May Eckhardt stood alone in the front pew, wearing black leather gloves and a lightweight black coat that reached almost to her ankles. Her hair was loose and she kept her head down throughout the service so that it fell across her face, shielding her features like a curtain. The rest of the mourners were Eckhardt's co-workers: Steve Reynolds, Martin Staines and Sam Greene were there, along with two young women who looked like secretaries.
'Not much of a turnout,' whispered Reid.
'She said he didn't have many relatives,' said Wright.
'None by the look of it. No friends of the family, either. Just colleagues.' The curtain slid over the rear of the coffin and the organ music stopped abruptly. The vicar looked at his watch.
Wright wondered how many mourners there would be at his funeral if he were to die tomorrow. His mother was in a nursing home in the West Country and he only visited her two or three times a year. He had a brother in Australia, but they hadn't spoken for more than five years. He looked across at Reid. His partner would be there, Wright was certain of that, probably wearing the same brown raincoat and carrying the same tweed hat. And Reid would probably twist a few arms to get some of his colleagues to attend. Superintendent Newton would be there, but out of duty rather than friendship. Would Janie attend? Probably, with Sean at her side. Wright could picture her in black, a comforting hand on their son's shoulder, telling him not to worry because Sean had another daddy who loved him just as much as his real daddy did. Wright shivered.
May Eckhardt was walking down the centre aisle, the vicar at her side. The top of her head barely reached the vicar's shoulder and he had to stoop to talk to her as they walked. She saw Wright and gave him the smallest of smiles. For a brief moment their eyes locked and Wright felt something tug at his stomach. Wright smiled back at her but she looked down as if the contact had frightened her.
The mourners filed out of their pews and followed May and the vicar out of the church. The vicar stood at the doorway with May and together they thanked each person for attending. Wright and Reid were the last to leave. Wright nodded at the vicar, but had no interest in talking to him. The service had been perfunctory and the man appeared to have been operating on auto-pilot throughout. Wright felt that May had deserved better.
'Thanks for coming, Sergeant Wright,' said May, and she held out a slim gloved hand.
He shook it. Her hand felt like a child's in his. 'How are you?' he asked.
She withdrew her hand. 'I don't know,' she said. 'How are people usually? After . . .' She faltered and put her hand to her head.
'I'm sorry,' said Wright quickly. 'Stupid question, really.' The news agency staff stood together on the pavement as if unsure what to do next. 'Is there a reception?' Wright asked.
May shook her head. 'No, I just wanted a service. In fact, I didn't really want that. Max wasn't one for religion. He always said that the Apaches had the best idea: lay the body on a rock and let the birds eat it.' She forced a tight smile. 'I didn't think Westminster Council would look too kindly on that. Besides, Steve Reynolds called me and said some of the people in the office wanted to say goodbye . . .' Her voice faltered again. She brushed away a tear.
Wright wanted to step forward and comfort her. She tensed as if she'd read his thoughts. 'What are your plans now?' he asked.
'I'm going to go back home. Then I... I don't know. I've been taking it one day at a time. His clothes are still on the chair in the bedroom . . .' She mumbled incoherently, then shook her head as if clearing her thoughts. 'I'll be fine, Sergeant Wright.' 'Nick. Call me Nick.’
She looked at him for several seconds until he began to feel that he was lost in her soft brown eyes, as if she was pulling his soul towards hers. He blinked and the spell was broken.
'Nick,' she said. 'Thank you for coming.' She thanked the vicar and then walked away.
The church was only half a mile from her flat so Wright assumed that she was going to walk, but then he noticed her VW Golf parked at the roadside. He watched as she unlocked the door and climbed in. She put on her seatbelt and started the engine. At the last moment she turned and looked at him. She flashed him a quick smile and gave him a half wave, then drove away.
Reid finished talking to the vicar and came up behind Wright. 'Okay?' he asked.
'Yeah. I guess.’
