Thirst (Thirst Series)

by Guy N Smith

  He sensed a rushing of water. It was pouring in from somewhere, icy cold as it met him in a rush, instantly reviving him and bringing with it a new terror.

  Oh, Jesus! The reservoir! Deep and clear: a source of life for many, death for the unfortunate few.

  The tanker quivered, and then it was still.

  The thing he secretly feared most of all: water. He had never been able to master the art of swimming. Childhood lessons in the baths had been a traumatic experience. But even had he learned, it would have been of no avail to him now.

  The blackness around him was tinged with red. His broken limbs refused to flail. His last conscious thought was of that hare in the road, how it had faced certain death, and yet lived. The price of its freedom was his own life.

  Chapter 2

  Ron Blythe lit his third pipe of tobacco and blew the smoke across the table, enveloping his wife sitting opposite him in its thick pungent aroma. His pale blue eyes focused on her and narrowed. He noted her latest Affro hairstyle, but did not comment on it; the freckled face; the large build - still reasonably attractive after ten years of marriage. But she had changed. It had been a gradual process. From sexy to homely. Homely summed her up. That was what matrimony and a couple of children did for a woman. She no longer had to lure her man. It was all too easy. Complacency had set in. But her quick temper was still there. Her tongue was as sharp as ever when the occasion demanded, and just lately those occasions were becoming all too frequent for Ron's liking.

  Muscular, with fair curly hair, he had kept himself fit by playing rugby for the local club. That was something else that Margaret complained about. Rugby on Saturday afternoons and out with the boys afterwards - or the girls. Nothing serious, but people talked and rumours drifted home. And now this.

  He glanced at the newspaper which lay spread open on the table between two half-empty mugs of coffee and a rack of toast that had not been touched. Breakfast, apparently, was another non-event.

  ‘How can we live with this?’ Her finger stabbed at the front page article.

  He read the headlines again:

  TANKER CONTAINING DEADLY WEEDKILLER DISAPPEARS

  He drew heavily on his pipe. He had read the article three times already. The reporter had really gone to town, dug up all the skeletons he could find, including those of the Larkins. It was a wonder his own name wasn't mentioned, Ron Blythe the research chemist who had formulated the final Weedspray process, a blend of paraquat, simazine, and about a dozen other herbicidal poisons that had produced the deadliest weedkiller on the market; so efficient that now it was being manufactured in bulk for agricultural use. But the antidote had eluded him. In all probability there was none. There were too many factors involved. Two or three could be cancelled out, but not all of them. Weedspray Limited had since taken him off the project. It was no longer profitable to expend time on antitoxins that were non-existent.

  And Margaret wasn't making it any easier for him. This could not have come at a worse time - the culmination of their row of the previous evening. The Carter girl appeared to have been forgotten for the moment, just shelved in Margaret's mental file. She would bring it out again when it suited her. Ron hardly remembered his date with Julia Carter, over a month before. Certainly nothing had happened between them. Maybe that was why Julia was opening her mouth all around Rugeley and claiming something had.

  ‘You invented the stuff,’ she said as she lit a cigarette, something she only did when she was really upset. ‘And you're likely to have a lot more on your conscience if this lot isn't found soon.’

  ‘I didn't invent it,’ he snapped. ‘I merely completed a formula that almost any research chemist worth his salt could have done at that stage.’

  ‘Well, the tanker's been missing for three days now and the firm haven't fetched you back off leave.’

  ‘Why should they? It's a police job, just like any other hijacking. I can't help them find it.’

  ‘And what if half the kids in some town somewhere find it and end up like the Larkin boy?’

  He did not answer. There was no answer. If that happened then there was nothing he could do to save them. The missing tanker puzzled him. Sure, the stuff was expensive, about £20 for five litres if one bought it from an agricultural supplier; 75p per sachet from garden shops. But it wasn't like nicking a load of coffee, tea, or cigarettes. The market was limited. Thieves just did not go for that kind of haul. He wondered about the driver, Timberley. Had he got some outlet for it? It was a possibility.

  ‘Everybody round here knows you're the guy who made the poison,’ Margaret went on.

