Deep Shelter

by Oliver Harris

  Rosen interrupted. “Nick, Northwood.”

  Belsey ran up to the meeting room. Northwood was sitting at a large, bare conference table, looking hot and uncomfortable. A thinner man in a grey suit sat beside him. Belsey didn’t recognise the thin man. He looked like Homicide Unit. He had greasy lead-coloured hair swept over his scalp. The room was stuffy.

  “We’ve been trying to get in contact with you,” Northwood said.

  “I was out of signal.”

  “Do you have any idea where Sergeant Craik might be?”

  “The car she was driving is in Hackney. There was an accident of some kind.”

  “What was she doing there?”

  “She was responding to a call, a tip-off. I don’t know any more than that.”

  “How do you know it’s there?” Northwood asked.

  “A bit of detective work.” Belsey felt his teeth grit. Time was being wasted.

  “When were you last with her?” Northwood persisted.

  “Last night, in the office.”

  “How long have you known Sergeant Craik?” the thin man asked. He spoke languidly. There was something malnourished about him; chinless and disinfected.

  “I mentored her a few years ago. I think we should check the Hackney location.”

  “What have your movements been over the last two hours?” he asked. Belsey gathered himself. He’d spent three days braced for accusations and now he’d been caught off guard.

  “I’ve been to Piltbury,” he said. “In Wiltshire.”

  They looked at him more intently now. No one moved, yet the physical relationship between the three men shifted. Belsey checked the pair for kit: no cuffs, no radios. He doubted either of them had made a physical arrest in the last twenty years.

  “Why were you in Wiltshire?” the man continued.

  “The suspect was renting a cottage in Piltbury.” The man’s nostrils flared as he breathed in this information.

  “What suspect?”

  “I don’t have a name yet.”

  “But you know where he takes his holidays.”

  “We haven’t been introduced,” Belsey said.

  “This is Detective Inspector Gary Finch,” Northwood said. “Answer his questions.”

  Finch’s eyes were flat. He stared at Belsey and didn’t blink. Well I never, Belsey thought. DI Gary Finch—the investigating officer on the Powell hit-and-run. The man who had swept Powell’s death under the carpet. He wasn’t Collision Investigation, that much was clear.

  “What have you done with her?” Belsey said. He felt the muscles in his hands tense. Finch looked curious and amused. Belsey stopped himself walking over to the man and grabbing him.

  “What have I done with her?”

  “Yes.”

  Finch stonewalled: “Can you explain what this was doing in your hotel room?” He loitered on the word “hotel.” Then he reached beneath the table and produced a plastic evidence bag containing Craik’s bloodstained blouse. It had been stained in the course of her Tuesday-night foray underground, but that wasn’t what the blood seemed to say right now. Belsey felt something heavy heading towards him fast. It involved two tight, elegantly interlinked homicide cases with himself at the centre. “Her clothes were in your hotel room.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you explain how that came to be?”

  “She took them off there. Did you have a warrant to go into my room?”

  “Yes,” Finch said.

  Belsey knew what was coming. He saw himself sat in custody, staring at the cell graffiti and translating each minute into Ferryman’s escape.

  “You were seen with her last night, involved in some kind of disagreement.”

  “Were we?”

  “In her office. Was it about Jemma Stevens?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  For his final trick the man produced Jemma Stevens’ purse. What a hand, Belsey thought. What a flush. He wanted to clap.

  “OK. You win. There’s some documents I think you’re going to want. Maybe that will help.” Finch gave a slight nod. Northwood turned between them, confused.

  “If her life is in danger,” Finch said, “I think that’s the best thing you could do. To step away from anything inappropriate.”

  “I need to cooperate to ensure her safety, you’re saying.”

  “I’m saying it would be wise if everyone did what they could to resolve this situation as quickly as possible.”

  Belsey nodded.

  “I’m going to be deeply appropriate,” he said. “All the way. I’ll get those papers. Then I want legal representation. One moment, gentlemen.”

  He went down to the main office before they could protest, scooped up his bag and stepped onto the fire escape. The sky was edging indigo. He paused for a fraction of a second and felt himself signing a confession. Then he felt the clock ticking and went down to his car.

