‘You’re under arrest,’ said the blind man, slamming Baseball Jacket against the side of the carriage. The white cane dropped to the floor.
Motorcycle Jacket skidded to a halt and held out his stun gun. ‘You’re not blind!’ he shouted.
‘It’s a miracle,’ grinned the blind man, jerking Baseball Jacket’s arm up behind his back until the teenager yelped in pain.
Motorcycle Jacket glared at the blind man, then spat at his face and jumped out of the carriage. The blind man pushed Baseball Jacket towards the two plainclothes policemen, who grabbed his arms, then he tossed his sunglasses away and chased after Motorcycle Jacket.
The uniformed inspector shook his head in frustration as he stared at the closed-circuit television monitor. The teenager in the motorcycle jacket was cannoning down the platform, pushing people out of his way and waving his stun gun in the air. Nick Wright was in pursuit, his arms pumping furiously as he ran. On another monitor Tommy Reid stumbled out on to the platform, still holding his bottle, and was almost bowled over by the fleeing mugger.
‘Keystone bloody Cops,’ muttered the inspector.
‘Sorry, sir?’ said the shirtsleeved officer sitting in front of him.
‘Where are the reinforcements?’ said the inspector, putting his hands on the back of the officer’s chair and leaning closer to the rank of monitors.
‘Main ticketing area, sir,’ said the officer. He pressed a button on the panel in front of him and the image on the central monitor changed to show half a dozen uniformed British Transport Police officers sprinting towards the top of the escalators.
The inspector straightened up and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He watched the mugger run into one of the exits, closely followed by Wright. At least Wright appeared to be gaining on him.
Nick Wright exhaled through clenched teeth as he ran, his lungs burning with each breath. He swung around a corner just in time to see Motorcycle Jacket collide with a guitar-playing busker, scattering a tin can of coins across the tiled floor.
‘Stop him!’ Wright shouted, but no one moved to help. His quarry sprinted to the escalators and ran up, pushing people out of the way.
‘Police!’ yelled Wright. ‘Move, people, please!’ Again his pleas were ignored and he had physically to force his way up the escalator after the teenager.
Motorcycle Jacket was halfway up the escalator when a group of six uniformed officers appeared at the top and fanned out. The boy snarled at the waiting officers, then leaped off the escalator and on to the concrete stairs. He sped down the steps, taking them five at a time, as the policemen rushed to the down escalator.
Wright vaulted off the escalator and on to the stairs, twisting his leg as he landed. Passengers on both escalators watched in amazement as the teenager cannoned down the steps with Wright in pursuit.
As they neared the bottom of the stairs, Reid appeared around the corner. His jaw dropped as he saw Motorcycle Jacket running towards him, and before he could react, Motorcycle Jacket ran into him, knocking him to the side.
The teenager was a good fifteen years younger than Wright, and Wright cursed the age difference as he ran. He took a quick look over his shoulder, flashing Reid a sympathetic smile. In his earpiece, Wright could hear the inspector giving instructions to his men, but there was no sign of the uniformed officers. Motorcycle Jacket reached a crossroads and dashed off to the left, forcing his way between two students with rucksacks. The tunnel led to a platform which Motorcycle Jacket sprinted along. Closed-circuit television cameras stared down at them as they ran along the platform.
Motorcycle Jacket slowed as he realised that there were no more exits off the platform, and all that lay ahead was the train tunnel.
Wright slowed, too. In his earpiece, the inspector told his men which platform Wright was on. He heard footsteps behind him and he turned to see Tommy Reid jog on to the platform, some distance behind him.
‘I’ve got him, Tommy,’ Wright shouted. Reid waved his bottle in acknowledgement.
Motorcycle Jacket turned to face the two men, holding his stun gun in front of him, then jumped down on to the track and began to sprint towards the tunnel mouth.
Wright took a quick look up at the digital display above the platform – the next train wouldn’t be along for six minutes. He ran after Motorcycle Jacket, into the blackness of the tunnel, then gradually slowed and stopped.
