“There it is.”
I follow his outstretched arm and notice a depression in the stone bank. A round metal door seals the entrance of a pipe that disappears underground. Water dribbles from the edge, forming a puddle in the mud.
“That's the Ranelagh Storm Relief Sewer. The door opens when it floods and closes again to stop the tide washing back into the sewer.”
He turns and points past the hospital. “You were directly north of here. You followed the fall of the Westbourne River.”
“Where does it come from?”
“It rises in West Hampstead and gets fed by five streams that join near Kilburn. Then it crosses Maida Vale and Paddington before flowing into Hyde Park where it fills the Serpentine. After that it disappears underground again, down William Street, under Cadogan Lane and Kings Road, past Sloane Square and finally beneath Chelsea Barracks.”
“I can't see any water flowing.”
“Most of it gets used by the sewer. You won't see this gate open unless they get surplus water in the system.”
I don't hear the rest of his explanation. Instead I think of a story my stepfather told me about an old blind horse that fell into a dried-up well. The horse wasn't worth saving, so the farmer started shoveling earth into the well. But the old horse just shook off the dirt and stamped it down. More earth fell, and the old horse went right on stamping it down, slowly rising out of the darkness.
People have been trying to bury me but I keep stamping it down. Now I'm close to climbing out and, I promise you this, anyone holding a shovel will get a kick in the head.
I think I know what happened that night. I built a valuable boat and it floated away, sealed in plastic and buoyed by foam. The diamonds washed through Ranelagh sewer, pushed along by water from a busted main. Someone was waiting for the ransom; someone who knew his or her way around the sewers; someone like Ray Murphy.
Only now am I beginning to realize how angry I've been ever since I woke in the hospital with a gunshot wound, dreaming of Mickey Carlyle. This is far bigger than the sum of its parts. Clever, driven, cunning people have manipulated the emotions of a desperate mother and taken advantage of my own blinkered desire. Where has Mickey been all this time? I know she's alive. I can't explain why or point to the proof; I just know she belongs in the world on a morning like this.
Moley is taking batteries from the gas monitors and checking the harnesses. Angus and Barry have already gone—walking to the Underground station. It is almost seven in the morning.
“Can I drop you somewhere, DI?”
I think for a moment. I'm due in court at midday. I also want to visit Ali in the hospital. At the same time, having come this far, I don't want to stop searching. Facts not memories solve cases. I have to keep going.
“Maida Vale.”
“Sure. Jump in.”
The traffic seems to grow lighter as I get closer to Dolphin Mansions. My shoulders still ache from my journey in the sewers and I can smell the foulness in my nostrils.
Weatherman Pete drops me on the corner opposite the delicatessen and I walk the final seventy yards. Nestled in the lint of my trouser pocket are my last two morphine capsules. Every so often I reach inside and feel their smoothness with my fingertips.
The façade of Dolphin Mansions is in full sunshine. Stopping periodically, I study the gutters, looking for the openings and metal grates. I notice the camber of the road and where downspouts enter the ground.
Some of the mansion blocks have basement flats that are below street level. They have drains to take rainwater away and stop them from flooding.
I wait on the front steps until one of the residents leaves, nodding as they hold the door open for me. Then I glance up the central stairwell, checking I'm not being watched. Skirting the lift well, I discover the door leading to the basement. A low-wattage naked bulb suspended from the ceiling transforms the darkness. The stairs are narrow and steep and the walls are a mottled green where patches of damp have broken through the plaster.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs I try to put myself back in this place, three years ago. I remember searching the basement. Like every other room it was turned upside down. Along one wall, cut into an alcove, is a large disused boiler. It must be fifteen feet around, with meters, valves and pipes of every caliber. The square copper nameplate bears the inscription FERGUS & TATE. The floor is covered with half bags of plaster, cans of paint, offcuts of carpet and a Victorian gas lamp encased in bubble wrap.
Moving materials aside, I begin searching the floor.
A noise makes me turn. A young boy sits on the top step holding a plastic robot on his lap. His khaki trousers are stained with paint and his dark eyes peer at me suspiciously.
“Are you a stranger?” he asks.
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“My mum says I shouldn't talk to strangers.”
“That's very good advice.”
“She says I could get kidnapped. A girl got kidnapped from here—from right off the stairs. I used to know her name but I forgot. She's dead, you know. Do you think it hurts when you die? My friend Sam broke his arm when he fell out of a tree and he said it really hurt—”
“I don't know.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I don't know that either.”
“You'll never find my hiding place. She used to hide there, too.”
“Who?”
“The girl who got kidnapped.”
“Michaela Carlyle.”
“You know her name! Do you still want to see it? You have to promise not to tell anyone.”
“I promise.”
“Cross your heart and hope to die, stick a needle in your eye.”
I cross my heart.
Tucking his robot into his belt, the boy slides on his backside down the remaining stairs and steps past me toward the boiler. He disappears through a gap no wider than his shoulders where the curved side of the boiler doesn't quite touch the brickwork.
“Are you all right in there?”
