Dead Water

by Matt Brolly

  A movement to his left startled him, and he turned to see a fox. The animal was less than fifty metres away and stared at Lambert as if questioning his right to be there. The animal remained motionless as Lambert walked further up the incline before sprinting away into the undergrowth.

  Fowler’s allotment was at the far end of the fields. It was a secluded patch surrounded by a copse of trees. Low branches hung above the wooden shed at the end of the allotment that bordered the metal perimeter fence. Lambert shone his torch down the pathway, the beam of light dissecting the spot of land where Fowler had been growing various forms of greenery. Lambert edged closer. He couldn’t see any sign of life within the hut but kept his baton withdrawn as he tried the locked door. There were no windows. The hut was encased by overgrown bushes that clung to the side and roof of the small building, the rear of the hut pushed tight against the metal fence so there was no other means of access. If Fowler wasn’t here where was he?

  He returned to the door and shook it a couple of times. He looked into the complete darkness and kicked hard into the lock. The door splintered but the lock held. He took a step back and tried again, the bottom half of the door coming way. A few more kicks and the door opened, a gust of stale air drifting towards him laced with something familiar but indefinable. ‘DCI Lambert. Anyone there?’

  His torch lit up the interior revealing a solitary metallic chair fixed to railings protruding from a concrete floor. Lambert edged nearer, his torch revealing a small watermark covering the base of the chair.

  A humming noise came from the back of the hut. Lambert moved towards the noise, revealing a false wall with a small opening. He cracked open the gap and stepped through, his baton raised, before turning away as his torch fell on the frozen remains of Joseph Wyatt.

  Wyatt’s coffin was a deep chest freezer, the source of the hum. His corpse was partially lit by the interior light of his coffin and his wide eyes stared at Lambert in perpetual shock.

  Lambert had no time to concern himself with whether or not Wyatt deserved his frozen prison. The secret room held a back door. Lambert pulled it open revealing the perimeter fence, a section of which had been cut away. A piece of a clothing had caught on one of the rungs of metal. It flapped in the gentle breeze that carried the distant sound of the River Thames.

  20

  Tillman made it as hard as possible for Fowler, but he had so little strength left that it was difficult to fight as Fowler dragged him through the pathway at the rear of the shed. Had Devlin and Kirby suffered the same indignity before Fowler drowned them? He tried his best to question the man but the exertion of walking after his days of captivity left him breathless.

  As the riverbank came into sight, Tillman collapsed to the ground. Neither Devlin nor Kirby’s body had been found near to Fowler’s house. He must have moved them afterwards and even in his predicament, Tillman scanned the night sky for sign of a vehicle.

  Fowler didn’t object to Tillman’s enforced stop. His breathing was laboured and as Tillman lay in the damp grass, Fowler bent over on his hands and knees.

  Once his breath was back, Tillman spoke. ‘I saved Alice. Surely that’s worth something to you?’

  Fowler straightened himself up. ‘But that’s my point, Tillman. You didn’t. You could have, but you didn’t.’

  Tillman sighed and sat up, the muscles in his arms tearing from the pain of being cuffed behind his back. ‘He’s gone now. You did what I couldn’t,’ said Tillman, changing tact.

  ‘Yes he is, but Alice isn’t back. She never will be. You have to pay for your mistakes, Tillman. I think deep down you know that.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Fowler. I have family. So did Devlin and Kirby. After all that happened to you, how can you do this? You will be destroying innocent lives, as much as your lives were destroyed by what happened to Alice.’

  Fowler bent to his knees again, groaning from the effort. Tillman was surprised to see tears in the old man’s eyes. ‘Don’t you think I know that? This isn’t something I entered into lightly. I’m a fair man, Chief Superintendent Tillman. I know I have done wrong and I too must be punished. With Wyatt gone, and those who’d let him live punished, maybe Alice and her mother will be able to get on with their lives.’

  ‘And what about you?’ asked Tillman, playing for time.

  For a split second, Fowler looked lost as if he’d not thought that far in advance. ‘They’ll be able to go on without me.’

