He punched her squarely in the face.
Gheorghiu held her now, his strong hands under her armpits.
“Go down. Now!” he yelled at Constantin.
His instructions were obeyed. As the bloodied and more senior male disappeared down into the void, Gheorghiu waited a second and then pulled her to the edge.
She struck him twice in quick succession with her right elbow. He blocked the first, but the second landed on his left eye socket.
“Stupid bitch. I am going to kill you as soon as I get chance.” He tensed his muscles, sucking the life out of her; she was partly through the hatch now, her legs were twice as heavy as normal and now useless as weapons, worse still her arms were trapped, entwined in his.
She looked into the space below, which was a little brighter; she was aware of a source of stronger light coming from her right. There was water again, deeper and stronger smelling: mud, dirt, pollutants, life, death – the many odours of an historic waterway were assaulting her olfactory system and playing havoc with her mind. The close confines of the tunnel seemed to exacerbate the smell making her to want to vomit.
She could feel herself passing out and knew that she needed to conserve energy. Whatever was coming next, whatever plans, albeit spontaneous ones, were hardly likely to be pleasant.
Gheorghiu looked down. Below him was a perfectly round, Victorian, brick-built tunnel. Like so many similar structures it was built in the late eighteen hundreds, its purpose was simple but beautifully executed, to allow waste water into the Thames.
Without compassion, he dropped Shipley feet first. She landed with a watery thud, knocking what air she had left in her lungs rapidly out of her, the fall tearing the ligaments in her left ankle. Gheorghiu lowered himself down and landed, trying his best not to roll his own ankles on the awkwardly curved brickwork.
Shipley’s now semi-conscious body had hit the water below and immediately started to drift away from the large iron grid that separated them from the tunnel and the River Thames.
The two Romanian men were now in the ancient sewage system, trying to formulate a plan. They needed to escape but also prevent the irritating girl from either following them, or worse, giving evidence against them. They needed to kill her. There were no longer other options. However, there were no weapons available either. The older man started to look around the tunnel. There had to be something they could use, other than their bare hands.
He wasn’t averse to killing, but he feared the physical contact that was required, making him, rather idealistically, a resourceful killer, one who normally thought of his work as an art form. The inquisitive and foolish old man, for example, had died a remote death with no tangible connection to Constantin. The girl too, overcome by a simple chemical reaction. It really was all too easy.
But not the boy. He was somehow different. Both he and his executioner had watched the bullet that struck him in the forehead; its rapid, yet conversely slow flight had ended his all too brief life. It would be one of Constantin’s few regrets.
He searched further. The incredible brickwork that surrounded them was worn smooth from a century of activity, but testament to the sheer skill of the men that had laid each one a hundred and fifty years before their arrival, not one single brick was loose.
Constantin scrambled beneath the water, noting that it was starting to rise.
His fingers grasped an object, and he immediately started to pull it from beneath the surface. It was a chain which was attached to the grid in front of them. A length of rope, slippery and stained but still intact, was tied to the end of the chain. It once had a purpose, he was sure, and now he had found another.
What they were standing in was part of an old sewerage system but also an outlet for another of London’s great river systems, the River Fleet. The same river that gave birth to Fleet Street and its world-famous newspaper industry.
Now practically invisible to commuters and tourists, the Fleet made its way across north London, now almost entirely underground, running for four miles from one of its sources on Hampstead Heath. Since Roman times the river had provided transport, trade and even, during the river’s purer days, a source of health.
That the tunnel system still remained so intact was credit to its engineers and builders who had constructed it some forty feet into the ground and allowed it to wash the waste of thousands into the serpentine waterway that endlessly flowed out to the east and eventually into the North Sea.
Constantin could sense the arrival of the incoming tide. What he didn’t know was that the tunnel they were in, could flood to its ceiling in half an hour. It was a salient fact left out of the conversation he had held with his boss when the rapid plans had been made with the owner of the dilapidated café, a fellow countryman who was happy to accept a few hundred pounds to turn a blind eye.
Gheorghiu called over to his partner, raising his voice against the growing noise of the incoming waters. “Grab her, get her hands and tie the rope to them.”
He tried, but the rope would not hold.
“Around her waist. I’ll deal with her wrists.”
He tore a sleeve from his shirt and bound it around her slender wrists. She started to struggle once more, using the last of her strength against her attackers. She kicked out wildly but missed with each attempt.
The realisation of what was about to happen began to overwhelm her.
The rope sealed against itself, sitting on her hips, tied behind her back. The second sleeve had now been formed into a gag and wrapped tightly around her mouth.
Constantin approached the large ironwork gateway and looked out into the Thames, which was rising with alarming speed. He turned and started to wade through the water, back towards Gheorghiu and passing the girl who was trying to maintain her balance in the deepening current. She looked pathetic, worse still she felt pathetic.