Wright turned and looked up at the outside of the church. It was a modern building, all brick, the windows shielded from vandals by wire mesh screens. It looked more like a fortress than a place of worship, bordered by roads on three sides. A poster on a noticeboard by the door advertised the services of the Samaritans and next to it was a handwritten notice asking for donations of clothing to send to a church project in Africa. The young vicar disappeared inside and closed the door.
'He didn't even know her,' said Wright. 'There was nothing personal in the service.’
'That's the way it goes these days. People don't go to church, but they want weddings and funerals. I asked the vicar and he said he'd never seen the Eckhardts, didn't even know where they lived other than that they were local.’
'What happens to the coffin?' asked Wright. There was no graveyard attached to the church.
'It gets taken to the crematorium,' said Reid. 'Then she takes delivery of the ashes.’
'I wonder what she'll do with them?’
'Bury them maybe. There's a place at the crematorium. Or maybe he wanted them scattered somewhere.’
'Yeah? What would you want doing with your ashes?’
Reid rubbed his hands together. 'I'm going to have them thrown into my ex-wife's face,' he said. 'By a nineteen-year-old blonde with big tits.’
'You old romantic, you,' laughed Wright. They watched the AFP staff hail two taxis and climb into them. 'Not much to show for a life, is it?' asked Wright. 'Haifa dozen mourners, a handful of ashes, then nothing.' He shivered, though it wasn't a cold day. They walked together to Reid's Honda Civic. 'Can you do me a favour?' asked Wright.
'Depends on what you want,' said Reid, cautiously.
'I want to go and look at the tunnel,' said Wright.
Reid looked puzzled. 'What's the story?’
'No story. I just want to get a feel for what happened.' It was clear from Reid's face that he didn't understand. 'I thought it might help me get inside the killer's head.’
Reid looked even more confused but didn't say anything.
Wright felt that he had to justify his request, but words failed him. 'I can't explain it,' he said. 'I just feel that I have to go and have a look.’
Reid raised his eyebrows. 'Okay, if that's what you want, we'll go.’
'Alone,' said Wright. 'I want to go alone. Can I borrow the car?’
Reid rubbed the back of his neck. For a moment it looked as if he was about to argue, but then he handed the car keys to Wright. 'I'll get a cab,' he said.
'Thanks, Tommy. I'll see you in the office in a couple of hours.’
'Just be careful,' said Reid. 'With the car.' He walked away, but after a few steps he hesitated, then turned and shouted to Wright that there was a flashlight in the boot.
Wright got into the car and drove south to Battersea. He pulled up at the side of the road that ran parallel to the disused rail line. He retriejed the flashlight from the boot, and stood for a while staring down the overgrown embankment. A cold wind blew from his left, tugging at his hair and whispering through the grass and nettles that hadn't been trampled down by the investigation team. The sky above was pale blue and clear, but there was a chill in the air. Wright shivered inside his raincoat. He went down the embankment, his hands out at his sides for balance, skidding the last few steps and coming to halt next to the rusting rails.
The cutting sheltered Wright from the wind, and there was a stillness around him as if time had stopped. Wright headed towards the mouth of the tunnel. As it came into view, he saw that a wooden framework had been constructed across the opening. Yellow tape with the words 'Crime Scene - Do Not Enter' had been threaded through the w
ire and the message was repeated on a large metal sign. Wright cursed himself for not realising that the tunnel would have been sealed off. He walked up to the wire and peered through it into the blackness of the tunnel. He heard a noise, a scuffling sound, and turned his head to the side, trying to focus on whatever it was, but the noise wasn't repeated. He remembered the rats and what they'd done to the body of Max Eckhardt.
Wright stood back and examined the barrier. It had been well put together and bolted into the stone of the bridge. He walked across the mouth of the tunnel, stepping over the tracks and running his left hand over the mesh so that it rattled and shook. He realised a doorway had been constructed in the barrier, a wooden frame with a double thickness of mesh, three hinges on one side, a bolt with a padlock through it on the other. Wright stared at the padlock. It was hanging open. He reached for it and unhooked it from the bolt. It didn't appear to have been forced. He put it in his coat pocket, then slid open the bolt. The door creaked on its hinges and Wright opened it just enough so that he could slide through the gap. His coat snagged on a piece of wire and he felt it rip. He reached behind his back and pulled hirnself free, then slipped inside.
