“Anonymous note, my foot,” Nightshade said. “What a lying toerag.”
Emma descended the metal rungs.
Mac swore as he followed her.
Nightshade brought up the rear, chuckling. “You need to relax,” she said. “You’re wound so tight you’ll shoot us by mistake.”
“I would never do that,” Mac said. “But if I had a stun gun right now, I’d use it.”
“Promises, promises, darling.”
Emma reached the bottom of the rungs and shone the torch about. It was an old underground train tunnel; its brick walls, covered in green slime with moss, looped overhead, and the remnants of a track below.
Mac moved to one side of Emma, gun drawn, while Nightshade joined her on the other.
“I’ll go first.” Mac stepped in front, and followed the old track.
Emma shone the torch ahead of them, careful not to slip on the rubble. “Did you know this place existed?” she asked Nightshade.
Nightshade scratched her head. “There are a few abandoned tunnels beneath London, but I have no idea where this one leads.” She glanced over her shoulder. “If my bearings are correct, we’re heading under the Thames.”
Emma’s gaze drifted to the dripping ceiling and she felt the weight of the water above them.
Ahead, Mac stopped. The tunnel intersected with another, which had a well-maintained track and lights spaced at twenty feet intervals.
“Which way do you think?” Emma peered in both directions.
Mac shrugged. “Down the old tunnel, back the way we came.”
“Nice try.” Nightshade looked to her right. “That way would have us heading parallel to the direction we’ve just come. So . . . left.”
“We should go back,” Mac insisted.
“If it’s a trap,” Nightshade said, “it’s an overly elaborate one, wouldn’t you say?”
“The whole day has been elaborate,” Mac said.
Emma shrugged. “He has a point.”
Nightshade gazed along the tunnel. “But the killer wants us to see something. We’ve come this far.”
Emma stepped around Mac and strode up the tunnel.
He called after her, “Mind the live rails.”
Emma waved in acknowledgement. However, a pang of guilt about stressing him out tugged at her—
“Stop,” Mac shouted.
Emma froze, her foot hanging in the air. She looked back at him.
Mac put a finger to his lips.
At first Emma only heard the blood pounding in her ears. Then a vibration juddered beneath her feet. She stiffened as a light appeared down the tunnel behind them, growing brighter.
“Run.”
Emma spun round and sprinted, feet hammering the gravel between the sleepers. She stumbled, almost lost her balance, but managed to remain upright and kept on moving.
“Go, go, go,” Mac shouted.
Nightshade brought up the rear. Her arms pumped the air like an Olympic sprinter.
Ahead, in the dim light, was the faint outline of an abandoned train platform.
The rumbling grew louder, the light brighter.
Emma leapt onto the platform and spun around. “Quick.”
Mac and Nightshade scrambled up next to her just in time: the train thundered past, horn blaring. Windows flashed by in a rapid blur, full of oblivious commuters going about their daily lives.
“Close,” Emma panted.
Mac frowned at her.
Once they’d regained their senses, the three of them examined their new surroundings.
The deserted train platform followed the usual London tube design of concave walls with several exits. Paint and plaster peeled off the ceiling in large chunks. The tiles were dirty and cracked, overlaid with remnants of faded posters from the fifties and sixties. Some advertised films that Emma had never heard of, like Too Many Crooks and The Horse’s Mouth, but she recognised one in particular: Some Like It Hot. There, still visible through years of decay and neglect, was Marilyn Monroe. The forever-young platinum blonde winked in the darkness.
Emma and Nightshade followed Mac along the platform. Bricks sealed the first exit, but in the second stood a steel door.
Mac, his gun ready, nodded to the door. “Stay here. And I mean it this time.”
Emma grabbed the door handle as another train thundered past. Its lights cast flickering shadows on the walls.
Once it had gone by, she held her breath, and swung the door inward. The hinges groaned in protest. Emma held up the torch and Mac stepped through, gun raised.