  ‘Sure they do, because you told 'em.’

  ‘And they also know that you go with other women.’

  He sighed deeply. The subject of his reported affairs, grossly exaggerated, was becoming exceedingly boring just lately.

  ‘I'm going to Birmingham today,’ he said, changing the subject quickly.

  ‘Oh.’ Suspicion flickered in her eyes. ‘You've still got two days of leave left. Or is it pleasure you're going for?’

  ‘I am going -’ he folded the paper up and threw it on to the sofa ‘- because I want to find out what's going on.’

  ‘If the firm can't be bothered to ring you, then why the hell should you worry?’

  ‘You just said I should: my conscience. Or is it yours? The stigma of having a husband who works on weedkillers. And just because some stupid sod fills a pop bottle with it and leaves it lying about I'm branded a social outcast. That's what's worrying you, the gossip at the Women's Institute and the Mother's Union, not a poor kid who went mad and shoved a carving knife into his guts.’

  ‘How dare you!’ She stood up, her face flushed. ‘The gossip I'm worried about concerns you and all your fancy women. Women? Young girls, more like. Sooner or later the talk is going to filter into the schools. Our own children will come back with tales about their father.’

  ‘Shut up!’ His escalating anger reached its peak. ‘Just shut your bloody trap for once.’

  She fell silent, and when she spoke again her tone was sullen, subdued.

  ‘What time will you be home?’

  ‘Christ knows. I haven't gone yet. Maybe I'll stop over with Simon and Cathy for a day or two.’

  Suspicion again. Ron knew that she didn't like his brother. Snobbery. Simon was a bank employee - non-clerical. He wore a uniform, a plain navy-blue one which served as a best suit if the metal badge was removed.

  Ron put on his coat, ignoring Margaret's searching gaze. He didn't need to take anything with him, even if he was going to be away overnight, because he always slept in the nude. That was something else she did not approve of. She was getting prudish too.

  He turned towards the door, and would have gone right out without looking back had not the harsh jangling of the telephone in the hall stopped him. He stiffened, felt his stomach muscles tightening.

  But Margaret was already at the phone, lifting the receiver. Her insistence on dashing to the telephone each time it rang annoyed him. Nowadays he was not even trusted to have private calls in his own house. It might just be a female on the other end of the line.

  ‘For you,’ she said, holding the receiver out to him at arm's length, an obvious gesture of disapproval. ‘Weedspray.’

  He snatched the instrument from her.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Ron.’ Ron Blythe recognised the clipped tones of Ken Broadhurst, the managing director. ‘I know you're on leave, but I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to abandon whatever plans you have.’

  ‘I've just this minute done that. I was on my way into Birmingham.’

  ‘Yeah, good. Well make it Rhayader instead will you? I'm on my way up there now. D'you know the Claerwen Reservoir?’

  ‘I've heard of it. Isn't that the lake that supplies Birmingham with all its water?’

  ‘You've got it.’

  ‘What's up, then?’

  ‘There's evidence of a heavy goods vehicle having gone through the barrier into t
he deepest part of the lake. No lorry is reported missing … except ours.’

  ‘Oh, hell.’ Blythe searched desperately for reasons why it could not be the tanker. ‘But it can't be. A lorry travelling from the main depot at Liverpool wouldn't go via Wales.’

  ‘But this guy, Timberley, did. And it wasn't the first time. He was knocking a bird off in the area. Her husband rang up and reported that one of our lorries was in Pontrhydfendigaid the night it vanished. So it's my guess it's Timberley that went off the road into the drink.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’

  ‘Yeah, that's what I've been saying ever since I got the news. Make it up there as fast as you can, Ron. We may be needing a few facts and figures from you.’

  Ron Blythe replaced the receiver. He was pale and trembling.

  ‘Well?’ Margaret was watching him, arms folded, accusing, demanding a detailed explanation.

  ‘I won't be back tonight,’ he said as he pushed past her. ‘And if you want to know what I'm up to, just read the newspapers. Doubtless they're already writing up the first speculative front page spread.’

