‘Where am I?’ she croaked as her hands were yanked roughly behind her back and tied firmly to the post. The angle was so obtuse it pulled on her shoulders and they were shot through with pain.
‘It’s time.’ The voice was delivered right into her ear. She heard the distinctive sound of wooden logs knocking against one another, as if they were being stacked. She craned her neck towards the sound and a tall, gaunt man with broad shoulders straightened up and looked back at her. Though he was about five metres away, she could still see the intensity in his gaze. To his right a shovel was upright, dug into the sand. The logs were in a neat pile and pushed beneath what looked like a rusty, brown drum on legs. Her eyes were still a little fuzzy.
‘What are you doing? What do you want with me?’
The younger man who had tied her moved from behind the post and squatted down in front of her. His face wore a big grin. ‘You wait your turn! I’m going to free you, Annie. You and Sadie. But you’re special to me. So you get to watch first. You get to share the beauty!’
He stood back up and walked away to her left. Beyond him she could see what looked like a wooden shack. It was a mix of odd colours and shapes. It was made of wood but none of the pieces quite married up. The man disappeared. When he came back out he was pushing another girl in front of him. She was very petite and her blonde hair fell untidily over a naturally pale complexion. She looked so young. Annie’s mind was fuzzy, but she remembered the van journey. Another girl had been there and had been moaning. This was her! She was led past Annie, her eyes were wide in panic.
‘Help me!’ she muttered. It seemed like a struggle for her to speak. She fell to the ground and the man immediately scooped her up, hooking his hands beneath her shoulders. She was shaking.
‘What are you doing with her? What are you doing?’ Annie screamed, her head throbbing with the effort. The girl was led to where the man with the dark eyes was waiting. The drum seemed to have doubled in size. Annie squinted at it. It had opened up!
‘Oh God! Oh God, no!’ The man still held the girl under her arms as far as the drum and then her underwear was ripped from her. The two men started to bundle her to the drum. She tried to fight them off and managed to get a blow on the larger man. His head barely moved but he wiped something away from his cheek. He had been relatively still up to this point, leaving most of the effort to the younger man, but now he reached down with his huge hands and pushed her in all at once. She couldn’t fight back. Not against him. The top of the drum was slammed down with a loud thud. Immediately she could hear more thuds; the girl had started hammering on it from the inside and there were faint and muted screams, too. The drum, tank — whatever it was — was clearly made of some kind of thick metal. The younger man walked back towards her.
He sighed and shook his head and hunkered down beside her again. ‘She’s scared because she doesn’t understand. But you will, Annie. You will see and you will know. When she’s free . . . ah, it’s beautiful, Annie, it’s so beautiful. And then it’s your turn.’
‘She’s just a girl! She’s just a girl! Let her go! Let her go, you don’t need her!’
‘Oh but we do! We need you both. You’ve earned this, Annie, with your beauty, with your grace! I mean, look at you . . .’
‘Me first, then! I’ll go first. I won’t fight. Me first!’
‘No, no. This is all for you, Annie. This is all so you can see!’
‘No . . . please!’ He was already walking away. She had seen his face: the excitement, the glee. He was hyper. It was like nothing she had seen before. His hands were shaking so bad he could barely light the kindling gathered under the logs. But he did light it. And it took almost instantly.
Chapter 37
George made it to the Warren. There were no other police personnel there yet. It was a road at its origins and it dropped away quite suddenly towards sea level past a Martello tower that had commanding views over the Channel. The road had been created to allow maintenance access to the train tracks that ran along the seafront and joined eventually with Dover. There was a campsite at the bottom too. Signs warned that it was closed for refurbishment. George took the road so fast he was praying out loud for the suspension to stay together and the tyres to stay up. The road was pitted by potholes, deep enough to cripple a car not designed for this type of punishment. He pushed on. The road levelled out. He could go straight on and run alongside the tracks or take another right. He took the right. It was a steeper gradient still and it led down to an area of hard-standing that was just above sea-level and butted up against the high tide. Now it looked like a concrete beach, but once this area had been an airstrip, a hangover from the First World War.
The front of his car scraped against it as he grounded out at the bottom. This section was only ever in danger of flooding in stormy weather. Not even a spring tide would bother it otherwise. Today there was no storm, but the breeze pushing off the sea felt stronger than it had further inland. The platform soon narrowed right down. George drove as far as he could on the concrete beach with the sea directly to his right. The train track separated him from steep cliffs to his left. He knew the train track would soon turn inland too. All that would be left would be the impregnable white of the cliff face.
