by Tom Bale
He’d had the foresight to grab the Glock. It was an imitation – a harmless replica – but it had fooled Joe well enough earlier. Might buy him some time, at least.
Leaving Fenton in the comms room, Leon rushed outside and found just one man, far from young, dressed like a hiker and wielding a cricket bat. He’d used it to smash the camera above the door and now, grinning like a maniac, he turned on Leon. It was Patrick Davy, the Aussie who’d fallen out with Cadwell after refusing to sell the gallery.
‘Tried to kill me, you bastard!’ he roared, whipping the bat down in a two-handed grip. Leon dodged sideways but the bat caught his gun hand full on: he felt the bones in his wrist crack in a white-hot explosion of pain.
Leon shrieked. Saw Davy raising the bat for another strike and lunged towards him, using his height and weight to knock the older man off balance. As Davy stumbled, Leon rained blows on him with his left hand, clumsy but brutal, until Davy dropped the bat and his legs gave out and he fell to the ground.
Joe pushed on through the tunnel, fighting revulsion and claustrophobia. The torchlight swept over the water and revealed other debris, other bones. The strongroom was just a few feet away, jutting out from what seemed to be a natural alcove in the rock. As Glenn had said, the door was secured by a padlock, now just a couple of inches above the flood water.
And Glenn was right about something else. It did look like a cell.
Joe tried to rest for a second or two. The pressure of the water was making it harder to stay upright. Bracing himself against the side of the tunnel, he turned to check that his exit was still clear, but the torch beam was swallowed by a much deeper darkness to his right. There was another opening in the rock, a chamber reaching back several yards at least.
Joe was shivering so violently that he could barely hold the torch steady. He shone it into the chamber and saw her straight away.
Kamila.
The water had reached above her waist and was lapping just below her breasts, but Jenny didn’t feel it. Didn’t feel anything. She longed to sink beneath the surface, fill her lungs with water and have it ended. But she couldn’t. Some primitive, obstinate instinct refused to let her give in.
So she was still upright, propped against the damaged wall, slipping in and out of consciousness, when she registered a flash of light in the darkness. Maybe some kind of hallucinatory flare, the product of a dying brain, synapses firing their last desperate signals.
An image came to her: Mum and Dad, finally alerted to her disappearance after … how many days or weeks? She pictured them years later, slipping towards death themselves, corroded by the agony of the questions no one could answer. The mindless torture of not knowing.
The water sloshed against her, as if the current had been disturbed. A noise like kids in a paddling pool. A fresh misery plucked at her heart: children she would never have.
She bumped her forehead against the wall, as if she could beat out the bad thoughts. A moan escaped her and she prayed: God willing, this should be my last breath …
The body was floating face up in the water, naked, the skin blackened and putrefied. The abdominal cavity had burst open, and the limbs were only loosely connected to the torso. The features were unrecognisable, but Joe remembered the dark wavy hair from the photograph Alise had shown him.
It was Kamila. She’d probably been dead for weeks, left to decompose in her underground tomb. The bones he had found must belong to a much earlier victim. He was too late. Now he had to get out of here before he froze—
A soft thud behind him, followed by a groan. Joe’s body convulsed. The torch slipped from his grasp. Like a clumsy juggler he writhed and snatched at the air; caught the torch just before it hit the water. The light flickered, but stayed on.
He realised the sounds had come from the strongroom. The cell. He turned, careful not to slip, and reached for the padlock, holding it while he got his balance.
‘Hello?’ he called, his voice juddering from the cold.
The only response was another whimpering groan.
‘Hold on. I’m going to get you out.’ Fixing the position of the padlock in his mind, Joe eased the rucksack onto one shoulder, put the torch away and brought out the bolt cutters. He knew he’d need two hands for the job, which meant working without a light.
Groping for the padlock, which was now partially submerged, he sited the blades around the shank, held it steady and brought the bolt cutters together. The padlock twisted and the cutters slipped off, almost falling into the water.