The darkness was almost an impenetrable wall, a finite boundary that he hesitated to cross. He switched on the flashlight and a yellow oval of light appeared on the ground, illuminating one of the rails. He held the flashlight out in front of him but the darkness seemed to swallow up the beam. Wright felt his heart pound and he realised he was breathing faster than normal. He took slow deep breaths and tried to quell the feeling of unease that was growing stronger by the second. He closed his eyes. His fingers tensed around the body of the flashlight until it was the only thing he could feel.
He flashed back in his mind to another time when he'd faced darkness, to a time when he'd been eleven years old. It wasn't the mouth of a tunnel he faced then, it was an open door, a door that led down to the basement. The eleven-year-old Nick Wright took a step forward, then another, until he was standing on the threshold. The darkness was absolute as if the basement had been filled with tar, a darkness so thick and black that the eleven-year-old Nick was sure he would drown in it. More than twenty years later, the adult Nick struggled to remember where the light switch was, or even if there was one, but he could vividly recall the terror he felt as he dipped his right foot into the darkness and felt for the first step. He was alone in the house, of that he was certain. Alone except for what lurked in the basement, waiting for him. He put his weight on his right foot and probed with his left, both hands gripping the wooden rails as if they were a lifeline to the light behind him. He took a second step, and a third, and then the blackness swallowed him up.
Wright opened his eyes. His face was drenched in sweat and he rubbed his forehead with his sleeve. He pointed the flashlight at the floor and stepped in between the rails. There was a damp, slightly bitter, smell to the air, a mix of stale urine and rotting vegetation, and Wright tried to block out the stench by breathing through his mouth. He stood with his feet together on an ancient wooden sleeper, like a high-diver preparing to jump. He took a step forward, concentrating on the rust-covered rails highlighted by the yellow beam of the flashlight. The light flickered. The batteries were old, Wright realised. He shook the flashlight and the beam grew stronger for a few seconds but then faded back to its original yellow glow.
Wright began walking, stepping from sleeper to sleeper. He wondered how long the batteries would last, and how he would react if the torch died while he was in the bowels of the tunnel. And he wondered why he was deliberately testing himself, pushing himself into a situation that was almost more than he could bear. It wasn't just that he hated tunnels. He hated all dark places. Dark places and confined spaces. He was thirty-two years old and he was scared of the dark, but today was the day that he was going to prove to himself that his fears were groundless.
Wright swung the beam from side to side. The walls of the tunnel were stained black, streaked with green moss and dotted with silvery cobwebs that glistened with moisture. Wright shivered. Last time he'd been in the tunnel he hadn't noticed how cold it was.
Suddenly he stopped. He'd heard something ahead of him. It wasn't the same sort of sound he'd heard outside the tunnel; this was a gravelly crunch, the sort of noise a foot might make if it slipped off a sleeper. A human foot. He crouched down and listened. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. He held his breath. There was nothing. He stared ahead but couldn't see anything outside the beam of his flashlight. He put his hand over the end of the flashlight so that the light glowed redly through the flesh. The darkness seemed to wrap itself tighter around Wright and he took his hand away. He crouched lower, instinctively trying to make himself a smaller target even though he didn't know what he was protecting himself from.
He listened, but the sound wasn't repeated. Something brushed against his cheek and he spun around, sweeping the flashlight beam around his head like a claymore, but he was alone. A large moth fluttered up to the roof of the tunnel where it dislodged flecks of soot that fell around him like black snow. Wright's panic gradually subsided and he stood up again. He looked over his shoulder. He'd only walked fifty feet or so into the tunnel. Through the opening he could see the lush green embankment and a strip of sky. Fifty feet. He could run that far in seconds, yet it felt a lifetime away. Part of him wanted to run back into the open, to get the hell out of the tunnel, but he knew that he had to fight his phobia; he had to break its hold on him before it gripped him even tighter.
