‘This is how it’s done,’ Guthrie snarled, and in the dream he shot him through the head, the blast of the bullet absorbed by the lighting.
Twenty minutes later Detective Inspector Brian Pendeen was racing along the dual carriageway with Guthrie lying on the back seat of his car unconscious. The ambulance was waiting for them on a slip road. Once Guthrie was in the ambulance he was given oxygen and his chest was covered in plastic to keep air from being sucked into the wound.
‘This helps prevent the development of a collapsed lung,’ the paramedic explained. ‘If you get any shortness of breath I’ll remove the seal.’ The paramedic injected him with a pain killer, and put a cannula into his arm attached to a drip. But by now Guthrie was away with the fairies.
As he was being wheeled from the ambulance into Treliske’s A & E he awoke momentarily, catching sight of a blue BMW convertible parked in front of the hospital.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sunday morning and Trembath was having a well-earned lie in. He looked up at the flaking white ceiling, it needing a good coat of paint. Maybe he should buy a four poster as his wife had suggested, and then they would not see the ceiling. A four poster was quite romantic, and he liked romance. Although his love making that night had not been much to boast of. Perhaps he was stressed from work, or burdened with guilt over the death of Mustopher. But in truth he knew the real reason. It was because of Maxime. Sex was always better when performed in forbidden territory, and Maxime was very naughty. At least he did not have to worry about what Guthrie was up to. He had been in Treliske all week bandaged up, hopefully dead by now. If not, he soon would be.
‘Breakfast in bed,’ Suzette called, entering the bedroom with a tray. He gazed at her tall, slender body, wearing only a T shirt. She had the best legs he had ever seen. Her long, black hair fell forward as she lowered the tray onto his lap. He loved her hair.
‘Mm delicious, bacon and eggs in bed, served by the most beautiful woman in the world. What more could a man ask for?’ He blew her a kiss on his palm and took the tray.
He sometimes wondered if Suzette knew about his escapades with her cousin, she had not been as physically close of late. Perhaps she had also played away. But he doubted that, she was far superior to him in every way. A graduate of the prestigious Sorbonne with film star looks, why she had ever bothered with him he had no idea.
‘You make a good servant, Suzy,’ he teased.
‘I’m going for a swim in the pool, darling, enjoy.’
Once she had left the room, Trembath tucked into his meal and then washed it down with a mug of hot tea. This was just what the doctor had ordered, a nice relaxing day.
Taking the last few drags from his cigarette, he contemplated getting up, it was then the phone rang.
‘Yes, what?’ he growled.
‘He’s discharging himself today,’ the voice said.
‘What the fuck!’ he cried. ‘He’s not fucking human; he was at death’s door.’
‘Yes, he’s a cat it would seem.’
‘Well, you sort it then. It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘No, I will not. Especially not on these premises, I’m not shooting anyone.’
‘Did I say anything about shooting him? You surely have numerous ways you can make it look like an accident.’
‘What, with bee serum like before? I don’t think so, not again.’
‘Well, keep me informed I’ll sort it, just make sure the next batch is ready.’
‘Will you be telling the boss?’
‘Not sure at this stage, I might sort it out myself.
How’s he getting home?’
‘Train.’
‘Okay, I’ll wait for him at St. Erth and put an end to him.’
*****
As the train pulled out of Truro Station Guthrie suddenly changed his mind about going straight home. Having just discharged himself from Treliske he was still in pain, but five days was long enough to be in a hospital bed without fags. At least the morphine helped.
When the train reached Redruth he disembarked, and hobbled into a taxi with his arm still in a sling. He got out at Morrisons in Pool, and headed for the nearest cashier.
‘Two packets of Marlboro, please.’
‘£3.36.’
Guthrie handed over the money. ‘I’m a student at Camborne School of Mines,’ he said, in a fake Jamaican accent. ‘I don’t suppose you know of an access point into South Crofty tin mine?’
She laughed. ‘Actually my husband was a miner in South Crofty, the access point is just along this road and turn left at Tuckingmill. It’s called the Tuckingmill Decline.’
‘So did they lay your husband off?’
‘Well, you’ve probably heard what happened. It was February of 1991 when the DTI stopped funding the mine.’
‘I suppose there isn’t much work round here, other than the mines.’
‘Nothing, and the government don’t care. They be sitting pretty down in Westminster,’ she pulled a face. ‘Anyway, you’ll only be able to go down 250 metres due to the water. I’ll draw a map for you if you like.’
Once he had obtained the information he needed from the woman, he left the shop. Outside, near the trolley bay, he struggled to light his cigarette with his good arm, and clutched the map with his redundant hand that poked out from the sling. Of course, he knew that he was acting foolishly and going against MOD guidelines, but he also knew that time was running out. On the other side of the road was an engine house, obviously no longer working, perhaps an exhibition piece. With a tall stack and large wheel, it looked impressive, hosting a balcony of sorts, reminding him of the scene from Shakespeare where Juliet appeared.