Joe took a deep breath. He was rushing. He needed to be slow and methodical. Forget the tunnel, the rising water …
On the second attempt there was a quiet snap and the padlock gave way. Joe dropped the cutters into the rucksack, retrieved the torch and eased the door open a fraction. Once he’d established that the cell was flooded to the same level as the tunnel, he opened the door further.
There was a girl: naked, freezing, barely conscious, and yet somehow still standing. As he stepped into the cell she toppled and slid into his arms. He grabbed her, and in doing so he lost his balance, jabbing his elbow on the door frame to stay upright.
Once he’d steadied himself, Joe managed to direct the torchlight onto her face. Her eyes were shut and her skin had a blueish tint. There was no living warmth in her body at all.
Leon’s wrist was a constant, screaming agony, but he was damned if he was going to let it defeat him. After summoning Fenton, the two of them managed to haul Patrick Davy back into the house.
‘What’s going on?’ Fenton gasped.
‘Just broke my fucking wrist.’
Davy regained consciousness as they dragged him into the living room. Leon kicked him hard in the ribs.
‘Settle down, or I’ll stamp your head to mush.’
Once inside, Fenton pinned the Australian down while Leon fetched plasticuffs and a bottle of ibuprofen. Leon couldn’t open the bottle with one hand so he had to get Fenton to do it. He crunched down four pills, then did his best to assist Fenton as he removed Davy’s coat, tied the man’s hands behind him and sat him up against one of the armchairs.
Fenton clucked like a mother hen. ‘Leon, you’re drenched. You need fresh clothes.’
‘A towel will do. And get a knife,’ he added, glaring at Davy. ‘To make this fucker talk.’
The phone rang as Fenton left the room. Leon heard him pick it up in the hall.
Thank Christ, he thought. That had to be either Glenn or Reece.
Time had slowed to a crawl. The candles provided a cosy light, and thanks to the fire the room was deliciously warm, the wood popping and hissing while the rain beat down on the roof. It was an environment that normally guaranteed an afternoon doze, but sleep was the last thing on Diana’s mind.
Glenn was constantly fidgeting, pacing up and down, looking at his watch. Diana was no less tense, though Ellie seemed remarkably laid-back, paying little attention to Glenn.
It was almost four o’clock when he made for the door with a more decisive stride. Diana snapped to attention. ‘Where are you going?’
He glanced back, a wry smile barely concealing his irritation. ‘I need a crap. Okay?’
Embarrassed, she looked away. Glenn shut the door behind him. Ellie put her magazine aside and stared at Diana. ‘Go after him.’
‘What?’
‘He’s up to something.’ She nodded towards the door. ‘He hasn’t taken a torch.’
Diana felt ashamed that she hadn’t noticed. She opened the door and crept out, tiptoeing along the hall like an intruder in her own home. She hadn’t taken a torch, either. There was just enough light to see her way.
Even before she reached the toilet she could hear Glenn’s voice, coming from the guests’ lounge at the far end of the hall. He was finishing off a call when she got to the door.
‘… let you know if that changes. Just get here as quick as you can.’ His voice was gruff, as though he was trying hard to be taken seriously.
&nbs
p; Diana was set to burst in, but some wise instinct made her pause. A second later Glenn was speaking again.
‘Clive? Shut up and listen. Joe’s still alive and he’s on his way to you. He might be there already.’
Fenton must have responded with a question, but Glenn rode over it. ‘Don’t tell him anything. I’ve done my own deal. I’ll cut you in, but you have to keep Joe there. Whatever it takes – kill Leon if need be, but keep Joe alive. Morton’ll be here in an hour or so.’
Diana went cold. They knew who Joe was. They knew about the price on his head.
And Glenn had betrayed them all.
She turned and ran for the front door, not even considering the weather conditions or how she could reach Joe in time. She dimly heard footsteps behind her, then Glenn grabbed her hair and wrenched her to a halt, slamming her head against the wall.
Eighty-Five
PATRICK DAVY WAS starting to recover. He sat up straight, winced, and spat blood onto the floor. He even managed a grin when he saw how Leon was cradling his injured wrist.