  ‘Think about it, Fowler. How do you think they’ll feel visiting you in prison? They’ll end up seeing you the same way you see Wyatt.’

  Fowler didn’t answer. He glanced towards the ground as if the answer lay in the soil beneath him.

  Tillman understood. ‘You plan to take your own life?’

  Fowler nodded. He looked at Tillman, the glance almost apologetic. ‘Yes, after I have taken yours.’

  ‘You think Alice would want this?’

  ‘Enough,’ screamed Fowler, spittle flying from his mouth and his face distorted into something Tillman couldn’t recognise. ‘On your feet.’

  ‘Fuck you, Fowler. If you want me to go any further, then you’re going to have to drag me there yourself.’

  Fowler pushed Tillman onto his back, the force crushing Tillman’s arms which were pinned beneath his weight. ‘Let’s see if you have the same resolve in a minute,’ said Fowler, retrieving a cloth and a bottle of water from his rucksack.

  Tillman did his best not to panic as Fowler placed the cloth over his face. He kicked his legs out to no effect as Fowler poured the water onto his covered face. Was this what insanity was like, thought Tillman as the panic took over every part of him. The feeling of his mind failing was tangible. He pictured it as a branch of a tree being snapped from the trunk. It was creaking, close to breaking completely when Fowler removed the rag. There was no relief in the sensation. Tillman choked and grasped for breath but however hard he fought he couldn’t find enough air. He was lost to himself. A distant part of him heard Fowler talking, the sound of the night air billowing through the grass and the gentle trickle of the river, but Tillman was in a world of his own. His mind was a blank void, his consciousness stuck within the nothingness.

  ‘Get up, Tillman,’ said Fowler, shaking Tillman’s limp and inactive body. ‘You want to go through that again?’

  Tillman stared blankly ahead as the words seeped through to the void. His reaction was visceral. At that moment he didn’t understand what was being said, only the inherent threat. He stood up and allowed Fowler to guide him to the river.

  21

  Lambert crawled through the opening at the back of the shed, his hands and knees finding the murkiness of a cold puddle of water. Metres ahead, the drooping vines and trees gave way to a narrow pathway where he was able to stand. His torch revealed two sets of footprints and he began to jog, keeping his pace steady, refusing to panic, as he followed the dirt track towards the river.

  He refused to think the worst. He had to believe Tillman was alive, and that he could reach him in time.

  Once Lambert made sight of the riverbank he upped his pace, within seconds falling over an object in the middle of the track.

  He landed heavy, his right knee striking a loose rock. The pain rattled through his body and it was a few seconds before he had the strength to check for damage. A second wave of pain caused him to close his eyes, as he stood and placed weight on the damaged knee.

  The object was a rucksack filled with two large plastic containers full of water. Next to the bag was a third empty container and a wet rag. It was easy enough to deduce what had happened. The grass to the side of the path was flattened and it appeared some form of struggle had taken place but there was still no sign of Tillman.

  The pain in his knee was still intense. In any other circumstances, he would have fallen back to the ground but the thought of Tillman forced him onwards. He limped forwards, hopping through the undergrowth until his knee started to accept his full weight again. He could hear
the river in the distance cutting the quietness of the still night and all of a sudden he was descending down a steep incline. He slipped, his injured leg giving away, and stumbled down the hill using his hands and stronger leg to keep himself upright.

  The river was in view now. It merged into the darkness of the night but he could make out its blurred meandering shape and the shadowy outline of two figures embraced as if lovers on the water edge.

  Although Tillman’s senses had returned, he was not the same person. He’d been forced to change to save himself. He was surviving on animal instinct and understood there was only one way he would endure the next few minutes.

  Fowler wanted to die. He’d admitted as much to Tillman in his pathetic attempt to justify his own actions. Tillman didn’t know if he planned to drown himself afterwards – the very thought sounded preposterous – but he would be happy to help the man reach his goal. As they stopped by the water’s edge, Tillman didn’t waste any more energy reasoning with the man. He’d given Fowler that opportunity and it was clear he was now beyond logic. He would only have the one opportunity. His strength and energy were all but depleted but he wouldn’t give in without one last effort.