Emma’s heart pounded against her ribcage as she moved the light from side to side, up and down.
“It looks safe,” Mac said. “You can come in, but stay alert.”
Tense, Emma entered with Nightshade close behind, and continued to shine the light around the dark interior.
It stood twenty feet long by ten wide. Layers of grime covered the formerly green and white tiles on the walls. The cracked concrete floor looked as though it had been through an earthquake, while a tangle of pipes and conduits ran along the ceiling.
In the middle of the room stood a pair of trestles which held up a plank of wood. On the makeshift table were rusty tools, discarded cans and food packets, broken toys, and all manner of rubbish.
On the far wall, painted in a fresh coat of orange, stood another steel door. Mounted to the wall next to it was a modern keypad. It glowed as it waited for input.
A green box pulsated on the display.
Passphrase required.
One attempt remaining.
36
Emma gazed at the digital readout. “Passphrase? We only have one guess?” She glanced at Mac. “Can you bypass it?”
“The mechanism must be on the other side. There’s no handle or manual release, so no way to override the lock.” Mac examined the edge of the door and frame. “Tight seal. No gap, and no way to get a shim in.” He returned to the display panel. “This is high-end. It has several anti-tamper switches and it’s shielded from using the magnet trick.” Mac knelt, peered underneath the panel, then sighed and scratched his chin. “Could bypass it with the right tools.”
“We can’t risk leaving and coming back.” Nightshade looked at the table full of clutter. “Besides, I suspect all is not lost.” She circled it. “These objects are clues.” Nightshade pointed at the door with its keypad highlighting the word passphrase, then at the table.
Emma removed her sunglasses and studied the objects: a lipstick, a few empty beer cans, a broken plastic car, a toothbrush, several crushed cereal boxes, pens, dolls and a load more junk.
“Anything stand out?” Nightshade asked.
Emma shook her head and slipped the sunglasses back on. “It’s just rubbish.” She picked up a broken mug and flipped it over, but apart from a maker’s logo on the bottom, there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Nightshade backed away and ran a hand through her tousled hair.
Emma checked several more of the objects, but still found nothing obvious: no words made a logical passphrase.
As the minutes rolled by, Emma’s frustration and anxiety grew. She tossed a beer can back onto the table. “There’s nothing here.” She looked about the room, torch held high. There wasn’t even graffiti on the walls. If it hadn’t been for the new door and lock, she would have assumed no-one had been down here for decades. Emma huffed and faced the table again.
Mac reached for a stack of paper cups.
“Wait.” Emma held up a hand and swept the torch across the far right-hand side of the table. She paused for a few seconds to process, and then moved the light again to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks. “I’ve got it.” Emma rested the torch on the table and shone its light across the surface. The beam cast shadows of the cluttered objects onto the wall, spelling out the word DEAD. She shuddered.
Nightshade grinned. “Well done, darling.”
Emma swung the spotlight across the rest of the table, but it was now a jumbled me
ss. She smacked her forehead. “I moved it.”
“Can you remember where everything went?” Mac asked.
Emma squeezed her eyes closed, but the image of Ruby rushed forward, followed by Uncle Martin, and then Sophie’s lifeless eyes. “I can’t do it.” She looked at Nightshade. “I just— It’s too much.”
Nightshade went to her. “Today has been horrendous. A nonstop rush of murder and mayhem.” Her gaze drifted to the security door and back again. “Whatever is in there, we have to get at it. You know we do.”
Tears slid from beneath Emma’s sunglasses. “If we stop playing their game,” she whispered, “they might give up.”
“Oh darling, I wish that were true. This is still part of the killer’s plan. Whether or not we play along, I fear it’s too late.” She took another step toward Emma and lowered her voice. “But if we continue, we stand a chance of catching them.”
Mac stepped forward too. “If you want to leave, Emma, say the word.”
Emma had wanted to leave at every point, to go home, where she was safe, where she could paint and ignore the world. But here she was.
