Deep Shelter

by Oliver Harris

  Belsey returned to the high street and parked. There were no people, it seemed. No streetlights. Once the door of the Skoda closed behind him all artificial light was gone. Thousands of stars appeared as piercings in the sky. The hill rising above the houses thickened the darkness. He listened to the sound of a world without humans: branches and water. He considered knocking on doors then took his mobile out and dialled the Piltbury number. Somewhere in the distance a phone rang.

  Belsey followed the sound. He cut down a path between houses to the church with the square tower that he’d noticed. He dialled again and the phone was a lot closer. A minute past the church towards the village’s northern edge and there it was, a red telephone box, its concrete platform subsided into the earth so that it stood unevenly in front of a steep wood.

  Belsey opened the box and stood in it. He wasn’t sure what he expected. It didn’t have the urinary smack of London boxes. He lifted the receiver. It was still working. Not too many vandals in Piltbury he guessed. He stepped out. There was more water flowing somewhere in the wood. He listened, wondering what he was going to do now, then heard a more familiar sound. A bell rang. Belsey checked his watch. Last orders.

  He walked faster now, chasing this new sound back to the roundabout. After another moment he saw a low, thatched pub. The Quarry House. He walked in. Five locals huddled at the bar, four large men with pints, one woman on a stool with a brandy. A younger couple were playing dominoes at a back table. It was warm, with rusted implements of industry and agriculture decorating the wooden beams. The bar was a small shrine of beer mats and postcards of other places. Belsey studied the crowd but didn’t see a man young enough to be his suspect. All were either too tall or too broad and most had facial hair. He showed his police badge to a teenage barmaid.

  “I’m looking for a man about my height, usually clean shaven, might wear a hoodie. He’s been in London a lot recently. Anyone in the village fit that description?”

  She shook her head, eyes wide. Her customers had started gathering around. Belsey repeated the question, got nothing but frowns and more shakes of the head.

  “Seen a van about? A white Vauxhall Vivaro?”

  “What did you say he’s done?” a man asked. He had a local accent, tanned forearms, a shirt open halfway down his chest.

  “He’s wanted in connection with two murders in London,” Belsey said. “Right now it’s possible he’s abducted a young woman and is holding her hostage.”

  There was a gasp, some urgent muttering.

  “And he’s from Piltbury?” the woman on the stool asked, slurring slightly. She was wearing a lot of make-up.

  “I don’t know. It’s one possibility. He’s been using the phone box over by the church.”

  The pub was quiet. He had their attention now. Two of the men began to confer, the one in the open shirt and a taller man whose bald head almost brushed the low ceiling. They turned and spoke to the others.

  “That fellow. Walks around sometimes.”

  “It could be.”

  “Tell me about this fellow,” Belsey said.

  “Seen him about at night.”

  “Not a local?”

  “Told me he was,” the woman on the stool said. “Think he had family around here.”

  “What else does he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Know where he’s staying?”

  “Hill View,” one of the men said. There was some more consultation. “Yes, Hill View.”

  “What’s Hill View?”

  “It’s an old farmhouse,” the tall man said. “You can rent it. Over the other side and past the phone box.”

  It was him then, Belsey thought. He was in the right place.

  “You’ve seen him about?”

  “At night.”

  “I saw him buying food once,” the woman said. “In the store.”

  “Who’s he killed?” the barmaid asked, slow with disbelief. The couple had abandoned their dominoes and were on the phone: “Darling, make sure all the windows are closed.”

  “Where is the farmhouse in relation to the road?” Belsey asked.

  “A little way on from the phone box you’ll see a track,” the bald man said. “Cuts through the trees. That will lead you to the gate. You’ll see the house from there.”

  “OK.”

  “Are you going on your own?” the barmaid asked.

  “Anyone want to come with?”

  There were no offers. Belsey left his name and number to call in case they needed him. He didn’t add: and so you know who the corpse belongs to. He told them all to keep an eye out, not to approach anyone, to contact local police if they couldn’t get through to him. He checked the clock.

  “Am I in time to get a large Jameson’s?”

  The barmaid put the whisky on the counter. He offered a fiver and she just stared at him. Belsey downed it and left. He heard the door being bolted.

  He walked back to the phone box. The track began a couple of metres beyond it, a narrow dirt path leading into the trees. Belsey followed it through the rustling darkness of the small wood and out again to fields. It continued along the side of the hill to a gate, and beyond the gate to the farmhouse.

  The house stood alone, facing away from the village, with its lights on. Fields continued rising behind it, becoming rocky and treeless. The gate was fastened with a loop of string. Belsey closed it quietly behind him and approached.

  The curtains were drawn. It was an old slate farmhouse. He watched for movement behind the curtains, then circled the house to a garden portioned off from the surrounding hillside by a low fence.

  The French windows at the back of the house were open an inch. The curtains were drawn here too. He could see movement through the crack between them. Belsey took a step nearer and heard music playing. He touched the back of the curtains, then swept them to the side and walked in.

  A woman screamed. A florid man in a shirt and a cardigan spun from shopping bags. The woman wore a dressing gown.