He abandoned the car. A slim walkway continued. It was concrete and built at the same time as the airstrip. He ran along it. He was closer to the sea now, close enough to be caught in the spray as the waves pushed and slapped against the concrete path. He could feel his phone ringing in his pocket. He ignored it. The walkway opened up again to another platform that was almost as wide as the first. Some buildings had been here once. There were only weeds and rubble left now. He ran through them. The walkway finished and he knew this to be where path ended and the rocks started. They were completely submerged. He could just about see the pointed tops of some of them when the waves rolled over. He was standing so far left he used the cliff face as support as he leant out as far as he could to try and pick out a path. He knew this area well enough. There was a stretch of rocks, piled untidily on top of one another from ancient cliff falls and pushed tighter together by the constant tide. After that was a mile-long stretch of beach where he had walked dogs and spent lazy afternoons, but right now it was deep underwater and with no way of picking a way through the rocks to get to it while the water was this high. George was too late. Just like he was supposed to be. His phone rang again. This time he answered it. The sea skimmed the rocks to batter against the cliff face in front of him. George could see a layer of green staining on the white. The level of the sea was just under it, like it might be on its way out.
‘Major.’ George was out of breath.
‘Tell me you made it.’
‘I made it to the rocks. I can’t even see the beach. From memory they’re stacked at least six feet high but at low tide you can pick a path round them on the sand. I can see where the cliff turns in the distance. Henry will be just the other side of that.’
‘So you can’t confirm he’s there?’
‘No. I can’t confirm anything. I can’t get there. And the tide’s got an hour to go. I’m as close as I can get.’
Whittaker gave out a long sigh. ‘I’ve made all the calls. The world and his wife are on their way. It’s out of my hands, George. The marine team are making their way to the area but they said the same as you. They know it — everyone seems to . . . they can’t land there. They could take a RHIB in closer but it’s risky and they’d be too vulnerable for the actual landing. They’ll assess again though when they get there. The tide is on its way out now apparently — they might have attempted it if it was still at its highest. The risks from going over the cliff and down are unacceptable too. Those aren’t my words. A command chain has been put in place. The Gold Commander is the superintendent. He’s grounded us. You’re the first line, George. Round those rocks is the only way we get to him.’
‘Of course it is. Just like Roberts planned.’
‘You’ll have enoug
h resources with you by the time you can move. I’ll be monitoring the radio.’
George pushed the phone back into his pocket. He peered down at the surface of the water. It was opaque but then another large wave swept in to reveal the jagged tops of rocks. He felt the spray on his face as it bounced off the cliff face. It was just a few minutes before he was joined by other officers. He didn’t speak to them. The tension tore at him. He couldn’t speak. They must have known. No one spoke to him either. They hung back a few metres and talked among themselves in low tones. George paced along the edge of walkway, his eyes fixed on the cliffs in the distance. He considered leaping in. He knew it would be counterproductive. The force of the water was strong, the rocks were sharp and the currents would pull him back out to sea. George had known of a few drownings down here. The water wrapped around a corner and the current undertow would dash him repeatedly against invisible rocks. He wouldn’t be able to swim it. He cussed as he dismissed the idea. He was back to walking up and down the water’s edge. Now he was the raging bull desperate to join the fight.
Twenty minutes passed. It was the longest twenty minutes of George’s life. The green staining on the cliff face was broader; the water level had dropped. He could hear radio chatter from the officers behind him. No one had moved any closer. George knew he was going to have to try soon or he was going to burst. The tops of rocks were appearing more consistently from under the surface, pushing out like they were gasping for air. They were slick with brown weed and their surfaces were covered in limpet shells suckered to the top and sides, making the surface even more treacherous. George had a point in his mind where he would move. There was a large, flat rock right in front of him. He could see it now. It was a couple of centimetres under the surface. It was becoming more and more exposed as the sea breathed in and out. Once it was all exposed, once he could see a place for his foot, he was going to go.
Ten more agonising minutes passed. George was trying not to think about what was happening just around the bend in the cliffs half a mile away. His mind played tricks on him. A couple of times he thought he could hear screams of pain, screams for help. It wasn’t possible. He was too far away. All he could hear were the gulls and the flopping and hissing of the sea. He was trying to piece together what had happened, if they had missed any opportunities that might have brought him to this place earlier. He was struggling to think straight. The thoughts and doubts thrashed around in his mind like those girls would be thrashing against the sides of that bull.
The rock was exposed. The sea had retreated. It still wasn’t enough but George could wait no longer. He leapt forward. His foot slipped instantly — the rock sloped away. His foot was drenched but he stayed up. He took the impact of a rolling wave to his lower leg. He had to steady himself.
‘Sir?’ an officer called out from behind him. George ignored him. He picked out the next place for his feet. Another rock, this time the water was deeper on its surface but it sloped towards him and it rested up against the cliff, he could use it to hold himself up. He leapt again. The cliff face was slick and slippery. He leant against it. Both his feet were ankle deep, but he was standing. He picked out his next move. One rock at a time. Painfully slow. But he was moving.
‘Sir! It’s too dangerous!’ It was another voice from behind him. He could understand why. If he fell onto the jagged rocks it would be one of them that would have to jump it and help him out. Or maybe they wouldn’t. George was past considering that.
