by Tom Bale
Before he left the house, Joe made sure he was properly equipped. Diana had found him a better waterproof jacket, as well as a small rucksack and a sturdy Maglite torch. She also suggested that he take a first-aid kit. Glenn fetched the toolbox from his truck, and Joe borrowed a ten-inch crowbar, a Stanley knife and a set of heavy-duty Knipex bolt cutters.
The two women came to see him off, while Glenn stayed in the kitchen. He’d agreed not to respond to Fenton’s messages, and Joe had discreetly asked Diana to make sure he kept to his word.
Diana returned the door key that Leon had taken from him, and offered him the use of her car. Joe thought it would be safer and probably quicker on foot.
‘If you’re sure,’ she said. ‘Please take care.’
‘I will.’
She looked into his eyes for a moment. He sensed that she wanted to say something more, but perhaps Ellie’s presence inhibited her. She settled for a brief kiss on his cheek, then turned and walked away.
Ellie smiled sadly. ‘She’s been a good friend to you.’
‘She has,’ Joe agreed. ‘So have you.’
Their embrace was different: harder, fiercer, with an undercurrent of passion and a poignant sense of opportunities squandered. They kissed, lips pressed together for a long time, and when they broke apart he found that a tear had transferred from her cheek to his.
She swallowed heavily. ‘I shouldn’t say this, but if you find … what you expect to find …’
‘Go on.’
‘Even if he’s arrested, you know Leon will find a way to get out of it. It’s what he does best. Avoiding responsibility. Blaming others.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I think you know,’ Ellie said. ‘If you get a chance, you should kill him.’
Eighty-Two
CLIVE FENTON WAS many things, but slow on the uptake he wasn’t. Even Leon was surprised by how rapidly he adjusted to the new reality.
‘I suppose, from a business perspective, it’s no great loss. I always had my doubts about the man, as you know.’
‘Do I?’ Leon said, acting baffled.
‘Well, yes.’ Fenton’s face was bright red, but he brazened it out. ‘I often warned you that he was privy to far too much confidential data. That always made him a threat.’
Leon nodded sceptically. ‘Anyway, what I need to know is where you stand.’
‘With you, Leon. One hundred per cent. You can be sure of that.’
‘Except I can’t. Not in view of what was said earlier. You’re gonna have to earn my trust all over again, Clive. Starting from scratch.’
Fenton looked uneasy. ‘Very well.’
‘What do you know about this stunt Cadwell pulled with Smith’s body?’
‘Nothing. That was a surprise to me, I can assure you.’
‘I reckon he was bluffing. I want you to find out, and while you’re at it make sure he didn’t have any other tricks up his sleeve.’
‘Good idea.’ Fenton cast an anxious glance at the rain-lashed veranda. ‘As for the immediate priority, I think we should vacate—’
‘We’re not going anywhere yet. Ring Glenn one more time.’
While Fenton made the call and waited for an answer, Leon used his mobile to try Reece, then Todd, then Bruce. He couldn’t get through to any of them.
‘Where the fuck are they?’ he yelled, hurling the phone across the room.
Fenton flinched, even though it had missed him by a mile. ‘Perhaps the weather’s delayed them. It’s probably disrupting the phones, too.’
Leon gave an incoherent growl of frustration. He stalked over and retrieved his phone. The cover was cracked, but it was still working. Functioning, but useless, he thought: just like the people I employ.
Joe set off at a run, the tools clanking in his rucksack, the rain pelting his face as he descended the hill, dodging the streams of dirty water that gushed from every driveway and drain. Greasy smoke was worming from the substation, but the fire appeared to have been extinguished by the rain.
Along the front, gigantic waves battered the shore, hurling great white plumes of spray onto the promenade, exploding across the road with a sound like machine-gun fire. The sea was a leaden grey beneath a low black sky, lit by the occasional flash of lightning. Several small boats had been torn from their moorings and driven, pulverised, onto the beach.
