment there was nothing there at all, and I stood helpless in the cold trying to remember her. Then finally a splinter of memory came to me. My hands began to tremble. An image of her stood sharp and clear in my mind: her profile against the setting sun.

  I stood in the cold for a while, remembering. Then I moved quickly to the car, opened the door and sat inside. I simply could not bear to think about Pilar any more. There was no point in it, and it just made my mind roam in endless circles. And the conclusion was always the same. I would never know. No one would ever know what had happened to her.

  The phone was ringing deep in my pocket. I had the feeling that it had been ringing for some time. Still in a daze, I reached for it and answered it.

  ‘Did you find them, sir?’ Graves said.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘The girls, sir? Were they there where you thought they were? In that barn?’

  ‘Girls?’ I said. I just couldn’t understand what Graves was talking about. ‘Who?’ I said stupidly.

  ‘Elise and Gail. Were they there? Did you find them?’ Graves said impatiently.

  ‘I’m not sure. One of them maybe,’ I said.

  ‘Do you want me to come over?’ Graves said. ‘Where are you? I’m sorry but you sound awful.’

  ‘No, I’m fine, Graves,’ I said, snapping out of it. ‘Did you speak to Hooper?’

  ‘The arrogant sod burst out laughing when I asked him about the flowers. Said he didn’t even know she was buried there. And didn’t really care. Not exactly sentimental,’ Graves added. ‘But he did say something else.’

  I paused and reached for the ignition. ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘It looks like Sarah Hurst was putting it about a bit. Hooper said there was someone else. Something more serious, and that it was over between him and her a long time before Hurst got wind of it.’

  ‘Over with him? With Hooper?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she ended it because of this other man?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what he said. But of course he didn’t mention that before. That would have given him a motive and he figured he was in enough trouble already.’

  ‘Did he say who?’

  ‘No,’ Graves said. ‘But it sounded like it was pretty serious. He said that Sarah Hurst told him that she was going to leave her husband. Her and this other guy were going to run off together and never come back. They were just waiting for the right moment. That’s why she broke it off with Hooper. Hooper said he didn’t care all that much. A case of wounded pride more than anything else.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  Graves didn’t answer straightaway. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’

  I started to reverse with the phone wedged between my jaw and my shoulder. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On the way back to the station,’ Graves said.

  ‘I’m on my way there now. Wait for me out near the front in twenty minutes and I’ll pick you up.’

  49

  Once we had left Moreton behind us, I picked up speed, despite the snow. I had been calm after leaving the industrial estate. But now I was nervous and tense.

  ‘So Nancy did know something,’ Graves said. ‘That’s what you think, sir?’

  ‘Yes, she had business here. I thought it was a damned long trip to make just for Frank Hurst.’ I switched off the radio. ‘But Nancy wasn’t here for his funeral at all. Couldn’t have cared less. She was here the whole time for something else.’

  ‘But what?’ Graves said, shifting in his seat to look at me and surreptitiously checking his seatbelt. ‘What did Nancy come back to the Cotswolds for? What was she really after?’

  I peered into the darkness ahead, really picking up speed now. ‘We know whoever killed Hurst was after something. And they’d been after it for some time. It was something in that big old house, and Hurst knew it. The problem was he didn’t know what it was. He didn’t know what they were looking for. But somebody was trying to get in. So whatever they were looking for was important. It must have been important for them to take that chance.’

  ‘So that’s why he put the bars in. He did it to keep them out?’ Graves said.

  I nodded.

  ‘And so he wasn’t losing the plot at all.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. Actually, he was right. Someone was watching him and waiting. So he put in all the bars to keep them out and then, just to be on the safe side, he got that big old dog and trained it to go after anyone snooping round his property. He kept watch too, and he reduced the space of where he lived to just a few rooms. And he fixed it so that whoever came looking would have to go round the back, where he’d be ready and waiting for them.’

  ‘With a gun.’

  ‘Exactly. I imagine it must have been a kind of hard monastic life. But the stubborn bastard probably quite enjoyed it in his own way. Also it fits. We know it wasn’t Elise or Gail down there. The DNA you collected from Simon Hurst will prove that it was Rebecca, I’m sure of that now. But Frank Hurst didn’t know that his daughter was dead and buried right there under the house. And because he never knew, he waited for her. He waited for her to come back. So the question is: who was trying to get into the house and what were they after? We know that whoever it was also faked those postcards, and that whoever sent those postcards killed Rebecca Hurst.’

  ‘And the postcards could be used to lure him out of the house.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But the trick could be pulled off only once. And whoever it was didn’t look around the house. They searched in a very specific place, and they did it very thoroughly.’

  ‘Her room. They looked in Rebecca’s bedroom,’ Graves said.

  ‘They were looking for her diary,’ I said. ‘Her friend Alice said she was pretty attached to it. Went everywhere with it. And it always bothered me that it wasn’t with her things. Why didn’t she pack her diary when she left? And if she didn’t pack it, where is it?’

  Graves folded his arms. ‘But that’s what they were looking for?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think they ever found it.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because somebody else already had it.’ I paused and shifted in my seat. ‘This is how I think it might have happened,’ I said. ‘Let’s say Rebecca Hurst’s killer murdered her just as she was about to leave home. That’s why she had all her stuff ready to go. They walked in, and there she was, almost out the door. And when it was all over they buried her body under the house and her rucksack too. And when Hurst came back, she was gone and all her stuff along with her. So he just assumed she’d gone and done what she’d been threatening to do for years.

  ‘But whoever killed her knew that they had to go back. Because after they’d buried Rebecca they realized they’d made a mista
ke. Something was missing from her things. They might have had a quick look for it, but with Hurst on his way home at any minute of course they couldn’t hang about for long.

  ‘Maybe she hadn’t had time to pack the diary. Maybe it was still up in her room somewhere. But the problem with diaries is that they’re secret, and because they’re secret they’re hidden very carefully. So whoever killed her knew that they were going to have to return and search for it. But what if the diary wasn’t there? What if someone else had found it? Someone who spent a lot of time up in that room.’

  ‘Oh, Christ. You reckon she could have been that stupid?’ Graves said.

  ‘Looks that way,’ I said. ‘Or desperate. Nancy told me she had a guest house up in Brighton, but her sister said she worked in a hotel. I checked. She was a chambermaid. Things weren’t working out for her. And we know Hurst kept that room clean. What if Nancy found it while she was cleaning?’

  ‘But why now?’ Graves said. ‘Why did Nancy wait all that time before coming back here? Why did she wait until Hurst was dead? And if she found it, why keep it? It was probably just an old schoolbook full of her writing.’

  ‘I don’t think she cared about Rebecca’s diary,’ I said. ‘But I think she cared about what was in it.’

  ‘Money,’ Graves said. ‘It was full of money. The money you said she’d stolen from school.’

  ‘Yes, I think so. We know Rebecca stole some money. It wasn’t all that much. But enough to get her to London and pay her way there for a few weeks at least. And she refused to give it back. Denied it was her, of course. I think it was the money she planned on using to go away.’

  ‘And she hid the money along with her diary?’

  ‘I think she must have.’

  ‘So Nancy took the diary as well.’