“Yes,” he replies, emerging again. He's holding a book in his hand. “That's my cubbyhole. Do you want to come in?”
“I don't think I'll fit. What have you got there?”
“A book. It used to be hers but it's mine now.”
“Can I have a look?”
He hands it to me reluctantly. The front cover is tattered and chewed at the edges but I can still make out the illustration of a mother duck and ducklings. On the inside cover there is a large label with a scrolled border. Written on it is “Michaela Carlyle, 41⁄2.”
The story is about the five little ducks that go out one day, over the hills and far away. The mother duck says, “Quack, quack, quack, quack,” but only four little ducks come back. The ducklings disappear one by one but on the final page they all return.
Handing the book back to him, I slide to my knees and put my head on the floor, peering into the gap between the boiler and the brickwork.
“It's dark in there.”
“I have a light.”
“Is that running water I can hear?”
“My dad says there's a river down there.”
“Where?”
He gives me a thumbs-down and I look at his feet. A sudden chill rushes through me, like ice at the roots of my hair.
Dragging aside half bags of plaster and cement, I find a frayed square of carpet, folded twice. Pulling it back I reveal a metal grate with perpendicular bars embedded into the stone floor. Pressing my face close, I try to peer between them. My eyes follow the bricks downward, along walls that seem to be weeping black tears. I can hear water gurgling below as if filling a giant cistern.
The boy is still talking but I'm no longer listening. We should have found this three years ago. We weren't looking for tunnels and the noise of the search would have drowned out the sound of water.
“What's your name?”
“Timothy.”
“Can I borrow your flashlight, Timothy?”
; “Sure.”
Although not powerful, it illuminates an extra six feet of the shaft. I can't see the bottom.
Hooking my fingers between the bars, I try to lift the grate. It's wedged into place. Looking around for a lever, I find an old blunt chisel with a broken handle. Sliding it into the gap between metal and stone, I work it from side to side, pushing it deeper. Then I force the chisel sideways, leaning my weight against it. The grate lifts just enough for me to squeeze my fingers beneath one edge. Christ it's heavy!
Timothy gives me a hand as we push it past vertical and let it drop with a clatter. He leans over and peers into the square black pit.
“Wow! Are you gonna go down there?”
I shine the flashlight into the hole. Instead of penetrating the darkness the light seems to bounce back at me. There are U-shaped handholds down one side.
“I'm a police officer,” I tell the boy, taking my wallet from my pocket and giving him a business card. “Have you a watch, Timothy?”
“No.”
“OK, do you know how long an hour is?”
“Yeah.”
“If I haven't come to find you within an hour, I want you to give this card to your mum and ask her to call this number.” I write down the Professor's details. “Tell him where I went. Do you understand?”
He nods.
Tucking the flashlight into my belt, I lower myself into the hole. Within a few feet I am soaking wet and the sound of running water is constant. The boy is still there. I can see his head silhouetted against the square of light.
“Go upstairs now, Timothy. Don't come down here again.”
Fifteen feet down I pause, holding on to a metal rung with one hand and aiming the light below me. Nothing.
I descend farther, feeling the air grow colder, until my foot strikes something flat and hard. The light picks up a river rushing through a tunnel. A ledge seems to run along the edge, about ten inches above the water in both directions before the light beam disappears into the darkness. This is not a sewer. Large beams support the ceiling and the walls are worn smooth by the current.
I feel my way along the ledge by sliding each foot a few inches, expecting the stonework to collapse at any second and pitch me into the stream. I can pick up only small sections of the tunnel. Tiny yellow lights reflect back at me—the eyes of rats escaping along the ledge.
The moss on the walls is like slick black fur. Pressing my ear against the bricks I feel a slight vibration. Somewhere above my head is a road and traffic. The sound makes the tunnel seem alive, like some ancient, consumptive beast. Breathing. Digesting me.
Time and distance seem longer underground. I feel like I've been down here for hours yet I've probably only traveled a hundred yards. I don't know what I expected to find. Any evidence could never survive—not this long. The tunnel has been swept clean by seasonal downpours and storms.
I try to imagine someone taking Mickey through here. Unconscious she could have been lowered down the pit and then carried. Conscious she would have been terrified and too hard to control. Another possibility catches in my throat. What better way to dispose of a body? The river would sweep it away and the rats would pick it clean.
Shuddering, I push the thought aside.
Any kidnapping would have needed at least two people and remarkable preparation. Someone had to replace the grate and cover it with bags of plaster and cement.
My clothes cling to me and my teeth are chattering. Unlike the expedition with Moley, I'm not prepared for this. It was a stupid idea. I should go back.
Ahead of me the ledge suddenly stops and starts again. There is a four-foot gap where it has collapsed into the stream. I could try to jump it but even with two good legs I couldn't guarantee landing safely.
I kneel down and feel ahead with my fingers. There's a gap in the wall just above the level of the water. Rolling up my sleeve, I reach down, feeling for the bottom. The opening is two feet high and a similar width, channeling water away from the river. This could be one of the conduits that feed the sewers.
