Suddenly he froze. There had only been his boat at the jetty! They couldn’t possibly have got away that quickly, unless that crash had been a biggish hull – a fishing boat, say – bumping the lee wall of the dam … No way. He’d seen the news, too. These chests were big, a ton weight, and they hadn’t had a crane this time. They were still here somewhere.
He flashed the beam onto the opposite wall, over the main steps up from the pit. Every few minutes the sprinklers washed them clean, but they were muddy now. He swore violently, and was about to run round again when the moon shone clear of the clouds for an instant. In that moment he found himself staring at a figure on the opposite walkway, an unmistakable silhouette against the sudden glitter on the sea. A woman, a tall, slender woman in a stance of rigid surprise …
The dog growled once, loud and fierce. She spun sharply on her heel and ducked into the shadow of the seawall. With a half-formed shout the guard sent the beam scything after her – too late. As she vanished into the tangle under the scaffolding the beam barely glanced on her flank, and the guard grunted with surprise. Smooth, dark, and slickly glistening – she had to be wearing a wetsuit. Her head had been clearly outlined, as if by wet hair. He turned and pounded back along the walkways, the dog straining at the leash and yipping with breathless anger. He kept one finger on the quick-release trigger for the leash, and in his other hand the tazer, thumb between torch-beam and firing-button. If whoever that was had really been crazy or determined enough to come swimming through seas like these, he’d better take them very, very seriously.
Latimer sent the tape skating further down the reel, past a hopeless attempt to interview a young digger called Paul, to the point where Neville’s face rose like a moon with moustache and horn-rims from behind some hull timbers.
‘Neville Battley, in everyday life a local government officer in Liverpool, is one of the most experienced volunteer diggers. Neville, this is your second season here – what makes you spend your hard-earned holidays this way?’ The on-screen Neville twitched his toothbrush moustache cheerfully. ‘Knee-deep in clag, you mean? I dunno, really. The sex, maybe. Or the drugs – plenty of that, there is, drugs. Mostly it’s spending the rest of the year polishing up me bum on office chairs.’
‘But why archaeology? Had you done any before?’
‘Oh aye. Spent a fortnight once scrapin’ out me granddad’s aquarium. Never found ’im, though. Got a thing going for me diving suit, mind you – oo, that rubber –’
The camera was developing a distinct shake, but Neville was interrupted in mid-quiver by a harsh shout from off-screen. ‘Battley, you stupid s.o.b.! Shut off that sprayer before you wash out the whole section!’
Neville snatched up the dribbling sprayer and held it up in a snappy Nazi salute, heel-click and all, thrusting two fingers over his already Hitlerian moustache.
‘Jawohl, mein Führer! Ve hear and obey!’ All the diggers in the audience cheered as the picture cut off hastily. Latimer looked at Pru, who’d been cheering with the rest.
‘That was this guy Colby? Not so popular, is he?’
Pru was blushing. ‘Well …’ She seemed to be almost writhing with the effort of saying anything unkind. ‘I suppose he’s nice enough really. But when we’re all pushed together like this things get sort of exaggerated – everyone living on top of each other all the time –’ With you I like that idea! thought Latimer, ‘– and he’s brilliant, really, but a bit too arrogant about it, I mean he and Wilf – oh dear –’
Jackson’s smiling face popped round the door as if she had conjured him up. ‘Evening everyone! Pru – oh, hallo Tom. Quite a gathering, eh? Except Jay, of course. He’ll come rolling in at three in the morning and fall over everybody.’
‘He lives here, then?’
Jackson pursed his lips. ‘Just about everyone does. It’s cheap, you see. We archaeologists don’t earn much; not till we reach Hal Hansen’s level, with books and broadcasts and guest lectures and so on. So he has a room at the Two Ravens –’
Pru laughed. ‘Nobody minds that, really. He needs his privacy to work – and he comes down here often enough.’
Jackson smiled again. ‘He does come slumming now and again. I was hoping I’d find him here, actually. Any idea, Pru?’
‘Well – he did say he was going back to the Ravens to do some work. But I saw Jess get into his car, so he must be giving her a lift home.’