The teenager was bent double, his hands on his knees, fighting for breath. ‘What are you waiting for?’ shouted Motorcycle Jacket.
Wright jumped as if he’d been pinched. He swallowed. His mouth was dry yet his whole body felt as if it was drenched in sweat. He tried to step forward, but his legs wouldn’t move. Reid had jumped down on to the track and was walking uncertainly towards him.
Motorcycle Jacket grinned. ‘What, afraid of the dark, are we? Jesus, are you in the wrong fucking job or what?’ Laughing, he turned his back on Wright and began to jog down the track, into the blackness.
Wright closed his eyes, willing himself to follow the teenager, but he simply couldn’t move. His legs remained locked. A hand fell on his shoulder.
‘What’s up, Nick?’ asked Reid, and he moved to stand in front of Wright. ‘You’re soaking wet,’ he said.
Wright opened his eyes. ‘He got away,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll get the bastard.’ Reid held up his bottle. ‘How about a drink?’
Wright shook his head. He took one last look into the black depths of the tunnel, then turned and walked towards the platform. Back into the light.
The old lady splashed through a puddle and grimaced. The newspapers lining her leather boots kept her warm but they didn’t keep out the water. The rain was pouring down, and even with the golfing umbrella over her head, she was still getting soaked. Ahead of her lay the mouth of the tunnel she knew would provide her with warmth and sanctuary.
She rattled the trolley along the side of the railway line, the rails crusted with dirt and rust from years of disuse. The wheels of her trolley skidded across a patch of gravel and then locked as they bit into damp grass. The old lady whispered soft words of encouragement and coaxed the trolley into the tunnel. It was suddenly quiet. One by one she removed the carrier bags, then she carefully placed her sheets of cardboard and three blankets on the ground and sat down on them with a grunt.
She leaned over to the carrier bag where she’d put the Burger King carton. She opened the carton with an expectant smile on her face, then took out the burger and sniffed it. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours old; it was still warm. She took a bite and chewed slowly. Something moved at the tunnel entrance, something small and black that kept close to the rail furthest from her. It was a rat, almost two feet long from nose to tail. The old woman watched it go. She had no fear of rats, and no revulsion either. Like her, it was only seeking food and shelter. She tore off a small piece of hamburger and tossed it over to the rat, but it ignored the tidbit and hurried by.
The man woke as the first rays of the morning sun hit the tops of the New York skyscrapers. Down below, the city’s garbage trucks growled through the streets and far off in the distance a siren howled like a lovesick dog. As soon as his eyes opened he sat up and swung his legs off the single bed. There was no clock in the small room and no watch on the man’s wrist but he knew exactly what the time was. He walked naked to the bathroom, his feet padding across the bare wooden floorboards. He stood under a cold shower and washed methodically from his head down. He rinsed and dried himself before going back into his tiny room and opening the door to the wardrobe. A single grey suit hung there, with three identical long-sleeved white shirts that had been laundered and were still in their polythene wrappings. A tie rack on the back of the wardrobe door held a solitary tie. At the bottom of the wardrobe were two drawers. The man pulled the top one open. It contained a dozen pairs of khaki shorts. He slipped on a pair, then took the sheets, blanket and pillowcase from the bed and put them in the wardro
be.
Behind the bathroom door was a black plastic bucket and a wooden-handled mop. The man filled the bucket with water and swabbed the wooden floor. When he’d finished with the floor, he used a cloth meticulously to clean the toilet, basin and shower.
The cleaning over, he went back into the room and sat down on a wooden chair, his hands on his knees. In an hour’s time he would exercise for thirty minutes, then he would go to a local diner and eat breakfast. He would only leave the room twice, both times to eat; the rest of the time he would spend exercising and waiting. Waiting for the call. The man knew the call would come eventually. It always had in the past.
The rat scurried purposefully down the disused rail track, its nose twitching as it scented the air ahead. It could smell something sweet, something nourishing, something that it hadn’t smelled in a long time. It was joined by a second rat, a female several inches shorter. A third rat emerged from the darkness to their left, its eyes glinting and its ears forward.