Lowering myself into the channel, water soaks my trousers and fills my shoes. My chest is submerged and my back scrapes against the roof. Holding the flashlight in my mouth, I crawl forward. The darkness pushes back at me.
Mud sticks to my knees and shoes. Three or four inches deep, I feel like I'm wiggling through it like an earthworm. The grunts and groans belong to me but echo back as though there's someone ahead of me . . . waiting. After fifteen feet the channel begins to slope downward, getting gradually steeper. My hands slip and I fall on my face into the water. The flashlight is submerged. Thank God it still works.
The steeper gradient and the force of the water behind me push me forward. If the tunnel gets any narrower I'll be wedged inside, trapped. My back scrapes against the ceiling. The water seems to be rising. Perhaps I'm being paranoid.
I slip again and shoot forward, pushing mud, gravel and water ahead of me. Convulsing and trying to retreat, I can't stop. My legs are useless. I rise over a hump and then feel myself in midair, falling. I land with a splash in water and muck. The smell is unmistakably a sewer. My first impulse is to vomit.
A poultice of dark mud covers my eyes. I scrape it off, trying to see, but the darkness is absolute. The flashlight is gone, either washed away or water-damaged.
Sitting up, I check that nothing is broken. My hands are shaking from the cold and I can't feel my fingers. Water cascades from the opening above my head. I have to get out of here.
Taking stock, I try to plot where I might be in relation to Dolphin Mansions. I can't read my watch so I don't know how long I've been down here. The ledge was narrow and my progress slow. I might only have traveled a few hundred yards. I heard traffic. I must have passed under a road. I listen again. Instead of a distant rumbling I feel a faint breeze against one cheek.
Standing too quickly, I smack my head against the roof and curse. Don't do that again. Crouching, I spread my palms against the curved brick wall and edge my way forward like a blind man in a maze. Occasionally, I pause and try to feel the breeze again. My mind wants to play tricks on me. Either the breeze disappears or seems to be coming from the opposite direction.
I can feel the desperation rising in me, scalding my esophagus. In the darkness I could plunge into a shaft and never get out. Maybe I should turn back.
Suddenly, a faint glow appears ahead of me. The shaft of light looks like a ghostly hologram in the center of the tunnel. I step inside and raise my face. I can see the sky through a rectangular grate. The edges are softened by turf spilling over the sides. I see football boots, shin guards and muddy knees. A handful of schoolboys and teachers are watching the game. Someone shouts, “Press forward.” Someone else bellows, “Offside!”
Nearest to me a lone teenager appears to be reading a book.
“Help me!”
He looks around.
“I'm down here!”
He peers at the grate.
“Help me get out!”
Dropping to his knees, he puts an eye against the bars.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“I'm a police officer.”
I know it doesn't answer the question but it seems to be enough. He goes to fetch a teacher. I can hear him.
“Sir, there's someone in a hole over there. I think he might be stuck.”
A new face appears at the grate, older and in charge.
“What are you doing down there?”
“Trying to get out.”
More faces arrive and stand around the drain. The football game appears to have been forgotten. Most of the players are now scrabbling to get a look at “this guy stuck down a hole.”
A crowbar is summoned from a car trunk. Turf is kicked away from the edges. The grate is pulled aside and strong hands reach inside. I emerge onto a patch of English autumn, blinking into the sunlight and wiping the remains of the sewer from my face.
Reaching into my sodden pocket I retrieve the last of the morphin
e capsules. Magically, the pain lifts and a wave of emotion passes over me. I don't normally like emotion. It's a wishy-washy, moist-eyed, soft-in-the-head state, good for postcoital bliss and rugby reunions, but you know something, I love these lads. Look at them, all dressed up in their school scarves, kicking a ball around the place. They look so cute. They even let me shower in the pavilion and someone lends me a shirt, tracksuit bottoms and a pair of sneakers. I look like a senior citizen on a power walk.
The Professor is summoned and finds me in the pavilion. Straight off he treats me like a patient, taking my face in his hands and holding my eyelids open.
“How many did you take?”
“The last two.”
“Jesus!”
“I'm fine, really. Listen to me. I've been down there . . . in the river. We should have seen it years ago.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know how they got her out of Dolphin Mansions. She went down the hole—just like Alice in Wonderland.”
I know I'm not making sense but Joe perseveres. Finally, I tell him the story but instead of getting excited he gets angry. He calls me stupid, foolhardy, rash and impulsive, but each of the criticisms is prefaced by the term “with all due respect.” I've never been so politely told off.
I look at my watch. It's almost eleven o'clock. I'm due in court at midday.
“We can still make it.”
“I have to stop off somewhere first.”
“To change your clothes.”
“To see a boy about a light.”
25
The Royal Courts of Justice in the Strand are composed of a thousand rooms and three miles of hallways, most of them lined with dark wooden panels that soak up the light and add to the gloom. The architecture is Victorian Gothic because the courts are meant to intimidate the crap out of people, which they do.
For Eddie Barrett, however, it's just another stage. Striding along corridors, he pushes through doors and scatters the clusters of whispering lawyers. For a man with short legs and a bulldog swagger, he moves surprisingly quickly.
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