By the time Joe reached the gallery he was soaked to the skin and shivering again. The CLOSED sign was up; the door locked. Joe put his face to the glass and peered inside. There were no lights on but he could see movement at the back of the room.
He hammered on the door. Patrick Davy approached, gripping a mop in both hands.
‘What?’ he mouthed.
‘Let me in, please!’ Joe shouted. ‘I don’t work for Leon any more. He tried to kill me.’
Davy looked unconvinced, but when Joe showed no sign of leaving he unlocked the door and let him in. ‘This better not be a try-on.’
‘I promise.’ Joe indicated the mop. ‘Has that taken over from the cricket bat?’
‘Not exactly. The bloody roof sprang a leak. Practically everything on the mezzanine is ruined.’
‘Do you have insurance?’
Davy snorted. ‘Sore point. The premiums were crazy, so I cut down, didn’t bother with cover for my own stuff.’ He pointed to a stack of ruined canvases. ‘I don’t mind admitting, I’m about ready to throw in the towel. Let Derek Cadwell have the place.’
‘I wouldn’t do anything too hastily. Things might be changing round here.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ Davy gave him a careful appraisal. ‘So how come you’ve made an enemy of Leon Race?’
‘For one thing, I found out what happened to Alise.’ Joe quickly relayed the story, describing how they had tried to dispose of him in the same way. ‘I’m sorry about the other day, rolling up in one of Leon’s vans.’
‘No, mate, I’m the one who should apologise. I did wonder afterwards if you’d gone undercover. I couldn’t decide whether that makes you very brave or very stupid.’
‘Both.’
Davy laughed, but there was little humour in his eyes. ‘So what now?’
‘I’m going after Leon. And I need your help.’
For Jenny, the irony of her predicament was almost unbearable. A woman who had been dying of thirst now faced death by drowning.
The water was steadily rising, both in her cell and in the tunnel beyond. She had managed to prise off enough of the saturated plasterboard to see that escape was impossible. The studwork was constructed with thick planks of wood: what her dad would call four-by-twos. The horizontal timbers were spaced only three or four inches apart, like bars on a cage. She could barely get her hand between them.
From what she could see, the cell was situated in a natural alcove in a low, narrow tunnel. There was very faint illumination to her right, just enough to see the dark water as it rushed and gurgled along the tunnel, flowing from the other direction. The noise of the river was hideously loud, pounding against the rock wall.
She was so weak that she could hardly stand upright. The water was up to her knees, rising imperceptibly when she stared at it but alarmingly fast if she shut her eyes and tried to pretend it wasn’t happening.
And it was cold. She couldn’t feel her feet. Her calves ached and throbbed. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered and prayed, shivered and prayed.
The prayers made no sense, but God didn’t mind that, did He? He’d make allowances for a situation like this.
She had done everything possible to escape. But it hadn’t been enough.
Patrick Davy confirmed what Ellie had said about the state of the High Street, but said they could probably reach the top of the hill in his Land Rover. He put on a Barbour waxed jacket and leather bush hat, and caught Joe’s knowing look.
‘A practical concession to my heritage,’ he said. ‘Minus the corks, you’ll notice.’
Before locking up, he slipped behind the cou
nter and picked up his cricket bat. Joe grinned, but said nothing.
It took them nearly fifteen minutes to wind their way up through the backstreets, passing gardens waterlogged and trashed and trees and hedges withering under the onslaught of the storm. Many of the roads were partially flooded, but Davy’s battered old Land Rover coped ably with the conditions.
At the top of the hill, crossing the main road bridge, they saw the river level was surging to within a couple of feet of the road. The surrounding fields had turned into giant lakes, feeding the torrent. For the first time they encountered traffic, almost all of it travelling in the opposite direction.
‘Doing the sensible thing and getting out,’ Davy muttered.
‘I was never big on sensible,’ Joe said. ‘But drop me off and turn round if you want.’
Davy chuckled. ‘Nah. Fact is, I’m relishing a chance to get even.’