  It was shortly after midday when Ron Blythe pulled his Mini on to the grass verge which bordered the road alongside the Claerwen Reservoir. He recognised Broadhurst's Mercedes and noted the two police cars. Several other vehicles were in evidence.

  In the distance he saw a group of men huddled together by the water's edge: a dozen or so in all. Further away, watching expectantly, were another twenty. Inquisitive locals, he decided, as he negotiated a strand of rusty barbed wire and stepped on to soft grass.

  There was a cold wind and he was glad of the roll-neck sweater beneath his brown corduroy jacket. The sun shone out of a cloudless blue sky but autumn was already making its presence felt in the countryside around. The patches of bracken on the mountainsides were tinged with brown, and a large chestnut tree had a layer of golden leaves beneath it. He even remembered the date. He had stared at it on the newspaper for long enough that morning. September 27th. It could well prove to be a milestone in his life.

  As he walked towards the others he thought about Margaret. Maybe it would work out. Maybe it wouldn't. It all hinged on the children. He regretted not having been up in time to see them before they went off to school.

  Ken Broadhurst was in his early fifties. He had sleek dark hair, brushed straight back, and was immaculately dressed, apart from his suede shoes which were mud-stained. His good looks were spoiled by the fact that he was a couple of stone overweight. Rumour had it that he had a heart condition, but he firmly denied it, even though there were times when he was away from the office for long periods ‘on business’, the nature of which was never revealed.

  Doubtless, Ron Blythe reflected, the managing director of Weedsprays Limited had informed all those present of his public school education: Wrekin College. It would be worth checking with the register to confirm or disprove the fact. Right now, though, there were far more important matters pending than destroying a social façade.

  ‘Glad you made it, Ron,’ Broadhurst said, turning from the group. ‘This is Chief Superintendent Williams of the Powys Constabulary.’

  The policeman nodded. He was well built and his sunburnt features were proof that his career had largely been spent in rural parts.

  Ron Blythe's gaze scanned the others. Policemen, mostly plainclothes officers. A small ferret-faced man bore the stamp of newspaper reporter - more likely national than local. A tall thin fellow in his late thirties was wearing a wetsuit, the visor pushed up on to his forehead. They weren't wasting any time getting a diver down there.

  ‘That's where the lorry crashed through.’ Blythe followed Broadhurst's pointing finger. A length of white fencing marked the course of the road some two hundred feet above them and fifty yards to their left. A sheer drop right down to the edge of the lake. Directly above this there was a jagged break in the barriers.

  ‘Couldn't have picked a worse place to go off the road,’ said Broadhurst, repeating word-for-word the Chief Superintendent's summing up of half an hour before. ‘Not a trace. Deepest part of the reservoir.’

  The diver had his headgear on, and was moving towards the water. The others followed in his wake - silent, tense. Each hoped that it would not be the missing tanker down there in the depths. Except the reporter. He had already worked out his story. All he needed were the details.

  ‘What the hell are we going to do?’ Broadhurst spoke in low tones. He was worried and edgy.

  ‘Wait and see for the moment,’ Blythe replied. ‘There's just a chance it may not be our tanker. And even if it is, the load may still be intact, in which case there's no harm done.’

  ‘And if it isn't intact?’

  ‘We'll have to work something out, then. Play it by ear. Not much else we can do.’

  The diver disappeared below the surface of the reservoir. The reporter wanted to know who he was. Paul Pritchard, somebody told him. Every detail counted. Aged 36 - hobby, diving. Lives in Rhayader.

  The watchers waited silently, fidgeting with hands and feet. Clouds of blue cigarette smoke were carried away in the wind. The group behind had moved in closer. They had been told to stay clear, but everybody was too busy to worry about them now. A middle-aged woman had a camera. Just a cheap one, but she was already working out how much the newspapers would pay for a picture. That reporter hadn't brought a camera. Maybe they would bring the driver up and lay him out on the grass.

  Five minutes … Ten … A quarter of an hour … Not a ripple betrayed the whereabouts of Paul Pritchard. As he had forecast, it would not be easy.