Emma pulled in a deep breath, removed her sunglasses again, and faced the table. The images rushed up at her—Sophie, Uncle Martin, Ruby—but this time she forced them back, visualising holding her hands up and pushing them away as if they were tangible objects.
The table came back into focus, and increased in brightness and clarity, overriding everything else.
Emma moved the salt and pepper shakers, then the rolls of tape. The crushed cereal boxes went here, the mug there, next to the stack of plugs and the teddy bear with the missing ear.
After a few minutes Emma stepped back. She looked across the table and lined up the real world with the image in her mind’s eye.
Once satisfied she’d returned everything to its original place, Emma took the torch and, starting at the far left of the table, moved the beam along its surface.
The shadows spelled out:
The ape is dead.
Emma recoiled at the phrase.
“Try it,” Nightshade whispered.
Body stiff, Emma walked to the door and typed in the passphrase. There came a soft whirr and a heavy clunk as bolts disengaged.
With Nightshade and Mac close behind, Emma took a deep breath and pushed the heavy steel door open.
Another room lay beyond, and overhead lights flickered.
The space was fifteen feet square and rusty brackets jutted from the floor. Another steel door sat opposite, closed, with no handle or lock. Apart from that, the room stood empty.
Emma frowned, and as she turned back to the orange door the light from the torch swept across the wall next to it, revealing a dark object hanging there. Emma cried out and staggered back. She almost tripped over her own feet as horrified recognition slammed into her senses.
Hanging from a horizontal wooden cross, ropes fixed to his wrists, knees, ankles and neck, held aloft by pulleys, was Jacob. Emma didn’t need to check for a pulse. His glazed eyes and anguished expression made it clear that he was long since dead.
Painted on the wall next to the body was another phrase from Romeo and Juliet:
And, on my life,
hath stol'n him home to bed.
Emma turned away and clapped a hand over her mouth as she fought the urge to vomit.
“Darling, come and look for clues.”
Emma took a breath, turned back, and peered over the top of her sunglasses as she swung the beam of the torch over the scene.
Jacob still wore his security uniform, his baseball cap lay on the floor, and blood dripped from his scalp. A few bruises and a deep cut were visible around his neck. Someone had rolled up Jacob’s right sleeve and tattooed a number one in blue ink on his bare arm.
Emma took a step forward and pointed at the corner of a piece of parchment stuck out of Jacob’s shirt pocket. She glanced at Nightshade.
Nightshade gave her a nod.
Teeth clenched, body rigid, Emma stretched out a shaking hand, and between thumb and forefinger, slid the parchment from Jacob’s pocket.
It read,
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
Emma stared at it. Another clue from the deranged killer. She looked over at Nightshade. “What does it mean?”
Nightshade shook her head.
Emma’s face dropped. “Mum’s gone to Jacob’s house,” Her stomach tightened. “The murderer could still be there.” She pulled her phone from her pocket. However, there was no signal.
Emma ran from the rooms and onto the platform. She checked her phone again: still no signal. Emma swore, looked for oncoming trains, then dropped onto the track and jogged up the tunnel.
“Slow down.” Mac hurried after her, with Nightshade close behind.
Emma raced to the fork in the tunnel. Ahead, she could make out the metal rungs that led back up to the surface. She jogged faster, careful to watch her footing.
“Darling, calm yourself,” Nightshade called.
Mac ran to catch up with her.
As Emma reached the rungs, she checked her phone for a third time: a solitary bar of signal. She called her mother’s number and pressed the phone to her ear. After about the twentieth ring, she swore and ended the call. “Where is she?”
Nightshade joined them, panting.
Emma grabbed the rungs and made her way back up. When she reached the top, the carousel had fallen silent: no music, no spinning, no chatter. Good. Emma didn’t want to face anyone else. She’d run back to the car and ask Neil to take her home, as long as the police had gone.
Emma opened the door. The carousel’s lights were now off. She hurried between the wooden horses, down the steps, swung open the gate, and stopped dead in her tracks.