Jackson’s smile became very knowing. ‘Ah yes. Tom, you’ve met Ms Thorne? I see you have. She’s our other anti-social type. She’d rather go off and live like a hermit on a particularly windy cliff top at Fern Farm.’
Latimer blinked. The Fern Farm estate was miles out of town; quite a lift home. Well, well. So the iron lady did have a soft spot, after all? Hansen – old enough to be her father, and she bit your head off for making a simple suggestion. Typical, bloody typical …
‘Don’t listen to him, Tom,’ Pru was saying. ‘She’s very comfortable, really. And it’s a beautiful view. We keep an old caravan – or would you call it a trailer, like Jess does? Anyway, we keep it there to rent to tourists sometimes. She took it when she came over for the temple dig, and liked it so much she’s taken it again this season. I don’t blame her a bit, really.’
‘Well, at least no one wakes her up at three o’clock in the morning,’ sighed Jackson. ‘What’s all this gear, Tom? Holiday snaps?’
‘Just a few interviews they didn’t use tonight. Get to see yourself, then?’
He’d asked the right question: Jackson was positively glowing. ‘Yes, actually – in the cafe where I was eating. Made me feel like quite a celebrity. Er – listen, Tom, I hate to bother you, but could you get me a copy of that bit? With the interview. Not for me really; it’s more for Pru –’
‘Sure,’ said Latimer. ‘No problem, squire.’ You jammy bugger, he thought. You and Pru, eh? So that’s why she dosses down here. ‘There was one of Pru as well,’ he added aloud. ‘Haven’t seen that yet – we were savin’ all the treats for the end.’ He grinned at Pru, and saw her blush all the way up to her hairline. Three cheers for the English rose. ‘Let’s have it now, eh?’
There was a rumble of agreement from the diggers. He clicked a second cassette into the machine, and Pru appeared on the deck of the tender boat, kneeling by a pile of plastic-swathed timbers she was labelling.
‘For one dig volunteer,’ said his voice-over, ‘the whole Fern Farm project has a special significance. Prudence Ravenshead. Pru, hallo.’ She dimpled prettily, at the camera. ‘The whole project’s pretty much a family affair, isn’t it?’
She laughed. ‘You could say that. It did all start when we were having new power lines put in up to the house, because ours are always going wrong, you know, and blacking the whole place out, and then they found some paving and a buckle, and the local history people and the Museum started a little dig, and called in the British Museum, but they couldn’t afford it on their own so they called in the Texans because they’ve got lots of money and Hal Hansen’s an absolute Viking fanatic and …’
‘And so you’re working under Rayner College supervision now,’ he interrupted, to dam the flood. ‘Your family have been landowners round here for a long time, haven’t they? How long, exactly?’
‘Oh gosh, I don’t know really. Almost for ever, we’re in the Domesday Book as the local squires, and we’ve got a coat of arms from somewhere, it’s the sign on the Two Ravens you know, but that sounds awfully snobbish, doesn’t it? There’s really nothing special about us now.’
Latimer froze the frame on Pru’s particularly winsome smile, and grinned over at her. ‘Wouldn’t say that, exactly.’ He could never use that clip, of course, but it had been a useful lead in to chatting her up, whether or not it actually made it to the screen – he could just blame that on his editor.
Jackson touched his arm. ‘Tom – you’re up here for news, aren’t you? But had you thought of doing something else – a little feature piece for Timescape, maybe?’
Jeez Louise, thought Latimer, he’s not reading my mind, is he?
Jackson steepled his fingers. ‘You see, the archaeology of this area – well, it’s my speciality – my doctoral subject. That’s why I’m site director here. And I have some fascinating ideas –’
If they’re anything like mine you’re some kind of perv. ‘Okay, we’ll have a chat about them some time soon,’ was what he actually said. ‘Over a pint, maybe.’ He looked around. The party atmosphere had definitely died, and the diggers were chatting softly among themselves; even Neville had dampened down. What the hell had done that? Couldn’t be Jackson, could it? ‘By the way, talking of features, I had an idea of centring one on your Mr Colby, after his showstopper this morning. But Prof Hansen stood on it hard.’
Jackson’s smile hardened. ‘Yes, well, he would. Colby’s his star doctoral student – his protégé, really. But it’s no use hiding it from you, Tom, that there was some opposition to his appointment here.’
