On the other side, the staircase was open to the air, just as I remembered it. This was the way I was supposed to come in. Llewellyn had blocked the other two entrances so that I had no choice. This was where she was waiting.
What she didn’t know, though, what I was willing to bet very few people knew, because I’d only stumbled across it myself by accident, was that there was a fourth way into the vaults. I’d told no one about it, not out of any desire for secrecy, I just didn’t think anyone would be interested. I was willing to bet, though, the way in was still there. If I could bring myself to take it.
Over the boundary wall again – easier said than done, but I was running on pure adrenalin by this stage – I jogged back towards the towpath, thinking back ten years, to when once I’d tried to leave the Engine Vaults without a torch. I’d taken a wrong turning and found myself in a section of tunnel that instead of leading to the canal, as I’d expected, took me parallel to it. After a hundred metres or so it came to a dead end.
Curious, I’d gone back the next day with a torch and found that part of the wall that blocked off the tunnel had collapsed and that it was possible to climb through into another large underground chamber that had once been the basement of a large goods shed. The shed itself had long since been demolished. Housing and even part of Morrisons had been built in its place, but the vaulted brick basement remained.
Amazed at my own daring, I’d gone through it, into another section of tunnel and then a second basement, this time beneath another Victorian building called the Interchange Warehouse. I’d heard the sounds of traffic and of water, and without warning had stepped through an archway and into dim daylight. I was still in a tunnel, but one that contained a short offshoot of Regent’s Canal.
I could see the Interchange Warehouse ahead of me now, a four-storey red-brick building with lots of arched, cast-iron windows. The offshoot I’d found that day was a man-made backwater that had originally functioned as a private dock, allowing boats to unload cargo into the warehouse. Today, it’s still used by narrowboats needing to turn round. It even has a name, after an unofficial debris-collection function it serves. It’s called Dead Dog Hole.
In theory, if I took that same route now, in reverse, I could make my way through the catacombs and enter the Engine Vaults from a direction Llewellyn wouldn’t be expecting.
To do so, I’d have to jump into Regent’s Canal.
By this time, I’d reached the towpath and was at the foot of the small bridge that takes pedestrians over Dead Dog Hole. A boat had been moored against the bank. Without stopping to think, I climbed down on to it and made my way along the narrow ledge that rimmed its port side. When I reached the bow, I took another look around, partly to check that no one could see me; mainly, I think, to put off a bit longer what I had to do. I was alone, rain was falling steadily and the black water seemed to shimmer beneath me. I could smell diesel fuel and rotting vegetation.
Canals aren’t rivers. They have no tide and no flow. The Regent’s Canal isn’t much more than a metre deep. In theory, I could stand upright. I would be able to wade. It would be for a few seconds at most, just long enough to get me under the pedestrian bridge and into the hole itself.
No point thinking about it. I took off my jacket and sweatshirt and pushed both into my rucksack. The rucksack stayed on the boat as I lowered myself into the water.
There aren’t words to describe properly that feeling of being squeezed on all sides by a force powerful enough to crush, or a cold that seemed to freeze my lungs and stop them functioning. The water came up to my neck. The one-metre depth had been a gross underestimate. Holding my rucksack high with one hand, gripping the bank with the other, I began wading.
Every step seemed to take an age, as I groped around the canal bed that was alternately hard as granite and soft as putty. The bed was littered with objects, some of them so big I had to make my way round them, hating each second I wasn’t in contact with the bank.
Light diminished under the arch of the tunnel, but after a second or two my eyes started to adjust. A few more seconds and I could make out stone steps just ahead of me. I bumped up against them and managed to throw my rucksack on to the bank and grab hold. Then I hauled myself out.
For a minute I couldn’t do anything but shudder. Then I pulled off my soaking T-shirt and got my sweatshirt and jacket from my bag. That helped a bit. As did taking off my shoes and emptying them of filthy canal water. When I felt I could face it, I stepped through the arched doorway and towards the far wall. Then I began to make my way through a series of small arches, each only six feet high and around twelve feet wide.