As they reached the junction for the road to Leon’s they caught sight of the High Street, curving away below them. The river had burst from its channel at roughly the point where Joe remembered stopping to phone Maz. From there it gushed down the street, flooding offices and shops and flattening everything in its path. Cars were being carried in the flow; others had come to rest smashed against each other or piled up like trash in the doorways.
There were half a dozen fire engines and police vehicles parked at the top of the street, but other than rescuing anyone who remained trapped there wasn’t much the emergency services could do, other than stand by and let nature take its course.
‘This’ll kill off the town completely,’ Davy murmured.
Joe disagreed. ‘With the right people in charge, Trelennan can recover from this.’
The darkness was closing in as they parked at the kerb, some fifty yards from Leon’s home, but there was light streaming from the neighbouring properties.
‘Power’s still on up here,’ Joe said as they got out. ‘Watch out for CCTV.’
Davy hefted the cricket bat. ‘I have my handy deactivation tool at the ready.’
The main gates were open. There was a limo parked in front of the house: Derek Cadwell’s. A Mercedes sat under the carport, along with the Citroën van that Joe had used on Saturday, but there were far fewer vehicles than normal. That corresponded with what Glenn had told him: there should be only Leon, Fenton and maybe one or two others present.
They studied the front of the house. There were a couple of lights on, but no sign of movement. Joe mapped the layout in his head, working out a route to the basement stairs.
‘I need to go in through the back door,’ he said. ‘Preferably without being heard.’
Davy nodded. ‘You’ll want a noisy diversion out front, then?’
Eighty-Three
DIANA WAS RELUCTANT to acknowledge the extent of her doubts about Glenn. But when she sent him to the garage for firewood she found an excuse to go along, and while he got a fire going she bustled around the lounge, lighting half a dozen candles. Only when Ellie joined them did Diana regard it as safe to leave the room.
Returning with a tray of sandwiches, the sound of a toilet flushing made her heart lurch. But it was Ellie who had slipped out. Glenn was kneeling by the fire, idly probing at the flames with a poker, no sign of his phone anywhere.
‘Fantastic!’ he said. He chose to sit close to Diana on the sofa, consuming the sandwiches with a noisy, exaggerated pleasure, accompanied by frequent glances at his ex-wife. Ellie, idly thumbing through a glossy magazine, took no notice.
All these years, Glenn had fostered Diana’s insecurity by encouraging her to believe that Ellie still hankered after him, but maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe it had never been true. And the knowledge that Ellie didn’t want him helped to crystallise Diana’s own feelings.
She didn’t want him either.
Glenn finished his sandwich and burped, proudly, before directing his gaze once more at Ellie. ‘You planning on a future with Joe?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘So he wasn’t Mr Right, then?’ Glenn laughed. To Diana, it sounded needlessly callous.
Without looking up from the magazine, Ellie said, ‘A halfwit could see what you’re trying to do here, Glenn. I’m not about to fall for it, and neither is Diana.’
Embarrassed, Glenn mumbled something – it might have been ‘Mouthy bitch’ – then he took out his phone and stared at it longingly. Diana felt her heart rate increase. Here it comes …
But, to her relief, he put it away. Sighed. Checked his watch.
‘Anxious?’ Diana said, attempting to keep the mood congenial.
‘Mmm.’
‘I’m so worried for Joe. Do you think he’ll be all right?’
‘He’s got to be,’ Glenn said, with unexpected conviction. ‘He’s got to be.’
Leon didn’t want Fenton to see that he was worried, but where the hell were Reece, Todd and Bruce? They were the only ones he trusted for the serious work – the illegal stuff. He needed them back here.
Reluctantly he let Fenton show him the basement again. The sofas were almost lost from sight, the water two feet deep and rising; filthy brown with bubbles of scum on the surface. The room stank of mud and waste. Leon took one look and marched back upstairs, Fenton panting and wailing behind him.
‘Leon, please. I can’t emphasise this enough. It’s not safe here.’
‘Fuck that. Give it another hour. Keep trying Glenn.’