  31

  THREE A.M. MISSION INTO HACKNEY. IT HAD BEEN A while. Through Canonbury, descending east, gentility loosening into the low-rise clutter of Kingsland Road. Hackney was oblivious to the night, grocers and kebab shops sailing neon-bright through the small hours. Insomniac as ever.

  Finch, he thought. What grim crevice had he flown from? A well-connected one, it seemed. Belsey heard his own name on the police-band radio. “Arrest on sight.”

  He sped deeper into Shacklewell. Past the Nando’s, onto Shacklewell Lane; past the mosque. Amhurst Terrace was dark and narrow, lights flashing at the far end: yellow recovery vehicle lights, blue police lights, no ambulance. The road was residential until the houses ran out; then you were heading for locked gates, an industrial estate, Hackney Downs. Black tarmac shimmered with petrol.

  Belsey parked on the forecourt of a disused laundrette and walked towards the wreckage. He found the point of collision, identifiable from the glass diamonds in the road. You’d expect a T-junction. It wasn’t a junction at all. Belsey crouched to see the tyre tracks. Two sets, parallel. Craik had been side-slammed.

  He approached the damaged Mazda. The two police officers beside it nodded at his badge indifferently. They appeared to be out of the loop as far as Belsey’s new renegade status was concerned.

  “Know what happened?” Belsey asked.

  “Just got here.”

  Belsey borrowed a torch and circled the damaged car. He could see the scrape lines on the bodywork. They were relatively high. So she’d been hit side-on by something large, like a Land Rover or SUV. There were traces of black paint in the dents. The wall on the far side of the Mazda was also scraped. She’d been trapped against it. No evidence of a front collision; no impact with the windscreen. No blood on the glass.

  He gave the torch back.

  Belsey looked for potential witnesses and saw a man wearing a bulging polo shirt and smoking in a bright doorway. As he got closer he saw it was an old schoolhouse, two entrances, one carved with the word “Girls” the other “Boys.” Girls was bricked up. Through the boys’ entrance, behind the smoker, was a reception painted acid yellow. Above the front desk he could make out the words St. Matthew’s Hostel, with its motto: No Drugs or Alcohol on the Premises.

  “No one in after midnight,” the man said.

  Belsey produced his badge. It occurred to him that he hadn’t shaved for a while. The man apologised.

  “Did you see the accident?” Belsey asked.

  “Heard it. I came out.”

  “What did you see?”

  “A woman. Looked like someone piled into her.”

  “Was she injured?”

  “Shaken.”

  “But she could walk.”

  “She was walking. They were helping her walk.”

  “Who were they?”

  “No idea, mate.”

  “They were from the other vehicle?”

  “I guess so.”

  “See it?”

  “No.”

  Belsey turned back to the road as if to catch some ghostly impression of the in
cident.

  “Were they men? Women?”

  “Looked like two men.”

  What was she doing here? Where could she have been going? He looked around as if the weak neon from the hostel might illuminate a destination. Then he turned to the hostel itself. The light flickered. The hostel manager tossed his cigarette into the night and retreated to his surreal chamber—the yellow walls, chessboard floor. The chessboard was spoiled only by semi-circular prints from the heel of someone’s shoe. They led across the reception, heading out of the hostel from a door marked Residents Only.

  Belsey stared at them. Not mud, the print was too clear. A dark, viscous fluid. There were only so many of them in the world.

  “Any trouble tonight?” Belsey called after him. The manager turned.

  “Here? No.”

  Belsey pointed to the prints.

  “What are those?”

  “I don’t know.” The manager poked the toe of his shoe at a print and smeared it sideways.

  “Mind if I take a look?” Belsey asked.

  “At what?”

  Belsey followed the shoe prints through the door to wide stone stairs.

  “When did you last go up here?” he asked.

  “About an hour ago.”

  Belsey climbed the stairs, past an empty TV lounge, a large kitchen, closed dorms and more notices about health checks and drugs. He got to the second floor. Someone had walked blood down the corridor. The shoe prints began at the door for Room 23. Belsey opened the door.