Leon only held his temper in check by thinking of Cadwell: the expression on his face as he understood that he was going to die. Davy would know that feeling soon enough.
‘Who sent you?’ Leon asked.
‘Nobody. Your thugs clobbered me. This is payback time.’
Leon didn’t buy it. ‘Why now?’
‘Because you’re about to be destroyed, and I want to play a part in that.’
It was such a bold statement that Leon was still grappling for a reply when Fenton strode in, holding the phone.
‘Good news. Glenn’ll be here any time.’
‘Has he got Joe’s stuff?’
Fenton looked blank for a second. ‘Oh. Yes. Yes.’
‘What about Reece and the others?’
Fenton pursed his lips. His face was bright red. ‘Oh, Glenn spoke to Bruce. Just as we thought, the storm delayed them but they’re on their way.’
Leon nodded. All very positive, on the face of it, but something didn’t smell right.
‘What’s up with you?’
‘Nothing.’ Fenton shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I’ll get that knife for you. And a bandage. Coming right up …’
He hurried out, shutting the door behind him. Almost immediately Leon heard a voice in the hall: not Fenton’s.
The fat fuck was scheming with somebody else.
Joe’s first plan failed. Bearing the woman’s weight with one hand, he slipped the torch into the rucksack, then pushed the door open with his foot, holding it against the current while he tried to manoeuvre her alongside him.
As soon as he tried to move, her legs gave way and he nearly lost her to the swirling waters. Despite the occasional groan and murmur, she was effectively unconscious. The only option was to carry her.
Wedging his feet in the doorway, Joe leaned down as far as the confined space would allow and then lifted her over his shoulder. Her body was as cold and slippery as ice; his own muscles stiff and unresponsive. It took a monumental effort to support her and stay on his feet. He felt a tiny but growing conviction that they were both going to drown down here.
He backed out of the cell, standing as tall as he could to keep her head above the water. His own head touched the roof of the tunnel, where he could feel the terrifying force of the river vibrating through the rock and into his skull. A fireman’s lift wasn’t ideal in such a narrow tunnel, but at least this method left him a hand free to steady himself. Without that, he would almost certainly topple over.
By the time he reached the opening into the basement he was exhausted; bruised and bleeding from where he’d bumped and scraped against the rock walls. His legs had lost virtually all sensation. His heart was beating fast and yet somehow felt sluggish; labouring against the cold as much as from the exertion.
And a constant prayer ran round and round in his head: Don’t let her die. Don’t let her die. Don’t let her die …
Getting the woman through the hatch wasn’t as difficult as he’d feared. He lifted her off his shoulder, held her with both hands and managed to set her down on the toilet cistern.
Then came a big problem. He’d have to let go of her while he squeezed through the gap – and there wasn’t enough room.
Joe tried a compromise, shifting her gently to one side, all the while talking in a soft voice, urging her to wake up, to stand for a moment. He thought he saw her respond, her eyes flickering. Then she slid on the wet porcelain and dropped into the water.
Panic lanced through him. He kicked and fought his way out of the tunnel, slithered over the cistern, snatched a breath and fell head first into the filthy water. For one insane moment he was convinced he wouldn’t find her: that somehow she had vanished.
Then he made contact. Her body was twisted beside the toilet. He grabbed her arms and hauled her upright, telling himself she’d be okay. Her head hadn’t been under the water for more than a few seconds.
Back to the fireman’s lift. The basement gave him more room to move, but it was now flooded to such a depth that none of the furniture was visible. He had to tread carefully, negotiating a path between the drowned sofas.
Finally Joe reached the stairs, his fingers throbbing from the cold as they gripped the handrail. His legs like rubber, slowly emerging from the flood. Every step required an individual effort of will, but the reward was a few more inches of dry air.
Then he was at the top, soaked and shaking, close to passing out himself. But the ordeal was only just beginning: if he was to keep her alive, he’d need Davy’s help.