Fenton sighed. ‘Please understand that I genuinely have your best interests at heart—’
‘If Glenn doesn’t answer in the next ten minutes, you can go and find him. Bring him back here, then we’ll talk about evacuating. Okay?’
Made restless by his anger, Leon headed for the comms room again. Despite knowing that the damage had been caused by the weather, he kept checking the monitors, gripped by the idea that he was under siege. As he stepped into the room, a shadow flitted beneath the viewpoint of the camera that covered part of the driveway.
‘D’you see that?’
‘What?’ Fenton was too slow, as usual.
Leon switched cameras, catching a much larger shadow near the front door. A blur of motion was followed by a loud crash, and then the screen went black.
The sound of glass breaking was Joe’s cue to move. The back door had a good lock and a small double-glazed window. For a fast entry, Joe used the crowbar to prise the door away from the frame. Messy, and noisy, but he hoped the distraction out front would protect him.
Crossing the kitchen, he peered out at the hall. The front door was standing open: someone had gone to investigate the disturbance. There was no one in sight.
As he opened the door to the basement, the smell hit him at once: like sewage and rotting vegetation. Joe was halfway down the stairs when he realised the shadows were too high, too even, as though the floor had been raised. Then his foot splashed into water.
He stopped, found his torch and switched it on. The room was flooded to a depth of about two feet.
Drowning. You dreamed you were drowning in a tunnel.
Joe pushed the thought away. Everything rested on a simple question: Did he really believe that Kamila could be down here?
The answer was yes. On that basis, the choice was made for him.
He plunged into the water, felt the bitter cold penetrate his clothes and his shoes. Breathing in shallow gasps, trying not to dwell on what was causing the stench, he waded towards the toilet. He remembered Glenn saying that the plumbing didn’t work properly. Had that been a bluff, to deter people from using the room?
He was examining the wall above the cistern when he heard a commotion upstairs. He hoped Davy wasn’t in too much trouble: the Australian had made him agree that nothing should divert Joe from finding Kamila.
Spotting a gap in the panel, Joe attacked it with the crowbar, levering it away from the wall. At first it stretched and bent, then popped out as a couple of tiny screws were dislodged.
The entrance to the tunnel was about two fe
et wide and three feet high, positioned at chest height but easily accessible if you used the toilet bowl and the cistern as steps. Gripping the torch between his teeth, Joe climbed up, squeezed through the gap and lowered himself back into the water.
He could feel the rough stone floor of the tunnel beneath his feet. The walls and ceiling were also bare rock, but there was a single weak bulb set above him. Beyond its range the tunnel vanished into a tight dark circle.
Joe shivered, and he was back in the Shell Cavern, the walls closing in, crushing the breath from his lungs …
Gripping the torch tightly, he shone it straight ahead. The tunnel must be flooding slowly from some small ingress, but the river above him was roaring like a freight train. He couldn’t help but wonder at the thickness of the rock that was holding back the main body of water. At any moment that opening could be overwhelmed and the tunnel would flood in an instant.
He swore softly to himself. Not the way to be thinking …
Then the beam of light picked out a shape, about twenty feet away. A straight edge: man-made. It was the corner wall of Leon’s strongroom.
Joe pushed through the water, feeling the current pressing against him. He broke out in a cold sweat, prickling through his hair and down his neck. If he slipped and went under, it wouldn’t be the flood that destroyed him; it would be the panic.
Then something bumped against his stomach. A rat? Debris swept in from the river?
Heart thudding, he pointed the torch down and saw a grimy white sheen, something long and smooth floating on the surface. Because his police career had incorporated all manner of grim discoveries, Joe identified it immediately.
It was a bone. A human femur.
Eighty-Four
THE ATTACK’S BEGUN at last, Leon thought as he wrestled the front door open. In a strange way, it came as a relief.
He had no real idea who the enemy was. Could be Cadwell’s men, or the authorities – or even Danny Morton. Whoever it was, Leon was braced for a fight to the death. Reece and the others had failed to return. There was nobody left that he could trust. His house was collapsing around him. Why not go out in a blaze of glory?