Wright turned back. Someone was standing in front of him. Wright yelped in fright and dropped the flashlight. It crashed on to the rail and the light went out. Wright put his hands up to protect himself.
'Whoa, take it easy,' said the man. He had an American accent.
Wright tried to regain his composure. 'Who are you?' he asked, attempting to sound authoritative but all too well aware just how much his voice was shaking. The man was an inch or so shorter than Wright but his shoulders were wider and he stood confidently between the rails, his hands swinging freely at his sides. 'Who are you?' repeated Wright, with slightly more confidence this time.
'I was here first,' said the man. 'Maybe I should be asking you who you are.’
Wright wanted to pick up his flashlight but he was too close to the man to risk bending down. 'You're trespassing on Railtrack property,' he said. He could only make out the man's silhouette. He looked down at his hands, trying to see if he was carrying a weapon. There was something in his right hand, but Wright couldn't make out what it was. ‘
'I might say the same about you,' said the man. 'I'm a policeman,' said Wright. Bright white light suddenly blinded Wright and he turned his head. The light went off. Wright blinked, trying to recover his night vision. He took a step back as he realised how defenceless he was.
'You don't look like a policeman,' said the man. He sounded amused, and although Wright couldn't make out his features, he knew he was grinning.
'Look, I'm a policeman and you're trespassing. I want you out of here. Now.' He shouted the last word and it echoed down the tunnel.
The man stood where he was. When he spoke, his voice was a hushed whisper. 'Suppose I said no. What would you do then? Do you think you could make me?' He chuckled. 'I don't think so.’
Wright took another step backwards, then swiftly bent down and retrieved the flashlight. He flicked the on-off switch but it had no effect. The bulb must have broken. He tapped the flashlight against the palm of his left hand. It wasn't much of a weapon but it was all he had.
'Bet you wish they let you carry guns, huh?' said the man. 'Never understood that. Ninety-nine per cent of people will do as they're told if you ask them the right way, but what do you do when someone just says no? You have to use necessary force, right? But how do you decide what's necessary? And what if the guy you're up against isn't intimidated by force?’
Realisation dawned and Wright sighed with relief. 'You're the FBI agent?’
&
nbsp; 'Jim Bamber at your service,' said the man.
'Why the hell didn't you say so?' asked Wright angrily.
'Hey, you weren't exactly quick to identify yourself,' said Bamber. 'Anyone can say they're a cop.’
'Yeah? Well, anyone can say they're an FBI agent.’
Bamber took his wallet out of his jacket pocket and switched on his flashlight. Wright squinted at the credentials, FBI in large blue letters and a small photograph of an unsmiling man in his late twenties with a strong jaw and a prominent dimple. 'Of course, you probably wouldn't be able to tell if it's real or not,' said Bamber. 'Same as if you showed me yours. How would J know, right?' The flashlight went off.
'Do you think you could leave that on?' asked Wright.
'Sure,' said Bamber. He did as Wright asked, keeping the beam low, illuminating the rails.
'I'm Nick Wright,' said Wright, realising that he still hadn't identified himself. 'Our superintendent warned us you'd be coming.’
'Warned?’
'Maybe warned's the wrong word. He said the FBI was sending someone over to work on the case.’
'And here I am,' said Bamber. He held out his hand, shining the beam of his flashlight on to it, and Wright shook it. 'How come you're here, Nick?' asked Bamber.
'I just wanted another look at the crime scene,' said Wright. 'I had some crazy idea about getting a feel for the killer.’
'Not such a crazy idea,' said Bamber. 'That's what I was doing. The superintendent let me view the video and the stills, but that can't tell you everything. The smell, the sounds, the atmosphere, it's all part of it. You can feel what the victim felt, right up to the moment he was killed.' He looked around the tunnel. 'Not a good place to die, huh?’
The Tunnel Rats Page 12