  A man sat on the floor in the corner. Brain tissue dripped down the wall beside his head. He was old, gaunt, his grey hair streaked with scarlet, mouth gagged with duct tape. His shirt had been unbuttoned, exposing ribs and white skin. Blood pooled beneath him, spreading in neat lines along the grain of the floorboards.

  The manager retched. Belsey stepped inside. The room had three camp beds set up, an old fireplace, a sink. Belsey moved around the body and saw slick shards of skull where the head had been caved in. The hands were also mutilated: fingers cut with a blade of some kind, pierced and pricked. Belsey caught something out of the corner of his eye and turned. The wall beside him was smeared, floor to ceiling, with blood: daubs, smudges, finger lines. As if the victim had tried to claw his way out. Or to draw something.

  Belsey stepped back into the corridor. The manager was on his knees, bending over a pool of pink vomit. Belsey squatted beside him.

  “Any idea who did this?”

  The manager shook his head. He fumbled for an inhaler, wiped his mouth and took a suck.

  “Who’s the victim?”

  “Bill.”

  “Who was Bill?”

  “Just one of the regulars.”

  “Know why this might have happened to him?”

  “He was talking earlier about having to make a call. To the police. But they’re all saying stuff like that, half the time.”

  “What did he want to say to the police?”

  “I don’t know. Bill . . . He was an odd one. I don’t know who’d do this.”

  Another regular, swaddled in a padded coat three sizes too big for him, had come to see what the fuss was about. He was barefoot, his mouth open and toothless, a Rizla twitching in his hand.

  “Holy fucking God, man, Bill. Fucking Bill!” His voice rose. “Boys, it’s Bill!” He flapped his way downstairs. Belsey lifted the manager to his feet.

  “You’ve got to keep everyone in their dorms. Someone might know something. No one moves, no one comes up here. OK? This is sealed now.”

  The manager headed down the stairs to enforce some kind of order. It was too late. Residents pushed past him; doors were flung open. There was shouting. Someone ran into the street.

  Belsey could see the lights of the crash scene through the hostel windows. More police would be here soon enough. He couldn’t afford to be spotted. Time to disappear into the night. To find out where those helpful men had led Kirsty Craik. He ordered the curious back downstairs then took a final look at the scene: the body, the blood scrawls resolving themselves into a diagram of some kind. He felt sure now. A floor plan. There were squares, doors, arrows. A route. Belsey took his phone out. He was about to take a picture when he heard someone else’s phone click behind him.

  Belsey turned. A man stood in the doorway, holding a Nokia, angled to see the scrawls.

  “This is a crime scene. Get downstairs,” Belsey said.

  The man lowered his phone. He looked at Belsey. He was pale, his short hair light brown. His skin had an almost translucent quality, the pinks and blues rising up from somewhere beneath the surface. His face was all bone: high cheekbones, deep-set eyes. He wore a white T-shirt, a small black rucksack over one shoulder, grey hoodie tied around his waist. A smudge of dried blood remained in front of his left ear.

  He watched Belsey steadily.

  “Ferryman,” Belsey said. Still the man didn’t move. Belsey took a step towards him. “Let’s talk.”

  The man nodded. Then there was a noise from the stairs and he turned. Two uniformed officers appeared, red-faced, breathless, one young, one old. They looked straight at Belsey.

  “It’s him,” the younger one said. “Belsey.” The man with the rucksack stepped backwards, past them.

  “Stop him,” Belsey shouted, lurching forward. Fat hands grabbed him. He shrugged the first constable off, smashed his elbow hard into the next one’s mouth, then sprinted downstairs in time to see Ferryman jumping into a squad car. An officer lay on the ground beside it clutching her face. The taste of CS spray hung in the air. The squad car reversed fast in Belsey’s direction, then it swung around and veered towards Kingsland Road.

  32

  HERE WE GO AGAIN, BELSEY THOUGHT. HE JUMPED BACK into his Skoda and tore past the crash scene, onto the high street. No losing him this time.