The vaults smelled of stagnant water, sewage and something sharp and acrid, almost chemical. The air was still, and the further I went in, the more the sound became unnaturally distorted. The steady dripping of water, the rustling of rodents among rubbish. How rubbish got in here I had no idea, but it had. I passed supermarket carrier bags, the remains of take-away dinners, a dead cat, clothing, even a camp stool. With every step I took, noise from the street was fading away until there was nothing but my own footsteps, softly squelching across the cobbled ground.
Every few paces took me past wide archway footings, behind any one of which someone could be waiting. I shone my torch ahead of me, keeping as quiet as I could, watching out for shadows that weren’t mine, for sounds that hadn’t originated with me.
After a few minutes, the north-western wall loomed ahead and I could make out the black space that was the entrance to the horse tunnel. If my memory served, I had to follow it for a short distance before it met the basement of the old goods shed.
The tunnel was easier to travel through than the huge underground chamber. For one thing, the way wasn’t in doubt. For another, there was some light, coming in through ventilation grilles in the ceiling. Before more than a few seconds had gone by, I was in the basement under the old goods shed.
Halfway there.
I walked on, through pools of water that looked like slime, past gated archways and around tall, riveted iron columns. I almost cried out loud when something fluttered close to my ear, but managed to hold it together. I was practically at the far end when I heard something I couldn’t steel myself against and ignore. A man’s voice.
91
INSTINCTIVELY, I FLICKED OFF THE TORCH. THE VOICE WAS followed by a crackling sound like paper being torn. Or the hiss of a police radio. Impossible. They could not know I was here. I’d heard something from street level, that was all, a sound that had travelled down through one of the ventilation grilles.
I wasn’t anywhere near the ventilation grilles. I was crossing the basement, the grilles were in the horse tunnels.
For God’s sake, I’d been ultra careful, there was no way the MIT could have found me. They hadn’t even been looking. All the surveillance and tracking equipment Joesbury had given me had been wrecked the night I fell in the river; he hadn’t replaced any of it.
Except the phone.
Only the growing conviction that someone was close enough to hear kept me from moaning out loud. I’d been issued with a new phone while I was in hospital, one that had come from the specialist crime directorate that sends its officers into dangerous situations and needs to keep track of them. I’d kept it switched off for most of the day, thinking a phone needed to be on to be traceable. What if Joesbury had put some sort of device inside mine that was permanently active whether the phone was on or not?
Gently, I pulled it out of my pocket. As I did so, any doubt I might be clinging to disappeared. From not too far away came the sound of someone stepping into water.
The MIT hadn’t needed to look for me. They’d known exactly where I was all day, probably from the moment I’d left Joesbury’s car. They’d been watching and following; waiting for me to lead them here.
I almost gave up there and then, almost switched on the torch and called out to them. But something stopped me. It wasn’t over yet.
I’d been following the south wall of the
goods-shed basement. If I reached out it was close enough to touch. I bent down and soundlessly put Joesbury’s traitorous mobile by the wall. Then, with the fingers of one hand tracing the outside wall, I set off. After a few more minutes I reached the corner. By a massive stroke of luck, my left hand found the hole in the wall that would take me through to the western horse tunnel. I risked the torch for less than a second, and went through, knowing I was very close now. A corner, a few more metres and I would be able to enter the Engine Vaults at the upper, gallery level. If I’d got it right, Llewellyn would be at the far end of the structure watching the stairs. If I were wrong, well, all bets were off.
I waited just before the corner, listening. Then, in almost total darkness, I turned and walked into the vaults. I was near water again. A lot of it. The floor of the Engine Vaults is permanently underwater and ten years ago we’d built our little homes on the gallery that runs around three sides of the perimeter.