The three rats began to run, their paws crunching on the gravel around the sleepers. Soon they were among more rats. A dozen. Twenty. All heading the same way. Before long the tunnel entrance was nothing more than a small squashed circle behind them. The three rats stopped running: there were too many furry bodies ahead of them to keep up the pace. They slowed to a walk, then they had to push their way through the mass of rodents to make any progress. The sweet smell was stronger, driving them into a frenzy. Food. The food was close by.
Superintendent Richard Newton stirred his tea thoughtfully as he watched the video recording. He looked up as his secretary entered his office and placed a plate of assorted biscuits on his desk. ‘Thanks, Nancy,’ he said, using the remote control to switch off the recorder. He sighed and leaned back in his executive chair. ‘I suppose you’d better send in the clowns,’ he said.
Nancy opened the door and ushered in Nick Wright and Tommy Reid. They stood in front of his desk, unsure whether or not to sit. Newton continued to stir his tea, a look of contempt on his face. Reid had changed out of his tramp’s disguise, but his brown suit and stained tie weren’t much of an improvement. Wright was as usual the better dressed of the two, but there were dark patches under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept for a week. Both men studiously avoided Newton’s stare, their eyes fixed on a point in the wall behind him.
‘Tell me, Tommy, what does the word “assistance” mean to you?’ Newton asked.
‘Help?’ said Reid, hopefully.
Newton nodded. ‘Help would do. Support. Aid. All perfectly reasonable alternatives. So when the Moles asked for assistance, what do you think they expected to get?’
‘Help, sir?’ said Reid, frowning.
‘Exactly,’ said Newton. ‘Help. Not hindrance, not a foul-up, not two of my men making fools of themselves. What happened down there? How did he get away?’
‘The guy was fast, sir. That guy could run for England.’
Newton sniffed and wrinkled his nose. ‘Maybe if you two spent more time in the gym and less time in the pub you’d have been able to keep up with him.’ He picked up his spoon and started to stir his tea again. ‘What was in the bottle, Tommy?’
After several seconds of silence, Reid shrugged. ‘I was supposed to be an alkie, sir. I could hardly have carted around a bottle of Perrier, could I?’
‘Inspector Murray said you’d been drinking on the job. So I’m asking you on the record, what was in the bottle? On the record, Tommy.’
Reid looked across at his partner, then back at the superintendent. ‘Ribena, sir.’
Newton put the spoon down and sipped his tea. ‘Ribena?’ he said, as if it was the first time he’d ever heard the word. ‘That would account for the smell on your breath, I suppose,’ he said dryly, then opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a pack of Polo mints which he rolled across his desk towards Reid. ‘We’re going to need an artist’s impression of the one that got away. There’s nothing usable on the video.’ He dismissed them with a tired half-wave, then had a change of mind. ‘Nick, stay behind, will you?’
Newton waited until Reid had closed the door before asking Wright to sit down on one of the two steel and leather chairs facing the desk. ‘Are you still living with Tommy?’ he asked.
Wright nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘How long’s it been now? Three months?’
‘Five.’
Newton traced his finger along the edge of his saucer. ‘What about getting a place of your own?’
Wright pulled a face as if he was in pain. ‘It’s a question of money, sir. Things are a bit tight just now.’
‘Your divorce came through, right?’
Wright nodded again. ‘Yeah, but she’s still after more money. There’s the house payments, child support, she wanted double-glazing put in.’ Wright held his hands out as if warding off an attack. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t bring my problems into the office.’
‘You’ve nothing to apologise for, Nick. Divorce is becoming the norm these days. Unfortunately.’ He stared at the cup with its pattern of roses. ‘Five months is a long time to be living with Tommy. He’s one of our best detectives, but his personal life leaves a lot to be desired. You’ve got a lot of potential, Nick. I wouldn’t want any of his – how shall I put it? – habits, rubbing off on you.’
‘Understood, sir.’
Newton’s telephone rang and he waved for Wright to go as he reached for the receiver.