  ‘This is it then, Glenn,’ said Fowler. ‘Any last words?’

  Tillman poised himself. His hands were cuffed behind him but he could still do damage with his body. ‘Fuck you, Fowler.’

  Fowler sighed as if disappointed. ‘It will be so much easier if you don’t struggle,’ he said, grabbing the metal cuffs on Tillman’s wrists with one hand as the other guided him into the water.

  Tillman’s heart raged as the cold water seeped up his legs. This can’t be it, he said to himself. He stumbled forwards, allowing the water to reach his waist, and stopped dead and lowered his back. Fowler followed him, stumbling forward. Tillman used the man’s momentum to flip him over his back and into the water.

  As Fowler emerged, his breathless face a parody of the suffering he’d inflicted on his victims, Tillman lent forward and sent his head crashing into his nose.

  Fowler fell backwards into the water once more. Tillman, who’d lost his balance, landed on top of the man. He began to panic. Being submerged was too reminiscent of his recent struggles. He thrashed in the shallow water as beneath him, Fowler slipped away.

  Once more, Tillman’s sanity was fading when he felt a pair of hands grip his handcuffs and roughly pull his head from the water. The cold air pinched his skin and for a split second he was back in the shed, sitting on the chair as Fowler removed the cloth from his face. He gasped at the cold air, only able to stand upright thanks to the man holding him in place.

  Fowler didn’t bother turning him around to face him. Like Tillman he was breathless and it was some time before he spoke. ‘Okay, shall we try that again?’ he said, pushing Tillman back beneath the water.

  Lambert tripped down the hill as the figures disappeared from sight. As a child, Lambert had a recurring nightmare where he was trying to run to his parents’ bedroom but an invisible force held up back. He was reminded of that now as he made slow progress towards the river. His knee throbbed and each step sent shivers of pain up his leg and spine. As the two figures resurfaced, he almost lost his footing again. He went to call out Tillman’s name only to hold his breath as he saw the taller of two figures hold the other beneath the water.

  Baton in one hand Lambert rushed into the water, the cold chill numbing the pain in his leg. Only the moon and the residual light from the distant city buildings lighted the scene, but he could see it was Fowler holding Tillman beneath the water. He didn’t hesitate or call out either man’s name as he swung the baton hard onto the back of Fowler’s skull.

  Fowler paused - as if deciding the effect of the impact - before falling forwards into the river. However, he wasn’t out cold. His hands and arms braced for his fall, and as he landed he used the body beneath the water for leverage.

  Lambert stumbled forward and grabbed Fowler by the throat. He was strong and it took all of Lambert’s effort to drag him off Tillman. As he held him, one arm around his throat, Tillman emerged from the river.

  Or what once must have been Tillman. In his place was a lost-looking character who appeared to have shed a quarter of his body weight in the four days he’d been missing. ‘Glenn?’ said Lambert.

  Tillman nodded. ‘I’m okay, Michael,’ he said, sounding anything but. ‘You better turn around though.’

  With his grip iron clad on Fowler, Lambert turned around.

  On the riverbank stood Mrs Fowler. In her hands, a loaded shot gun.

  22

  Lambert held onto Mr Fowler. The strength in the man’s body had dissipated. He was now a bag of bones and it was taking all of Lambert’s strength to keep him upright. ‘It’s over, Mrs Fowler,’ he said as he stepped forward, Tillman keeping behind the shelter of the entwined bodies.

  ‘You should have let him die,’ said Mrs Fowler.

  Lambert stopped moving. Fowler was still an effective shield against the gun but he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold onto to him. Fowler’s breathing was shallow and he appeared to have slipped into unconsciousness. ‘Your husband needs assistance, Mrs Fowler. Put the gun down and I will get some help.’

  ‘Send out Tillman first.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Then I’ll shoot through you.’