I moved slowly, praying the gallery floor was still solid. A lot can happen in ten years. The structure was 170 feet long. Maybe a hundred slow steps to take me along the main gallery to the upper floor of the eastern boiler room. The boiler rooms were smaller spaces and less draughty; in the old days they’d been the most coveted spots. They were where Llewellyn would be holding Joanna.
It was far too dark to see the water beneath me but I could hear it moving, soft little ripples and splashes, and the smell of it seemed to be coating the inside of my throat. I could almost imagine it had grown deeper, deeper even than the ten feet I remembered, stretching up towards the gallery, that if I leaned out from the edge, my hand might touch it. I had an unnerving sense of walking around the perimeter of a vast underground swimming pool.
My fingers found the corner of the gallery and I took a few sideways steps. When I touched the suspended sheet of polythene, I knew I was at the entrance to the boiler room. As I pushed it silently to one side and stepped through, I heard movement.
The darkness in the boiler room was absolute. I remembered the space all too well, had made my way around it before in almost complete darkness, but there is a difference, I was discovering, between the almost complete and the absolute. A decade ago, there had always been a candle, or a gas lamp, or an oil drum somewhere. Now, someone could be inches away from me, staring straight into my eyes, and I wouldn’t know it. Torch or voice, I would have to use one of them.
‘Joanna,’ I whispered, knowing that, of the two, a low sound would be the less noticeable.
Another movement, this one more urgent. And the sounds a woman makes in the back of her throat when she can’t speak.
‘Shush,’ I risked. ‘Don’t talk.’
She whimpered a couple of times more, enough to give me a fix. She was about three metres away. I moved forward, one small step at a time, until my foot came up against something soft. Another whimper.
I crouched low.
Not daring to put the torch down in case I never found it again, I reached out and touched her legs. She was wearing nylon tights and was freezing. I ran my hand down her legs to her ankles and found them duct-taped together. I was just pulling my rucksack off to find the knife when she pulled her knees up towards her chin and kicked out at me.
As I went down, I couldn’t stop the yelp slipping out. I pushed myself up but had no idea where she was, where the torch was, where I was. I made myself keep still and listen, it was the only thing I could do.
The darkness felt solid, as if it was pressing into me on all sides. Then two distinct sounds: the first, that of someone scuffling along the ground away from me; the second, footsteps behind. Before I could turn, a powerful beam of light shot across the room. I had a moment to see Joanna, curled up like a filthy, terrified child. Less than a moment really, before I was grabbed from behind and dragged to my feet.
‘Victoria Llewellyn,’ said a voice in my ear, as my right arm was twisted up behind me, ‘I am arresting you for the abduction of Joanna Groves and for the murders of Geraldine Jones, Amanda West, Charlotte Benn and Karen Curtis.’
92
JOESBURY WAS ONLY HOLDING ME WITH ONE ARM. I MANAGED to break free, stagger away and twist round to face him. The situation I wouldn’t have believed could get worse had just plummeted and what came out of my mouth was little more than a wail.
‘Mark, no—’
‘You do not have to say anything …’ Joesbury was striding towards me, torch in one hand, his voice far too loud.
‘Mark, get out of here now.’
‘But it may harm your defence if you do not …’
Could I hear something else? More footsteps? ‘Mark, listen to me, you have no idea—’
‘ … mention when questioned something you later rely on …’
I was backing away.
‘ … in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘Stop it!’
‘Get down.’
I took another step away. ‘Mark, I’m begging you—’
‘On the ground, now.’
I was frantically looking round. The torch he’d brought was powerful, but there were still too many shadows.
‘I won’t ask you again.’
I fell to my knees. ‘Mark, please, just give me one—’
‘I don’t want to hear it, Flint,’ he said, dropping down behind me and pushing me down flat. He grabbed first one hand and then the other, being far rougher than he needed. ‘And I really have to stop calling you that,’ he said. Then he leaned forward, pressing me harder against the concrete, grazing my face against the rough surface. ‘I’ve been following you all day, you stupid bitch,’ he half spat into my ear. ‘I’ve known where you were since you ran off this morning. And you know what, I really wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. I waited hours for this other girl to show up, but that was all just bullshit, wasn’t it? It was always just you.’