Five police officers marched toward her, with Detectives Brennan and Hill in the lead.
37
Emma paced in the holding cell, only able to take a few steps each way, before swearing under her breath and doing an about-face. She narrowed her eyes against the harsh light as the beginnings of a fresh migraine stabbed her temples.
Nightshade sat cross-legged on a plastic-covered mattress, and her eyes followed Emma as she walked up and down.
The cell’s tiled walls, steel door, and concrete floor gave it a cold, grim, clinical feel. Emma wondered how many pints of blood and puke had been wiped from the various surfaces over the years, and pulled her arms tight across her chest as she paced, fearful of touching anything.
An hour ago, the police officers had taken her sunglasses, hoodie and trainers. They’d replaced the latter with a fetching pair of backless slippers made of a hybrid material. Emma guessed it was recycled toilet paper and bath towels.
She’d then used her free phone call to attempt to get hold of her mother again, but when she’d gotten no reply, Emma phoned the lawyer instead and briefly explained what had happened.
The lawyer had simply said, “Leave it with me,” and hung up.
Which didn’t fill Emma with confidence.
As she paced the cell, Emma tried to ignore the camera pointed down at her, and wondered whether she could convince the guard to give back her sunglasses. “How long can they keep us here?” She had never been arrested before, which, given both her families’ dubious lines of work, would surprise most people on the outside.
“The police can hold us for up to thirty-six hours.” Nightshade scratched her head. “Given the seriousness of the crimes, I reckon on seventy-two hours, if they apply to the magistrates’ court.”
Emma groaned and kept pacing.
“The interviews could take hours or days,” Nightshade continued. “They have a lot of ground to cover. They’ll keep us here until they figure things out.”
“Today has been a nightmare.” Emma massaged her temples and held back a twinge of panic.
“What did you make of the parchment quote we found in Jacob’s pocket?” Nightshade asked.
Emma gaped at her. “Are you serious?”<
br />
“What?”
Emma waved a hand around the cell. “We’re stuck here for the foreseeable future, and you’re thinking about that?”
“I’m only asking what you think it could mean.” Nightshade glanced about the cell. “What else do we have to do while we wait? Play a game of I spy?”
Emma stared at her.
“We’ve missed a clue somewhere,” Nightshade said in a level tone. “Given what’s happened, I don’t believe for a second that the killer has stopped. That new parchment quote must go with something else. Something we’ve missed. As it stands, it’s out of context. We need to think. Go back to the start of the day, when we first saw Sophie, and work forward.”
Emma shook her head. “I’m tired.”
“If we don’t figure it out,” Nightshade said, “the worst-case scenario is that the cops will charge us for multiple murders. At best, obstructing an investigation, perverting the course of justice, failure to report a crime. Several crimes. In fact—”
“Okay, okay.” Emma blew out a puff of air.
Nightshade gestured to the bed next to her.
Emma sat down, took several deep breaths, closed her eyes, and shut the real world out.
The first image that sprang to mind was the moment they’d arrived at the warehouse: the converted barn with her father’s bus parked out front, along with the Lamborghini, and the grey sky.
She relayed what she saw to Nightshade.
“Good,” Nightshade said. “Go into the warehouse.”
Emma moved inside and along the shelves of artifacts, detached in emotion, yet everything was clear and vivid.
The crowd gathered around Sophie parted.
Emma recoiled.
“What are you seeing?” Nightshade asked.
“Sophie.” Emma jumped forward in time and watched as Jacob opened the crate, revealing the hollow terracotta warrior, then she went down to the vault with the empty table. “I’d almost forgotten about the Droeshout casket.” She opened an eye and looked at Nightshade.
“Don’t worry, darling, I haven’t.” Nightshade waved a hand. “Continue.”
Death in London: A Nightshade Crime Thriller (Emma & Nightshade Mystery Series Book 1) Page 20