  4:07 a.m. Night still and silent. And they were churning it up. Belsey caught up with the squad car at Dalston Junction. He rammed into the back of it but failed to cause a tailspin. His competitor had a more powerful vehicle and used it to accelerate away. Kingsland Road was straight and empty. Belsey matched him over the hundred mark, close enough to see the man’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. A couple of drunks dived from the road. Nocturnal seagulls flapped, startled, out of mountains of rubbish. The Skoda did its best, but Belsey couldn’t close the gap again. A night bus screamed in sideways. Ferryman went straight over a traffic island, sending a plastic bollard flying. Belsey followed. Then Liverpool Street arrived. They swung a hard right around the station, through Moorgate onto High Holborn, forcing a lorry into a news kiosk.

  Belsey swerved around the lorry. This was tunnel territory now, heading into town. They had terrified company on the roads. Past Chancery Lane, into the back streets of Holborn, sharp left again around the British Museum. He’s trying to kill us both, Belsey thought. Then his target hit the brakes. Middle of a junction, top of Shaftesbury Avenue. Traffic skidded and blared. Ferryman was already out and running.

  Belsey sprinted after him. He saw him turn off the main road, rounded the corner a few seconds later and the man had gone.

  He swore. Then he saw it. On the corner of Museum Street and New Oxford Street: not a building so much as an entire block obscuring the sky, grey and disused. Brutal. The glass of the upper floors was dirty. The ground floor had been sealed with black-painted panels. There was a small door open in the closest panel. Hard Hats Must Be Worn at All Times.

  Belsey stepped into semi-darkness. He had been in cathedrals smaller, mortuaries less gloomy. Square, grey pillars divided the space. Cans and bottles littered the floor.

  He picked up a bottle and held it by the neck. Every pillar cast a shadow thick enough to hide in. He stepped between them, turning as he walked.

  “Just us now,” he said. His voice echoed. “Not sure how long I’m in the game for. Kirsty Craik’s gone. Did you know that? They got her. You’ve put me in a tricky situation. Does that mean you’ve won?” No answer. “Can I speak to her? Th
ere’s an arrest warrant out for me. You’re going to be on your own now. I’d like to speak to Jemma before I get arrested. Then you’re on your own.”

  Belsey stumbled into metal. A row of trolley cages clattered angrily into a wall. He read a torn notice pasted to the wall: Royal Mail: Ten Steps to Gold Standard Service.

  The New Oxford Street postal depot, then.

  Glass smashed. Belsey chased the sound to broad stone stairs at the back. Footsteps hurried down. Belsey followed. After six turns of the stairwell he couldn’t see a thing. He lit his phone screen, then decided on discretion and continued blindly. It must have been twelve floors before the steps ran out. He was in a large space, he could tell that much. There was the faintest of draughts. He wondered if his eyes would adjust. He smelt propane gas.

  A lighter scratched and then there was a roar. The hard blue flame of a blowtorch appeared, ten metres away and getting closer. Belsey moved sideways and hit another trolley cage. He got behind the cage and pushed.

  He kept pushing. His target must have moved. Belsey felt as if he passed through him, and then he was falling. The cage fell first; he landed on top, then it was on top of him and his ribs slammed into cold tracks. The propane hiss got louder. He was winded. He couldn’t tell which way was up or how to go about getting there. So, Belsey thought, that was life. The pain would render him unconscious quickly enough. He considered praying. Then the hiss was extinguished. There was no light. Footsteps faded into the tunnels.

  It took Belsey a minute to shift the cage and pull himself back up to the platform. He got his phone out again and saw, in its weak light, that he was in a disused loading area almost identical to the one at Mount Pleasant. Eventually he found the stairs again. By the time Belsey got out of the depot it was dawn and there were six police officers circling the abandoned squad car. Senior command were pulling up.

  Belsey didn’t wait to gauge their reaction. He legged it to the Skoda and set off towards Oxford Street lifting his radio.

  “I need Gold level control, Central London, all units. Put me through to Major Incident Coordination.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Chief Superintendent Northwood. I’ve got a triple-homicide suspect just entered the Mail Rail tunnels at the disused New Oxford Street depot. We’re going to block his exits.”