The old woman muttered to herself as she threaded a plastic-covered chain around the shopping trolley and padlocked it to the lamp-post. She checked that it was securely fastened before walking into the police station.
A uniformed sergeant looked up as she approached the counter. He smiled politely. ‘Hello, Annie, how are you today?’ he asked.
‘I’ve seen Jesus,’ said the old woman. ‘On the cross.’
‘That’s nice,’ said the sergeant. He was in his early fifties, with greying hair and a tired face from years of dealing with irate members of the public, but the smile he gave the old lady seemed genuine enough. ‘How about a nice cup of tea? Two sugars, right?’ The sergeant called over a WPC, a slim brunette, and asked her to fetch the old woman a cup of tea from the machine in the reception area. The sergeant reached into his pocket and gave the WPC a few coins. ‘Milk, two sugars,’ he said. The WPC gave the old woman a quizzical look. ‘Annie Lees, she’s a regular,’ the sergeant explained. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘She’s harmless.’
The old woman stood up straight and glared at him through the thick lenses of her spectacles. ‘Young man, I am not harmless,’ she said, her voice trembling with indignation.
The doctor unscrewed the cap off the tube of KY Jelly and smeared it over the rubber glove, making sure there was plenty over the first and second fingers.
His patient hitched his gown up around his waist and bent over the examination couch. ‘I had hoped that by the time I became Vice President I’d be past the stage where I’d have to let people shove their hands up my backside,’ he joked.
The doctor smiled thinly and put down the tube. He knew how concerned his patient was, but he also knew that there was nothing he could say to put him at ease. The examination was purely routine, and neither man was expecting a change in the prognosis. ‘Okay, Glenn, you know the drill. Try to relax.’
The patient chuckled dryly and opened his legs wider. ‘Relax, says the man. You know when I last relaxed?’ He grunted as the doctor inserted two fingers into his rectum.
‘Try to push down, Glenn. I know it hurts.’
‘Pete, you have no idea.’ The patient forced his backside down on to the probing fingers, biting down on his lower lip and closing his eyes. The doctor’s fingers moved further in and a long, low groan escaped the patient’s mouth. ‘I can’t believe that some men do this to themselves for pleasure,’ he said.
‘No accounting for folk,’ agreed the doctor. He moved his fingers gently, feeling for the hard mass that the Vice Preside
nt’s prostate had become. The patient tensed and gripped the sides of the couch. The doctor continued to probe the mass for several seconds and then slipped out his fingers. He stripped off his gloves and dropped them into a bin before handing his patient a paper towel to wipe himself with.
‘How’ve you been feeling, Glenn?’
The patient shrugged. ‘As well as can be expected, considering I’ve got terminal cancer.’ He forced a smile. ‘Sorry, shouldn’t let the bitterness creep in, right?’ He finished cleaning himself and changed back into his clothes. ‘It’s the unfairness of it, you know?’
‘Yeah, I know. There’s nothing fair about prostate cancer, I’m afraid.’
‘I can’t believe the speed of it all. Six months ago, I was fine. Now . . .’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Now I’m not so fine, right?’
The doctor made some notes on a clipboard. ‘It’s bigger.’
‘A lot bigger, right?’
The doctor nodded. ‘It’s just about doubled over the past month.’
‘That’s what’s so unfair,’ said the patient. ‘Mitterand’s cancer took years to kill him. Hell, he even stood for re-election knowing that he had it. But mine . . .’
‘There’s no predictable pattern, Glenn. I told you that.’
‘I know, I know.’ The patient adjusted his tie and checked his appearance in the mirror above the washbasin. ‘So what do you think?’ he said, his voice matter-of-fact but his eyes fixed on the doctor’s reflection. ‘How long?’
There was no hesitation on the doctor’s part. The two men had known each other for many years and had developed a mutual respect that the doctor knew merited complete honesty. ‘Months rather than weeks,’ he said. ‘Nine, possibly.’
‘Nine productive months?’
The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books) Page 2