Limping all the way to Dudnance Lane Guthrie ignored the voice inside him telling him to turn back. Yet, the morphine was strong, he could hardly feel the bruises, least of all the bullet wound. On reaching his destination, marked by an asterisk on the map, he noticed that the whole area was spotted with mine shafts and buildings that lay in the shadow of Carn Brea Hill. The largest building on the site looked like a huge grey warehouse. Guthrie knew that in fact it was a tunnel, the start of the Tuckingmill Decline.
Satisfied that he now knew where it was, he was just about to turn round and head back to the train station, when suddenly he spotted the padlocks on the security fence. There was one thing that Guthrie could never resist, and that was accessing forbidden territory.
It took a while to open the padlocks and the lock on the gate. The entrance to the mine was on the far side of the compound, it backed on to the railway line and also the Red River, although Guthrie did not see any river. As he limped towards the Tuckingmill Decline he realised that the building was actually dug into the ground. This meant that the entrance descended deep into the earth. There were more heavy padlocks and chains on the main door, all the more difficult to unlock with his arm in a sling. But he had come this far, he told himself, he might as well take a peek. On opening the door, he found himself inside a dark tunnel with a markedly steep descent, supported by steel arched walls. The smell was putrid.
Wondering if this was the entrance to Dolcoath Mine, he decided that, in any event, it must be somewhere near to the Eastern Valley Shaft that the cashier had mentioned. The woman had told him that they had once mined 600 meters deep, but since its closure he would only be able to descend 250 meters above the water level. Although, he had read somewhere that they had mined as low as 910 meters.
Sitting on the cold floor of the tunnel he lit up, and then re-read Tom Smith’s cryptic letter:
This reasoned evidence law is key,
And is a high flyer with its new wing of the eagle numbered SW673455. A crown as sweet as honey on French Pancake Day, sweet as marzipan, sweet bee, the same day the star returned to heaven. Mine is the last of tin puzzles.
He hoped that he had worked out the last sentence correctly and that Mine referred to South Crofty, the last tin mine to close in Cornwall.
There was no daylig
ht now, the only light coming from his torch, as he headed down the tunnel into the unknown. His shoulder and arm had now started to throb with each step, but he thought he would go just a little further. The stench was worse here, getting stronger the deeper he went. Ignoring the warning sign instructing him not to go further, he continued down the tunnel. Ahead of him were tram lines running into a stope. An abandoned cart stood inside the stope, empty, bar a few old tools.
The pain was hitting harder now, the drugs were wearing off. Glancing around he noticed a croust seat nearby. Sitting down he swallowed a couple of painkillers with the orange juice.
Suddenly he heard a noise. Footsteps, someone had followed him in. The Jackson boy was in custody so it could not be him. There was nowhere for him to escape now, except the way he came in, the direction of the footsteps. Grabbing his pistol, he prepared to fire.
‘It’s the end, Guthrie, you might as well give up!’ a voice shouted.
‘Show your face you fucking coward!’
There was no reply. His stalker was now running down the tunnel towards him.
‘I’m coming to get you. This is the end, you’re about to die!’
Guthrie decided to head in the opposite direction along the tunnel, he had no choice. But the further he walked the worse the conditions. Water was running down the walls, dripping from the tunnel ceiling, even the floor was puddled. His wound prevented him from progressing more speedily, yet the footsteps were getting closer.
Holding his pistol out in front of him ready to shoot, he turned into another tunnel. An old black telephone hung on the wet wall encased in a green tin box, it had been disconnected. In the distance a cage stood open, he headed towards it as the sweat dripped from his face.
Shining his torch onto the cage he saw a handwritten notice on the cage door:
THIS CAGE HAS BEEN CHARGED - AT LOWER LEVEL TURN RIGHT WHERE LOCO IS WAITING
Stepping into the cage he noticed the small brass plate inside the door. It read: 380 fathom level, 730 metres.
There was barely any room in the cage, as most of the space was taken by a stack of steel canisters. He guessed what they contained.
The footsteps were running now. If he pressed the button to go down, he might never see daylight again. Pulling the catch back on his gun he waited for his pray. But it was then when he heard a second set of footsteps, there were two people following him, not one. And then he saw them, black clothes and balaclavas. The smaller figure was holding an AK-47 Kalashnikov. Like a mouse in a trap he knew there was only one option, he pressed the button.
The cage rattled and shook its way down. There was no light, just a black void. By the time the cage had descended into the lower seams he was ankle deep in water, the pain throbbing through his body. Suddenly the cage started to make strange sounds, and just before it reached the 730 metres it juddered to a halt and crashed. With no idea if he would ever get back to the surface, and no power in his mobile phone, he battled with the cage door until it broke from its hinge. It had stopped about 1½ metres from the ground. Stepping to the edge of the cage he jumped out. The jump caused his body to explode in pain, falling onto his knees trying to breathe.
After a few minutes Guthrie struggled back up onto his feet and then began to inspect his surroundings.
Here the water was deeper, and he was submerged in darkness. Plato had said that a child who is afraid of the dark can be forgiven, but the real tragedy is when men are afraid of the light. Plato was wrong, Guthrie decided. The dark was everything.