He staggered into the hall just as Fenton emerged from the living room. There was no hope of hiding, so Joe didn’t bother to try.
‘Get some blankets,’ he snarled.
Fenton just gaped at him. Then the door opened and Leon came out, shouting abuse at Fenton until the sight of Joe shocked him into silence.
Eighty-Six
LEON GAPED AT him. ‘You’re dead.’ It was a statement rather than a threat. Then his focus switched to Fenton: ‘You fucking lied to me …’
Ignoring them both, Joe carefully lowered the woman to the floor. He stripped off his coat and laid it over her body – for modesty’s sake as much as for any warmth it would provide.
‘Were you part of this?’
Fenton blinked several times before mustering a profound indignation. ‘Certainly not!’
‘Then help me. If we don’t get her warmed up, she’s going to die.’
Nodding that he understood, Fenton gave Leon an uneasy glance before scurrying upstairs.
‘What’s her name?’ Joe asked. He noticed that Leon was cradling his right arm against his body. The wrist was hugely swollen. ‘Did Patrick do that? Where is he?’
Leon found a spark of confidence. ‘He’ll be dead soon. Going the way of Derek Cadwell – and anyone else who wants to take me on.’ But he wouldn’t quite look Joe in the eye as he added: ‘What happened to Reece?’
‘He’s not coming back. Neither are the others.’ Joe let the information sink in, then he said, ‘I found Kamila.’
‘What?’
‘I saw her body in the tunnel. When did you kill her?’
Leon winced, one eye closing involuntarily as though responding to pain inside his head. ‘I’ve never set eyes on Kamila.’ He gestured at the woman on the floor. ‘Who the hell is she?’
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. I’ve just rescued her from your cell.’
‘Cell? What cell?’
‘In the tunnel beneath the house. You told Glenn it was a strongroom.’
Somehow Leon managed to look both agitated and mystified. Wincing again, he went to lift his right arm to his face, then realised it was too badly injured to move. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I want to go crawling round a fucking tunnel?’
Fenton’s heavy tread vibrated through the stairs as he came down, carrying towels and a duvet as well as two hot-water bottles.
Joe laid the duvet on a dry patch of floor, lifted the woman onto it, placed the hot-water bottles under her arms and wrapped the duvet around her. He checked her pulse and her breathing, and decided she wasn’t in immediate danger.
Leon watched from across the hall: not attacking, not retreating. Joe found his attitude confusing. What could he possibly hope to gain from lying at this stage?
A tiny voice in his head offered the answer, but Joe didn’t want to hear it.
Leon’s world wasn’t just falling apart: it had gone apeshit fucking crazy. A dead man had walked into his home, carrying a naked, unconscious woman.
He couldn’t deal with it. Couldn’t think straight. The wrist was sending blasts of pain through his arm, and now he had the mother of all migraines brewing up.
‘This is a set-up,’ he cried. ‘You couldn’t find any evidence, so you brought her here to frame me.’
‘Look at the state she’s in,’ Joe said with disgust. Fenton was tutting his agreement, staring at Leon as though he was some kind of monster.
‘It’s him you want to talk to.’ Leon jabbed a finger at Fenton. ‘Fucking pervs, him and his buddy Cadwell. Derek had this corpse in once. Fifteen-year-old girl, died of some heart defect no one knew about. Body of a porn star and not a mark on her. Derek couldn’t resist. That’s how he got his kicks, and I bet you did too, eh, Clive?’
Fenton sighed. ‘This is pure fantasy,’ he said to Joe. ‘In the past few days Leon has displayed signs of a serious mental collapse. He’s prone to migraines, and regular psychotic episodes, hence the injuries inflicted upon your friend Alise.’
‘You’re lying,’ Leon shouted. But the reality of his situation was hitting home. Fenton had switched sides. Leon was on his own. No Glenn riding to the rescue. No Reece or Todd or …
‘Glenn!’ he said, and grinned like a maniac. ‘Glenn told you to lie.’
Fenton went pale, and despite everything Leon actually managed to laugh. Because now he understood why Clive had betrayed him.