He left me where I was, face-down on concrete. For a second I couldn’t move. Then I struggled up on to my knees. The handcuffs behind my back held tight. Joesbury was on his feet, crossing the dark space to where Joanna lay whimpering behind the duct-tape mask. His torch was in one hand, his radio in the other. I watched him try to contact Control, praying he’d do it. Help was what we needed right now. It didn’t matter what happened to me any more. Shit, I was probably the only one of the three of us not seconds from death.
Joesbury cursed into the radio and replaced it in his pocket. We were too far underground. He crouched down over Joanna and spoke softly to her.
‘You’re all right now, love,’ he said. ‘Take it easy, let me get this off.’
More whimpering from Joanna. And a harsh cry of pain as the duct tape was pulled off her mouth. Using a small knife not dissimilar to my own, Joesbury cut the tape binding her wrists and ankles. ‘We need to get you out of here,’ he said. ‘Can you walk?’
Standing up himself, he pulled her to her feet. She leaned against him for a second, then grabbed his arm and directed the torch back at me, completely dazzling me.
‘It’s not her,’ I heard her say. ‘She’s not the one who brought me here.’
The torch beam fell away. I blinked hard and could see them again. Joanna was holding on to Joesbury with both hands, her eyes shooting from him to me.
‘There’s someone else,’ she went on. ‘She’ll be back any second. She never goes far.’
She couldn’t bring herself to step away from Joesbury. She was like a child clinging to an adult. A child terrified of monsters. Mark looked as though he hadn’t understood her. He certainly wasn’t reacting fast enough.
‘Get these off me,’ I told him, half turning and holding up my handcuffed wrists. The torch was back on my face again.
‘What the …?’ he said, sounding lost, miserable and not nearly as scared as he needed to be. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
I couldn’t answer him. I hardly knew myself. All I knew was that one of us had to get a grip. ‘You need to get these off me and we need to get
out of here,’ I said. ‘Please tell me you’re armed.’
‘She is,’ said Joanna. ‘The other one. She has a gun. That’s how she got me here.’
Mark stepped forward and clinging Joanna came with him. When they reached me, he pushed her gently away and gave her the torch. Then he found the key for the cuffs in his pocket. ‘Try anything and I will kill you,’ he muttered, before the handcuffs sprang free.
‘She’s waiting by the main steps,’ I said, spotting my own torch and grabbing it. ‘If she hasn’t heard anything, we can get out the way we came in.’
‘Who?’ he said. ‘Who’s she?’
I grabbed his arm, made him look at me. ‘If she appears,’ I said, ‘you’re the one she’ll go for. She’ll want me and Joanna alive. You, she’ll have to get out of the way as quickly as she can.’
‘Noted. Now get moving.’
We crossed the boiler room, I leading, Joanna following me, Mark at the rear. At the entrance to the gallery, I shone the torch around the dark space. There was something almost cathedral-like about the vast area, now that I could see it. Massive brick archways ran the length of the building, their detail reflected in the water that covered the lower part completely. I turned back to Mark.
‘If we can get across here, we have a good chance,’ I said. ‘You should be in the middle.’
He shook his head. ‘Go,’ he told me.
I went. Not much more than a hundred feet to travel and we would be back in the horse tunnel. In there, we might get reception on the radio. We’d gone barely twenty feet when music started to play. ‘My Favourite Things’.
First Joanna, then Mark, walked into me.
‘Where’s it coming from?’ someone asked. I think it must have been me. Neither of the others would know the significance of that particular tune. The music was menacingly soft, but nevertheless bouncing off walls and pillars. It was impossible to tell its origin. I could almost have believed it to be in my own terrified head. Mark was directing his light around the structure, but the space was vast. ‘Behind us, I think,’ he muttered, just as the music stopped and a woman’s voice took its place.
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