He leapt forward. His foot landed in a sunken part of the top of a rock. He whacked his shin on the jagged edge. It was excruciating. He sucked in air to stop himself from shouting out. He lifted his trousers. A flap of white skin had been torn away, it quickly ran red. He jumped forward again. He heard a noise behind. He turned to it. One of the officers had taken his lead and jumped onto an exposed rock.
‘Stay where you are! No one else needs to put themselves at risk here!’ George barked.
‘With respect, sir . . . If you go in, we all go in! I might as well be closer at least!’
George didn’t reply. He picked out another rock. He waited for another wave to roll over his legs before moving again. It was painstaking but it gave him something to focus on. The rocks lasted for a hundred metres or so and then they stopped. George knew that the sandy beach took over from there. At the moment it still looked like a body of water but George could see a decrepit wooden groyne yawning out from under the surface. The sea was retreating.
By the time he reached the end of the rocks he could see the sand. The water was about a foot deep. He jumped in immediately and shortly afterwards heard the splashes of other officers following suit. It was too deep to run and the salt stung his shin as he pushed his feet through the water. He tripped over a sunken rock and stumbled to his knees. The water felt so heavy, his legs felt heavy; he was practically dragging himself on. His thighs burned. He pushed forward one step at a time. The beach was on a steep incline and was rising out of the water. Soon his steps got a little easier, his strides a little longer. When he was almost clear of the water, he broke into a run.
The beach was still soggy. His legs and his lungs demanded he slow down as he rounded the cliff. He could now see a bare-chested figure some hundred metres away standing on top of a rock. It was Roberts, George was certain. He could tell from his size, his confident stance. The figure turned away and stepped down out of sight. George got the impression he had been waiting.
He broke into a run again, legs powered by his desperation. Beyond the rocks he could see white smoke rising. He could smell the smoke in the air, too, mixed with the salty breeze.
The coming line of rocks had formed when a huge chunk of the cliff had fallen onto the beach leading into the sea. The cliffs were a fresh, brighter white where the weathered front had slipped. George struggled to climb up the pile of crumbling rocks. When, exhausted and breathless, he reached the top, he had an elevated view. He could see the cabin. He could see the bull. He could see the flames buffeting angrily against its belly.
‘Henry Roberts!’ George called out. ‘This is how it ends, is it? I thought you had all that you wanted?’
Roberts moved towards him. He held a shovel across his body, raised like a weapon. George dropped down the other side of the rocks to meet him. He stopped when his feet were back on sand. Roberts was close enough now for George to see red staining on the end of the shovel. He had red across his chest too, fresh enough to still be running in drips. The officers that had been lagging behind him were now in George’s peripheral vision. George held his hands out to signal for them to stay where they were. Roberts was still coming. ‘Put the shovel down, Henry, or I’ll have one of my mates here stick a taser up your arse.’
‘You’re too late, Inspector. They used me. This was their day of reckoning.’
‘Where are they, Henry? Where are the girls?’ George didn’t wait for an answer. He could see powerful flames now, roiling around the underside of the bull. He ran past Roberts and gave him a wide berth as he did.
‘Get control of him!’ He shouted his instructions to the officers behind. The heat was intense, enough to stop him a metre away from the bull. It was bigger than the one he had seen in the wood. There was a catch sealing it shut. A thin metal bar was pushed through it. He grabbed it to slide it out and immediately it scorched the skin on his fingers and he jerked them back. He looked round for something to use.
‘Your gloves!’ he shouted to one of the officers. They were facing Henry. The taser was still pointed at him, they looked like they were frozen to the spot, as if they had forgotten what to do now they were stood in front of him. Roberts still held the shovel. ‘Throw me your gloves!’
‘Inspector!’ Roberts called out. He had turned to face George. ‘You need to listen to me. I can help.’
One of the officers pulled gloves from his trouser pocket. He threw them over. George scooped them up. They were search gloves. Needle-proof, but thin, they wouldn’t make much differen
ce. He still pulled them on. A rock pool was close. George plunged his hands into the water. He turned back to the bull. He pushed his flat palm against its body and heaved. He had to close his eyes to the smoke and turn his face from the heat. It didn’t move. His feet slipped on the sand, the heat seared through the gloves almost immediately, the water turned to steam, the gloves perished and he ripped them off before they melted to his skin. He had to let go. He couldn’t open it. He couldn’t push it off its feet and away from the heat. He couldn’t hear any noises either. No screaming, no banging to get out. No signs of life. It was a giant oven; there was no coming out of that. He turned back to Roberts. He had to fight to stay upright. He wanted to collapse onto the damp sand.
‘You’re a piece of scum. You didn’t have to do it like this. That’s what I never understood.’
‘That hate you have in your heart for me. I needed that. I needed you to hate me George, so you wouldn’t give up.’
The George Elms Trilogy Box Set Page 77