As Constantin struggled past her, he stopped and took hold of her shoulders. He lifted her hair in his hands, feeling its weight. It was wet and burnished, almost raisin-coloured in the available light, he hadn’t noticed its beauty before now but it reminded him of the colours of a bird he had nurtured when just a small boy, for days he had fed it by hand before placing it back into its nest. For a short time, he reflected upon his childhood; what had become of the kind, compassionate boy? What had led to him becoming such a sadistic and uncaring creature?
Born to a young and single mother who could barely look after herself let alone a new-born son, she had been threatened with imprisonment for twice trying to drown him during her repeated heroin-fuelled escapes from reality, unable to cope with his torrid home life he ran away from his village and home at the age of thirteen.
It was the start of everything.
His infatuation with drowning – with death – and how to convey it.
He looked into the British girl’s eyes. They displayed a mixture of defiance and fear.
Was this the opportunity she needed? To appeal to his better side? To possibly reduce the odds?
Constantin shook himself back into the present – he would offer no such chance. His own eyes were as cold as the incoming tide. He smiled, reached around her neck and tightened the gag and then stepped to her side, knocking the back of her knee with his foot. She buckled and fell into the water and was partly submerged once more as she fought to remain above its surface.
Neither man looked at her as she flailed around in the tunnel. They had their own lives to save. If she had not been so foolish, so belligerent and so bloody brave, then perhaps things would have turned out better for her.
The water level rose around her, she was floating now, all but gone.
“Leave her, she can do nothing to us now, brother. We need to get to the next tunnel. Stefan will meet us. Come on…we must go. We have only fifteen minutes.”
“Boss, one of the control room operators has managed to triangulate the girl’s signal. We are apparently right on top of her last transmission. You’re right, she’s here, some
where.”
Cade was pacing now, not too dissimilar to an expectant father. He knew it was pointless carrying out a random search, they rarely achieved a result. Whether it was a missing child or a criminal on the run, it took method, structure and discipline to find them.
Cade began to do what he did best in these situations, scratch his head. He walked towards the bridge as his emergent team followed two steps behind.
He knew he had to re-engage but was seriously wondering why he appeared to be the only bloody supervisor for miles around. It was a force of some thirty thousand staff. Where the hell were they all?
“OK, two of you get over the road and start asking questions in those buildings. Ask about CCTV, get names and get phone numbers, this is rapidly becoming another bloody murder investigation. You know what to do, be police officers for Christ’s sake!”
Two staff did exactly what they were told and ran, dodging traffic, and soon disappeared into a large commercial building. Given their para-military appearance, Cade was sure they would get the answers they craved.
“You, get back to the underground station and watch for signs of life – please.”
“Will do, guv.”
He was back in control.
“And you two come with me. Let’s see if my gut feeling is right.”
They walked towards the old sandwich bar but were flagged down by an exasperated parking warden.
“At last, I asked for back up ages ago. He could have killed me by now!”
Cade was far from in the mood for such an intervention, but swiftly reverted to street cop mode.
“I’m in a hell of a hurry. Are you injured? Is this man an immediate threat? Can it wait?”
Unusually, the electrician answered first.
“No, he’s not, neither of us are. Am I a threat, ‘ardly but to be fair if he’d ticketed your motor you’d be pissed off too? I’m trying to earn a living here boss, please see reason. Can it wait? As it ‘appens not really, I’ve got a date with a very innovative gymnast.”
It was the most amusing response Cade had heard for days.
“Strikes me a warning would suffice.” He looked straight at the warden. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got armed criminals to bloody well catch.”
He went to walk away when the electrician grabbed his arm.
“Chief. Thanks, I’m just an honest man trying to earn a living. You looking for the skinny bird in the tracksuit? She’s one of yours, isn’t she? I knew it.”
“What?”
“One of your lot. She was chasing two right dodgy looking blokes. One of ‘em is Eastern European, a plumber, he said he was Polish, but I know pony when I hear it.”
Cade stared at him, quizzically.
“Pony? Pony and trap. It’s rhyming slang for…”
“Yes, yes, I get it. I just want you to finish your bloody story!”
“Well, I didn’t believe him to be honest, but I’m knackered and just want to get home to Nadia.”
Cade was getting more tired by the second. His colleagues were fanning out now and scanning the streets for any sign of a clue. Another patrol van stopped outside the underground. Four staff, three constables and a sergeant got out, adjusted their yellow coats and set about showing a presence in the area.
Cade had the firearm in his right hand now and was commanding the attention of those around him.
“Sorry? From the top. Nadia? Who the bloody hell is Nadia?”
Staring at the Glock, the electrician continued. “Jesus, don’t you listen? She’s the gymnast, named after Comaneci, the Romanian girl, the Perfect Ten. I always fancied her. It was her accent see, I can spot a Romanian voice from as far away as Bucharest, further if she is attractive!”
Cade looked straight at the male, “What is your name?”
“Kevin. Kevin Brock. KB Electrical.” He produced a grubby business card from his overalls.
“Kevin, I have been awake for days. I have no need of a rewire or even an additional and all together convenient extra socket. I am actively pursuing armed offenders and am at great risk of losing someone I…love…most dearly.”
Brock nodded encouragingly.