Stale water dripped down onto him as he waded over the lumpy rocks, his brogues ruined, his brown cords going the same way. A mountain of earth stood inside one of the parallel stopes between the pillars. Half buried under the earth were small gas canisters. Obviously the disused mine was now being used as a dumping ground for chemical waste.
The next half hour was spent blindly feeling his way along the damp seams, with their wet, stained, craggy walls, using only a torch to guide him. The noise of the constant drips gave a decidedly eerie feel, along with a death-like stench. And of course, there was still the possibility his pursuers would find him there via another route. Perhaps he should just sit down and wait to die, he was trapped, there was no way out. What foolhardiness had caused him to enter the mine in the first place? Stella was dead nothing would bring her back.
Sweltering in the damp heat, he removed his sling and shirt, exposing his blood drenched bandaged arm. The bottle of juice was almost empty as he descended even deeper into the mine.
Now waist deep in water he was just about to turn back when he noticed a ladder. It reached up to a small narrow stope. The lower rungs were immersed in water where another batch of steel chests stood lined up against the rock. He wondered what would happen if the mine flooded and the chemical waste was flushed out into the ocean. Of course, there was little doubt that this was not the only redundant tin mine packed with sarin.
Shining his torch onto the rungs he saw a broken tin plaque that had been left hanging there. It read: The 400-380 fathom ladderway. Guthrie presumed that the plaque had been moved from its original post.
Climbing tentatively, careful not to slip on the wet rungs, he soon reached the top. That was when he spied a tiny flicker of light at the far end on the stope. It was just big enough for him to get inside, although not to turn around. Lying on his back in order to protect his arm, he dragged himself along the stope. The floor of the stope was covered with jagged rock and puddled with damp water aggravating the bullet wound, causing him dizziness and nausea. He wondered if he would be able to get out the other end, if not, he would be stuck there until death. Even if he did make it out, there was every chance that they would be there waiting for him. His tired, bloodshot eyes focussed only on the light as he wriggled snake-like along the rugged, excavated area. With his last bit of energy, Guthrie crawled out of the stope and jumped down to the floor below. The pain of the jump caused him to scream out, shooting through his arm and shoulder like bullets. Winded, he glanced around looking for the source of the light. His heart sank when he discovered that it was merely a lamp flickering.
Still holding his arm, he vomited his way along the seam, he’d lost all hope by now.
‘Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus,’ he prayed, gasping for breath between each sentence. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death. Amen.’
His pulse was racing, his body was hot and cold intermittently; he knew this was the end. How foolish he had been.
‘I believe in God, the Father almighty,
creator of heaven and earth...’
Then suddenly something caught his eye. He moved closer to take a look. It was a locomotive with a cart attached. On further inspection it appeared to have been charged up. The cart contained several steel containers. He knew they were also packed with chemical waste. He pressed the button and then climbed into the cart, standing on the opposite side to the canisters.
As the locomotive began to move slowly along the track he held tightly onto his crucifix and prepared to die.
About an hour later the locomotive drew to a halt. It was the end of the track. Tired and aching he dragged himself out of the cart. Under torchlight he could see several stopes leading off from the tunnel, but by now he was near to collapse. He had already vomited numerous times along the way, almost blacking out, and knew that his blood pressure had dropped too low.
Wiping the sweat from his face he fell to his knees in prayer. ‘I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body...’ A sound - it came from a nearby stope.
Struggling up onto his feet he hobbled towards the noise. Perhaps it was a bird, he knew they used canaries in mines, although he was almost certain that the last one was used in 1986. The sound was growing louder - definitely a bird, could he dare to hope that it mi
ght be a gull? Guthrie entered the stope.
There before him lay the ocean, sparkling brightly under the summer sun. Again Guthrie fell to his knees, kissed his crucifix and crossed himself as he inhaled the fresh, salty air. Only now realising that the long winding tunnel he had just struggled through, led straight from South Crofty tin mine and terminated where he stood, directly below Nancekuke, the RAF base in Portreath.
And then he spotted them, five large steel containers that stood half hidden in the shadows. Two dead bodies were draped over them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The weather was scorching on that Saturday morning, the sea a white haze of sunshine. The gulls were in their element as a sharking trawler was sailing inland, squawking and screaming in their familiar vulgar tones.
The tide was out, leaving behind debris of shale, tiny fan shaped shells and strands of black seaweed. By 10.30 the beaches were already heaving with sun worshippers. Red and yellow plastic buckets and spades were scattered amongst the deckchairs and windshields. The sea was also packed to the hilt with motor boats and surfers.
Guthrie filled up the kettle, as he watched next door’s cat stretch lazily by the doorstep of Lobster Rock. He was pleased that he had invited Katie to move in after his return from hospital. Now that she had given up work at the bee farm, this would be the first full weekend they would share together. Although he was still in slight pain, the wound had healed. Abigail had gone to the launderette up The Stennack that morning, he was glad to have a few hours free from her. The police officer needed watching more closely, after all, if she was working for Trembath then she would be reporting his every move back to the enemy. Of course, he had checked her out, but the data showed that she was as clean as a whistle.
Just as he was enjoying a cigarette and mug of tea by the kitchen table, Katie suddenly appeared in her red and black bikini.
Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You! Page 16