‘Doesn’t he know his stuff, then?’
‘Oh, he’s brilliant,’ admitted Jackson, ‘but I prefer my supervisors to have more practical knowledge. That matter of the keel – it was Colby’s insistence on raising it in one piece that led to the accident. The rule in such cases is to section the timber. But Hansen backed him, of course.’
‘Why “of course”? What is it with those two?’
Jackson looked around theatrically and lowered his voice. ‘Well, strictly off the record, I believe the professor feels rather responsible for him. You see, a couple of years ago when Colby was a senior student at Rayner – and some kind of football star – you’ve heard of American college fraternities? He was president of one. They often have bizarre initiation rites for freshmen – sometimes they go too far … I believe the boy in this case never recovered consciousness.’
Latimer whistled softly.
‘Indeed,’ said Jackson. ‘An unfortunate accident – no question of charges. Even the family money wouldn’t have saved him from being expelled, but Hansen stood up for him. Perhaps because he was such a promising student, perhaps …’ He shrugged. ‘You know Hansen is close to Jessica Thorne? Since around that time, I believe. Before that, she and Colby had been friends.’
‘Uhuh,’ said Latimer. ‘Really put my furry little foot in it, didn’t I? Thanks for telling me. No wonder Hansen didn’t want publicity. Well, he won’t get it. No story in that – not for any news outfit I’d want to work for.’
He made sure Pru heard that. She had been hovering around anxiously.
‘We’re making coffee,’ she called over. ‘Want some?’
‘And something stronger in it?’ suggested Jackson.
‘Why not?’ said Latimer. Now what’s going on here? I wouldn’t blab all that to a newshound I hardly knew. Not sure I like this guy – or is he just a bit naive? Well, either way, he’s not going to hang onto Ms Pru for long. She’s not the dumb blonde she makes herself out. Give her half a chance, and she’ll run.
The guard and the dog came pounding up to the shadowy seawall and plunged, without stopping, into the maze of tarpaulin-draped equipment at its base. He’d flashed the torch-beam over it as he ran, and seen nobody, so they had to be hiding in here somewhere. He flicked the dazzling beam to left and right, but its intensity only seemed to deepen the shadows – shadows that hopped and twitched startlingly with every little tremor of the light. The wire cage that screened off the main generators cast a confusing grid over everything, breaking up the outlines.
Behind the generators – had he heard the faintest rustling? He squinted cautiously through the mesh, and saw nothing. He snorted impatiently, stepped round – and fell back with a yell as something dark whirled up in his face, all but triggering the tazer. But as the gust died the scrap of canvas fell away again, and he leaned back against the cage, trying to slow the heartbeat that thundered in his ears. He hated being spooked. He’d been made to look a complete bloody idiot, and almost wasted a valuable shot. Well, he’d make good use of it now; someone was going to suffer for this.
He suddenly became aware that the dog was whining at his heel, straining the lead again, but in an unexpected direction. It was facing the narrow stairway – little more than a ladder with wider treads – that led up to the two higher floors on the scaffolding. He stared. They must be pretty well spooked themselves to hide up there – now he just had to search each floor in turn, keeping an eye on the ladders. Maybe they were only panicky teenagers – he thought about shouting up to them to stop pissing about and come down –
He looked up sharply. The faint, slow creak had come from above – from the boards of the first floor. He waited a moment in silence, breathing shallowly, and heard it again. It seemed to come from directly over his head: a soft, gradual sound like the measured footfall of someone infinitely patient – and very heavy. They would need to be, to make solid boards creak like that. They seemed to be moving closer to the stairwell … For a moment he braced himself, expecting a sudden rush down out of the dark. Then he heard another footfall, and a different, sharper creak, and remembered suddenly that the stairway to the second floor was, naturally enough, right beside the first. And he realised, too, that the top of the wall would make an excellent vantage point for someone to signal any pickup boats he – or she – happened to have waiting around …
With a furious hiss the guard triggered the leash release and cracked it, whip-like, off the dog’s collar. In the same movement the animal sprang for the stairs with a ravening growl and bounded up them, claws clacking on the rubber-sheathed metal. The guard was right on its heels, torch full on now and searing away the dark. It was a manoeuvre they’d often rehearsed in training. Anyone waiting to attack the guard met the dog, and anyone attacking the dog would find the tazer a shocking experience.