  Belsey produced his badge.

  “Jesus Christ!” the man said. Belsey appraised the scene: a bottle of Shiraz on the go, suitcase open, everything cosy.

  “Is this your home?”

  “No.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re on holiday.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “About three hours,” the woman said, indignantly.

  “Do you know who was here before?”

  “I’ve no idea. What’s happened?”

  Everyone took a breath. A holiday cottage. He’d been lured to a holiday cottage. Why?

  The house was snug: kitchen at the back, living room with a basket of logs and a working fireplace. But a sense of wooded isolation seeped in. Three hours, he thought. The place had been cleaned before that: J-cloths over the taps, drying rack empty, floor swept. In the centre of the kitchen table was a guestbook. Belsey flicked through. The last entry had been signed 24 May: Mr. and Mrs. Wilton found the cottage delightful if a bit cold at night. That left a gap of almost three weeks.

  “Who runs the place?”

  “The owner, Caroline.”

  By the guestbook was a note from her: I hope you enjoy your stay at Hill View House. In case of emergency, call me. Caroline Mitchell. Belsey took his phone out. No signal.

  “Does she live nearby?”

  “In the next village along. Tilherst. Signal’s awful here and there’s no landline.”

  They all checked their phones.

  “Here,” the woman said, hovering close to the French windows. “I’ve got a bit of signal.” She dialled, and by the time she passed the phone the owner had already answered.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Detective Constable Nick Belsey. I’m at Hill View House. Was there a man staying here recently?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “On his own?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was his name?”

  �
��Mr. Ferryman. I never knew a first name.”

  Belsey sighed.

  “When did he leave?”

  “Last week. Friday morning. Almost a week ago.”

  “How long was he here?”

  “Two weeks exactly.”

  “Could you describe him?”

  “Not well, I only saw him twice. Reasonably tall, lightish hair. Very pale. I’d say he was in his late thirties.”

  “You didn’t see him when he left?”

  “No. They just pop the key back through the letter box.”

  “Could you come to the cottage? I’d like to ask you a few more questions about this man.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll explain.”

  “Now?”

  “Immediately.”

  Belsey explored the house. Narrow stairs twisted up to a single bedroom with a quilted bedspread beneath sloping beams. Everything was spotless. Beside it was a bathroom. The paint was new, everything new, but the taps were rusted. So was the metal trim on the cupboard and mirror. He ran his finger over the rust then went back to the garden.

  The only problem with the location of Hill View House was that you were on a near-vertical incline. But you had a view over the village and could see moonlight on the thin river at the bottom. Belsey imagined his suspect enjoying this, lording it over the little houses. Plotting and planning. He climbed over the fence and walked to the crest of the hill. It was windy. You could see what might have been Tilherst to the west. You could just make out the lights of the M4. The hill continued in a long ridge to the east, a plateau of rocky ground with heather and gorse clinging on. Hard digging. No obvious burial plots.

  Belsey felt very distinctly that he was a long way from where he should be.

  He walked back to the cottage. A place to retreat as you start your campaign. To keep police at bay as you prepare the game for them. He watched car headlights turn onto the track, moving through the pines to the gate. By the time he was back at the house the owner was climbing out of a mud-spattered Volvo. Caroline Mitchell wore green corduroy trousers, and a waxed jacket; she had blonde-grey hair, glasses on a chain. She looked aghast already.

  “What’s he done?” she said.

  “He’s in some trouble. What do you remember about him?”

  “Nothing. I thought it was slightly strange, a man here on his own. That’s all.”

  Belsey ushered her inside. Everything was a little tense with the guests there; drama wasn’t part of the holiday they’d been sold.

  “How did he contact you?” Belsey asked.

  “He called one day, said he was in the area and he’d seen one of my adverts in the village. He enquired about renting the cottage. It was just what he needed.”

  “For what?”

  “To get some peace and quiet. Seclusion.”

  “Why did he want seclusion?”

  “To work, he said.”

  “What did his work involve?”

  “I don’t know. Research, he said. He told me he’d be popping to London regularly, not to worry if he was away for a few days. I said I wouldn’t be interfering. Better things to do than nose.”

  “But you took a look. A man here on his own, you’d swing by, check the place was OK.”

  “Yes,” she conceded. “I had a look in, once. The place was full of papers.”

  “What sort of papers?”

  “Work papers. Photocopies.”

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know. Of whatever he was researching, I suppose. The papers were everywhere. Photocopies, letters, maps. You couldn’t see the carpet. It was a bloody mess.”

  “Do you have any address for him? Contact details?”

  She fished a piece of paper from her jacket pocket. She needn’t have bothered: “Mr. Ferryman, 12 Jigsaw Lane. London.”

  “I don’t suppose he used a cheque or bank card?”

  “No. He paid up front. In cash.”

  “What a surprise.”

  Belsey sat down on a low sofa by the cold fireplace. The other three remained standing as if they were visiting him and he was unwell.

  “The metal in the bathroom is rusted,” Belsey said.

  “I saw. Never used to be like that.”

  “Not before Mr. Ferryman’s stay.”

  “No. What’s it from?”