  Everybody waited expectantly. Then, suddenly, a black-clad figure was emerging from the water, clambering on to dry land, a grim dripping spectacle like some amphibious creature, a nightmarish creation from the deep.

  Blythe knew, even as everybody moved forward, knew what Pritchard had found down there: a man and a tanker. Something made the research chemist hang back, letting the others surge past him. His stomach was churning almost to the point of vomiting. They didn't realise! Not even Ken Broadhurst was aware of the full consequences. If the tanker was smashed open …

  They were all talking at once. The reporter was attempting to shout everybody down. It sounded to Ron Blythe like a jumble of meaningless words. Pritchard had his headgear off. He was nodding, pointing towards the reservoir, shaking his head.

  Ron Blythe moved to join the others. His nerves were under control now, accepting the situation, just needing confirmation of what he had dreaded all along.

  ‘It's the tanker, all right,’ Pritchard was saying to Chief Superintendent Williams. ‘Gashed open by the rocks. The driver's still inside. No chance of getting him out without cutting equipment. Hell, it'll take some crane to get the wreckage up. Probably better to leave it where it is.’

  The very worst had happened. Blythe's trained mind was working like an automatic calculator: Paraquat. Simazine. Related bulk of water …

  ‘Hell!’ Broadhurst pushed his way back to Blythe, his fleshy face pale and drawn. ‘You heard that, Ron?’

  ‘I did.’ Ron Blythe turned away, his voice low. ‘I'll have to do some calculations on paper. Get some information from the water authority. It's no good speculating.’

  ‘It's bad, though.’ Real anxiety in the managing director's voice, bordering on panic, looking for the smallest particle of consolation and hope.

  ‘Well, it's not good.’ The understatement of the century.

  ‘We've got to meet the Water Board as soon as possible,’ Broadhurst said, and lit a cigarette, shielding it from the wind with hands that shook visibly. ‘I'm going to contact them right away. In fact, I don't think there's much we can do here. You'd better follow me back to Birmingham, Ron.’

  Blythe fell into step with his chief. Neither of them spoke as they got into their respective cars. There was nothing to say.

  The big room was old fashioned and sombre. Modern office equipment clashed with the polished oak panelling, and the strip
lighting was dazzlingly out of place. The wide floorboards had been coated with cheap stain.

  Blythe and Broadhurst were seated on flimsy straight-backed chairs in the centre of the room, facing the huge ornately carved desk, the only remnant of the original furnishing. Both men sweated and fidgeted uneasily, the setting reminiscent of their schooldays - erring boys summoned to the headmaster's study to account for some misdemeanour. Only on this occasion there were five ‘headmasters’, five humourless representatives of officialdom, alike in dress and mannerisms, poring over files, making notes on jotter pads, expressionless, glancing at each other from time to time.

  ‘Hmm,’ the man in the centre of the desk said. Owlish-looking, with heavy-rimmed spectacles and a pallid complexion, he raised his head as though he was only just aware of the presence of the two men from Weedspray Limited. ‘It's good of you to come and see us so promptly, gentlemen.’

  Promptly, Blythe thought. We wanted to see you yesterday. Had to make an appointment. He glanced at his watch. 1.45 pm. Twenty-four hours since the diver had reported his find. Official departments moved slowly, methodically, even in the face of disaster.

  ‘Of course -’ the man spoke slowly, eyes seeming not to blink behind the heavy lenses ‘- you realise that in all probability the Department will be seeking recompense from your firm. There will be the cost of salvaging the vehicle, and also the necessity to purify the reservoir as an added precaution.’

  ‘Purify!’ Ron Blythe snapped angrily. ‘It's not a question of purifying. The reservoir will have to be drained, cleaned, and refilled.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘It's either that or allowing the population of Birmingham to be poisoned!’

  ‘I think you are exaggerating - being somewhat melodramatic, Mr Blythe.’

  ‘I'm just being practical. Telling you what I know to be the truth. I've done my homework.’

  ‘Let's hear it then.’ The headmaster was trying to be tolerant, forcing himself to listen to the lame excuses of the erring boys before administering the necessary punishment.