The guard jumped the last few steps, caught a stanchion, and swung himself up round it, in the same movement sweeping the beam right round the first floor. Only shadows leapt out at him. Then he looked up, shouted, and jabbed his thumb hard on the trigger button. There was a flash, a bang, and the tazer jerked in his hand as the little streak of silver spat down the torch-beam, straight at the leg that was just lifting off the last step up.
But with a spanging smack of metal it struck sparks off the stairs and ricocheted away into the shadows. Snarling, the guard jerked its tail of fine wire free of the little pulley inside the barrel – the dart had discharged its voltage now, and it was useless. Then he was off after the dog, now bounding up the last few steps. Again he leaped, and swung himself up on the supports of a fuel tank, squinting into the wind that was suddenly whipping at his cheeks. The top of the wall formed a high parapet to this floor; it offered little shelter, and not much was kept up here except the gravity-feed tank for the boats and generators. The only place anyone could possibly be hiding was at the far end, behind one or two low stacks of boxes swathed in glossy black plastic. The dog stood facing them, growling faintly, and the guard’s face twisted into a lop-sided grin. There couldn’t be room for more than two back there, so the one shot he had left would be enough.
He bent down to the dog. ‘Well, boy? Going to go flush ’em out for me, are you?’ It growled, once, more savagely than he’d ever heard it growl before, but it didn’t move. ‘Well? What’re you waiting for, yer great daft gowk – the tide?’ He jerked its collar forward, and finally had to nudge it with his boot. It went then, but not bounding forward as it was trained to; it went low on its belly, ears back, hackles rising, with a continual singsong snarl of menace. A sudden chilly qualm of realisation crept over the guard. The dog wasn’t hunting something out – it was stalking it, stalking something it saw as a serious threat …
He plunged forward, but in that moment the dog also sprang, onto and over the pile of boxes and back down on whoever was behind them, taking the topmost boxes with it. He winced at the impact. The brute was as strong as most men, and the way it was now, half crazy with fear, it was quite capable of ripping somebody’
s throat out, and where would they all be then? He had to get it off – with the tazer, if need be. But then he saw it thrown back and away, rolling over and over almost to the edge of the inside railing, with nothing but open space beyond it and the pit far beneath. It was stopping, barking, snarling, gathering for another spring at the dark figure rising out of the wreckage. He swung up the tazer. The one that moved first –
The figure’s head turned, and he jerked the beam away from the dog. But before it made contact there was a flurry of movement, a black blur rising in the light towards him, and he stabbed the second trigger in the instant before he dived aside. The flash, the bang, and the thump of connection were almost simultaneous, and as he hit the wall and dropped he felt the boards spring and vibrate under the crashing weight that struck them. Dizzy with relief, he hauled himself quickly up against the wall – and then he choked. Against the turbulent sky in front of him, the figure was also standing – the same slender female silhouette he had seen below, the same slim shape that had just been hit by a dart carrying an electrical charge calculated to stun, even hospitalise, the strongest man.
The foul smell of the pit seemed to grow stronger, as if the seawind caught it up like spray. Suddenly he could hardly breathe for it, and shook his head violently, choking on the rankness of the air. In that instant there was a rush of feet and weight slammed into him, forcing him back against the wall, pinning him there. Fingers touched his face almost caressingly, choosing their place. Then they closed – hard.
He screamed through teeth he could not open, shook his head violently and only increased the terrible strain on his neck. The heel of the chill hand was under his chin, forcing it up and back with the slow strength of a hydraulic press. He battered at the arm beyond for a futile instant, and then, in desperation, he grabbed the wrist and heaved. The grip broke, and he kicked upwards, trying to put a knee in his enemy’s stomach, bracing himself against the seawall. But again the fingers closed, and his head sang with the pressure. Through distorted eyes he saw the shadowed head stoop over him, and then he felt his spine bend back against the seawall, creaking. Between pain and pressure he could hardly breathe, and the blood roared in his ears. He tried to claw the fingers off his face, but a terrible, numbing tingle was growing in his arms, and he could hardly control them.
The Ice King Page 3