  “Did he leave any rubbish? Empties? Packets or bottles?”

  “A few bits and pieces.”

  “Was there icing sugar?”

  “Yes!” Now the owner of the cottage looked impressed.

  “Vaseline? Bleach bottles? Vinegar?”

  “Bleach, yes. Maybe vinegar. I didn’t itemise it all. How do you know?”

  “Do you still have that rubbish?”

  “It was collected this morning.”

  Belsey pulled himself awkwardly to his feet and returned to the bathroom. He ran a finger along the shower head and down the pipes, then sat on the edge of the bath. So Ferryman wanted to show Belsey his lab. The rust was from exposure to chemical reactions, fast oxidisation he’d only ever seen in less cosy places stocking more martyr videos. Experiments in bomb making. Maybe there was one going off in London now. Maybe that was the punchline. When he looked up there were three faces at the doorway, peering in.

  “Are we safe?” the male guest asked.

  “I have no idea. Where can I get signal?”

  “Up the hill,” the landlady said. She pointed him back to the garden. Belsey went downstairs, through the garden and over the fence, wondering whether to give a heads-up to the local police first or call Counter Terrorism and introduce them to Ferryman. Or perhaps just disappear, dive into the inviting and infrequently lit night of Wiltshire. He got two bars on his phone. He’d got twelve missed calls.

  Seven from Kirsty Craik, five from Hampstead CID. Craik hadn’t left a message. The station had: “Call now.”

  He tried Craik’s phone and it went to voicemail. He was about to dial the station when his phone rang. Trapping.

  “Nick, where are you?”

  “Why?”

  “Are you with Sergeant Craik?”

  “No. Why?”

  “She’s gone missing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re cutting out.”

  “I can hear you.”

  “No one . . . where she is.”

  “When did anyone last hear from her?”

  “Nick? . . . phone . . .”

  30

  BELSEY TOLD CAROLINE MITCHELL AND HER GUESTS he’d be in touch. He cut back across dark fields, stuck his sirens on as soon as he hit the motorway. He got a signal the moment Piltbury’s rocky hillside left his rear-view mirror. Trapping answered in the CID office.

  “Nick, where are you?”

  “Coming back to London from Wiltshire. When was Sergeant Craik last seen?”

  “We’re not sure. She was in the office briefly. We’re getting all the information we can.”

  “Has anyone checked her home? The suspect knows where she lives. He broke into her car and saw post addressed to her.”

  “There’s no one there. No indication she went home.”

  Belsey was out of Wiltshire in half an hour. He coaxed the Skoda to one hundred and twenty on the M4, mind already searching London. Last missed call from Craik was 11:42 p.m. He tried to imagine Ferryman plucking her off the street. Not a woman who’d go without a fight. Could he have lured her somewhere? Would she have gone back down into the tunnels? She’d have told someone she was going. The west of the city closed around him. He was in the centre at 2:15 a.m., Hampstead five minutes later.

  The CID office was on edge but they hadn’t called in other units yet. Reports were coming in from patrol cars: “No sign of her . . .”

  Rosen said: “Northwood’s upstairs. He’s worried.”

  “About time.”

  “Wants to know what you know—about these tunnels, this suspect you were chasing.”

  “Where was Sergeant Craik la
st seen?”

  “She was here, Nick. She got some kind of tip-off about Jemma Stevens.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Someone knew where she was.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Kirsty legged it. No sign of her Mondeo.”

  “The Mondeo was broken into. It had a smashed window. She wouldn’t have been using it.”

  No one had checked what vehicle she was actually driving. Craik hadn’t signed anything out. Belsey called the duty Sergeant downstairs and told him to see if any CID pool cars were missing. He called back a moment later and said the Mazda estate was gone. Belsey checked traffic reports. Then he called the control room at the borough headquarters in Holborn. The Mazda would have Automatic Vehicle Location installed. Holborn said they’d establish its whereabouts and get back to him asap.

  He called the storeroom. Craik had taken a new battery pack for a Taser at 10:15 p.m., not long after he’d left her.

  Trapping entered the office holding a coffee, looking at Belsey with uncharacteristic alarm.

  “Nick, you know Northwood’s upstairs . . .”

  “The man we’re looking for was in Piltbury, Wiltshire, between the twenty-fourth of May and the seventh of June.” Belsey gave the cottage address. “He was making bombs. I still don’t have a name for him. Calls himself Ferryman. He’s the one who dropped off the package of hair on Tuesday night. He hasn’t come out of nowhere. Who the fuck is he?”

  Belsey looked on his desk for a message from Craik. He couldn’t see one. He checked emails. Nothing. He went into Craik’s office and searched the place. On top of a messy pile of papers was an unopened envelope from Costa Coffee, labelled: CCTV footage from 210 Haverstock Hill Store. It had a disk inside. He pocketed it fast. There was nothing else connected to the investigation. So she’d got a tip-off and not written it down? Told no one?

  Holborn control room called back.

  “The Mazda you were asking about is on Amhurst Terrace, by Hackney Downs. It was involved in an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is the driver OK?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. All I know is the car’s there now.”