“Given the cocktail of exhaustion, frustration and absolute desire to be somewhere else other than talking to you two, please do understand if without so much as a warning I should suddenly shoot you in the spleen.”
He understood. The warden was smiling smugly now.
“And you, you overly vindictive fascist, would be a close second, ideally with the same bullet. I’m conscious of saving money, given the state of our budget. Tear his ticket up and go and annoy someone else.”
“Nice one, guv’nor.” The electrician was the one smiling now.
“Seriously, I will shoot you, Kevin. Now if you don’t mind?” He walked away, back towards the bridge, sliding the firearm awkwardly between his waist and his trouser belt. It felt ridiculous, so he carried it in his left hand, caring not what the public thought upon seeing a scarlet-eyed gunman walking towards them.
“Left!” It was Kevin Brock again.
Cade ran his palm over the stock of the Glock but thought better of it. Why destroy what was left of his already tattered career?
“Go on, you’ve got my attention. You said left?”
“I did, sir. She went in through that hording there by the phone box. She followed the two blokes. I’ve been trying to tell you but…you were somewhat focused on shooting me in an organ that I can live without.”
With a half-smile Cade said, “I was, wasn’t I? Apologies. Out of order. Thank you for your help, Kevin. Enjoy Nadia – give her one from me.”
Cade whistled to the now under-employed staff member at the door of the underground. He ran to the doorway and joined Cade, who was already pulling the plywood panelling to one side.
“Another call from control boss. We are spot on. The signal is coming from this building.”
Cade nodded back towards the young electrician and entered the doorway. He hoped he was in for a great night, the lucky bastard.
He looked back at the younger officer whose face was a picture – part fear, part excitement. He snorted as he recalled his own first day on the job, charging into a house in a leafy suburb of Nottingham to arrest a man who was pointing a shotgun at him and his wise old sergeant. Hindsight told him it was madness, but wild horses wouldn’t have dragged him away from the opportunity.
“Turn your radio right down, we don’t want anyone startled, do we?” Cade finished the sentence with a reassuring pat on his arm and a wink of his trademark blue eyes.
Raising his pistol into the low-ready position, he entered further into the building.
The Audi S6 pulled to the side of the road. Its wipers had now ceased their continuous arc. The car was tucked tightly into the kerb of Melbourne Place, just off the ever-busy Strand, and behind Australia House, a place where his car and face were familiar.
Exhaust gases emanated from the Audi’s twin chromed pipes as its driver waited patiently. He would wait here, regardless of the improbable risk of being asked to move on.
He looked into the rear-view mirror again and smiled, his eyes narrowing, revealing the beginnings of subtle crow’s feet. They were the legacy of years of long, painful hours; endless government meetings, countless false smiles and promises, most of which were broken as soon as they were uttered.
He acknowledged the hint of grey appearing on his sun-tanned temples; there was nothing to fear. Apparently the ladies liked it, some even loved it, for them grey was the new black.
He leant forward and pressed the power button on his Hi-Fi. The Bose speakers announced his favourite fast-driving soundtrack. He turned it up, indicated right, glanced over his right shoulder and entered the line of traffic. He accelerated along Arundel Street before turning left and joining heavier traffic on Temple Place.
In a hundred metres he looked at his watch, his favoured Rolex Submariner, a recommended timepiece that he had rewarded himself wi
th a few years before. He would often admire the movement, the dark, perfectly painted black face and complimentary bright white sweeping second hand, and the steel bracelet. He liked that especially, for again he was able to liken himself to its manufacturer’s official description:
It maintains its beauty even in the harshest environments.
The whole package was, he thought, very much like himself. Beautifully presented, exquisitely constructed and evidently, perfectly designed and singularly reliable. When he first slipped it over his wrist in the discreet city jewellers he had stood and admired it, as the manager nodded an approving and somewhat sycophantic nod.
“Excellent choice, sir. And may I say one, which unlike people, will never let you down.”
And that was Hewett’s cathartic moment in life. A bloody watch. He’d broken a thousand hearts and brokered many more deals for the British. Despite his relatively young years he had been supremely successful as a negotiator among men – and a fair few women too, most of whom, with the notable and praiseworthy exception of the borderline nymphomaniac from Slovenia, had been taught the ways of the world in a single night, in a king-sized bed, and all at the expense of the host nation.
He was nothing if not a supremely capable operator.
But that was then. He was fed up to his immaculately white back teeth. Good old reliable Johnnie Bloody Hewett. Well, frankly, enough was enough. Why should he burn both ends of the candle, day after day, for a high-end five-figure annual salary when a few equally long days of using his supreme experience could net him more, a lot more?
He began to sing, comfortably aware that the heavily tinted green glass shielded him from embarrassment. Not that he really cared anymore, well, not that much anyway.
For Johnnie Hewett, the day was just getting better. His fingers mimicked a pair of Hickory sticks beating an imaginary drum as they bounced again and again onto the hand-stitched black leather steering wheel. Frankie sang about Two Tribes.
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 32