  ‘You risk killing your husband.’

  Mrs Fowler laughed, the sound mirthless and unnerving. ‘Don’t you think I know that? He was going to die tonight anyway. We both were,’ she added, lifting the gun.

  ‘Why?’ said Lambert, lifting Fowler as a shield and preparing to run towards her.

  ‘It’s over. Wyatt is gone, and those responsible have paid the price.’

  ‘And what about Alice?’ asked Lambert, his focus now intent on Mrs Fowler.

  ‘Do you have any idea what it’s been like for us with that girl? We’ve tried our best, heaven knows, but Wyatt killed her that day. Maybe if your boss hadn’t been such a coward then this would have never happened. If Wyatt had been killed, then Alice would never have had anything to worry about?’

  ‘Mum?’

  Lambert had noticed the figure of Alice Fowler hovering on the hill behind her mother as soon as he turned to face the gun. As Mrs Fowler turned towards her daughter, Lambert dropped Tom Fowler and ran.

  The river was a natural barrier and Lambert felt he was making little progress as he battled against the current. Mrs Fowler still had her back to him as he left the water, his feet unsteady on the slick mud of the riverbank. He wished she didn’t have the gun still held in her arms. He had no idea if she’d used it before, if the gun had a safety button, or if her finger was on the trigger, but he didn’t have an option. She had to be disarmed, so he ran straight at her legs like an over-enthusiastic rugby player.

  She hadn’t even hit the ground before the shot rang out in the still night air.

  Mrs Fowler dropped the gun and lay prone on the floor as if the bullet had somehow hit her. Lambert secured the weapon before doing anything else, discharging the remaining bullet. His ears were ringing as he rolled off Mrs Fowler’s body and stared at the space where Alice had been standing.

  Lambert closed his eyes for a split second, preparing for what he was about to see. Alice lay on the ground in perfect imitation of her mother. He rushed towards to her, the shot gun in his hand, hoping instinct had driven her to the floor. ‘Alice?’ he said, scrambling to his knees and checking for her pulse and signs of an entry wound.

  The woman opened her eyes and despite the circumstances offered him a smile. ‘I think I’m okay,’ she said.

  As Lambert checked her over he turned his attention back to the river. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered to himself. He would have laughed if he had the energy. Mr Fowler was on his back, his face facing the night sky, and was being dragged deeper into the water by Tillman.

  Lambert sighed. ‘Wait here, Alice,’ he said.

  ‘Glenn, what the he
ll are you doing?’ he asked his boss, once he reached the shore.

  ‘Leave it, Lambert,’ said Tillman.

  Lambert walked forward. Somehow the water was colder this time round. ‘Just bring him back to shore, Glenn. I’ve had enough drama for today.’

  ‘You don’t know what he did to me?’ said Tillman.

  Lambert kept moving forwards. He hated the look of fear on Tillman’s face. ‘Glenn, you would never live with yourself if you did anything to him. I know he deserves it but you’re not like that. You’re not Devlin or Kirby. You saved Alice. Even saved that asshole Wyatt. You can’t give it all away on Fowler. He’ll get what’s coming to him.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Tillman, floundering.

  They stood, staring at each other as the water flowed over the still body of Mr Fowler. It was Tillman who eventually broke the impasse. ‘You going to shoot me if I don’t let him go, Michael?’ he said, glancing towards the gun.

  With that it was over. Lambert smiled. ‘Something like that. Come on, boss, let’s get out of this bloody water.’

  23

  ‘I quite like this,’ said Chloe.

  ‘Me too,’ said Lambert, surprised his daughter had taken the words out of his mouth. They were making the short walk back from school together hand in hand and he’d just that second been thinking that life didn’t really get any better than this.

  Sophie was waiting for them at home. She’d taken a half-day off work and had prepared an early meal for them as Lambert had to head back into town that afternoon. In Chloe’s honour, Sophie had prepared their daughter’s favourite meal: breaded fish, chips, and peas with an endless supply of tomato ketchup.