‘I understand,’ said Hunter, and he meant it. He felt a sudden wave of compassion for Emily Hampshire and her bird-like husband.
‘It really was a miracle,’ said Mr Hampshire. ‘It was a miracle that she survived the crash, and it was a miracle that they found a place for her on the Daily Mail flight. Turn the page.’
Hunter did as he was asked. There was another cutting, which like the rest had yellowed with age around the edges. It was from the Daily Mail, detailing how the editor, David English, had decided that leader articles and calls for action weren’t enough, that something had to be done. The newspaper was chartering its own plane, and sending in a team of doctors and nurses to help evacuate as many children as they could.
The next article detailed the mercy flight, how the Daily Mail’s Operation Mercy airlift plucked ninety-nine children from the beleaguered city in a Boeing 707 just days before the North Vietnamese stormed into Saigon.
‘The Americans got about a thousand children out,’ said Mr Hampshire. ‘The Daily Mail rescued ninety-nine. Most of them were malnourished, and three died within hours of arriving in Britain. Fair broke our hearts, it did, the suffering and everything. We applied to adopt one of them and they gave us May.’
Hunter turned the page. There was only one photograph, black and white, the sort that might have been used in a passport. A young girl stared vacantly at the camera, the face so lifeless that it could have been that of a corpse. On the page opposite was a letter from an adoption agency saying that the Hampshires’ application had been approved.
‘You should have seen her,’ said Mr Hampshire. ‘They weren’t sure how old she was because all her paperwork was destroyed in the Galaxy crash. She looked like a six-year-old, so thin that her ribs were showing through and her legs were covered with bites and scars. The doctors reckoned she was ten and they gave her a birth date, just made it up because she’d need it for school and passports and so on. We always celebrated it as her birthday, but we knew that it wasn’t real.’
Hunter looked at the photograph and wondered what horrors the little girl had seen, an orphan trapped in a war zone. ‘She came here? To this house?’
Mr Hampshire nodded. ‘We moved in the day after we married and we’ve been here ever since. I can show you May’s bedroom if you want. It’s just the same as when she left to go to university.’ He leaned forward so that his face was only inches away from Hunter’s. ‘Emily still hopes . . . you know?’
Hunter smiled thinly. He knew.
‘Her husband? What was he like?’
‘An American,’ said Hunter, his eyes still on the small black and white photograph. ‘He was a photographer. They’d only been married for a couple of years.’
‘Murdered, you said?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Mr Hampshire took off his spectacles and began polishing them with a white handkerchief. ‘How is she?’ he asked quietly.
‘I really don’t know,’ admitted Hunter. ‘I haven’t actually met her. She was interviewed by a colleague.’
‘She must be devastated,’ said Mr Hampshire softly. ‘She must need us.’ He looked up and Hunter saw that his eyes were brimming with tears. ‘Why hasn’t she been in touch with us, Mr Hunter?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hunter. He averted his eyes, embarrassed by the raw emotion etched on the man’s face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added.
Doc stopped digging and shouldered his shovel. ‘Is it there?’ asked Hammack from behind him.
‘Come and look for yourself,’ said Doc.
Hammack walked slowly across the chamber, the beam of his flashlight dancing crazily across the parachute-silk-lined walls. Ramirez stayed where he was, retying his camouflage scarf around his head.
Doc was looking down into an oblong hole just over five feet long and a couple of feet wide. He’d piled the earth up next to the wall. The surface had been hard and he’d had to chip his way through, but several inches underneath the red clay was damp and pliable. A skull leered up at them, the bone glistening in the damp earth. A worm wriggled from an eye socket and burrowed into the soil. Doc knelt down and used his shovel to scrape away the earth from the skeleton’s chest.
‘It’s definitely him?’ asked Hammack.
Doc sighed with exasperation. ‘For God’s sake, Bernie, how many corpses do you think there are buried down here?’
Hammack flinched as if he’d been slapped across the face.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Doc.
‘No sweat,’ said Hammack. ‘It was a stupid question.’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘At least now we know,’ he said.
‘What do we know?’ asked Doc. ‘We know he’s not the killer, that’s all.’ He reached down and picked up a piece of card. He wiped it on his trousers. It was a playing card. An ace of spades. He gave it to Hammack who stared at it and then passed it to Ramirez.
Doc straightened up and wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘We’ve wasted our time.’
‘What do we do now?’ asked Ramirez, throwing the playing card on to the skeleton.
‘Bury it again and go home,’ said Doc. He picked up the shovel.
‘Wait!’ said Hammack. ‘Max’s dogtags. He had Max’s dogtags. We should take them with us.’
Doc nodded and knelt down and grabbed the right arm of the skeleton. It made a sucking sound as he pulled it out of the damp earth. The hand was clenched into a fist. Doc used the end of his shovel to pry open the bones, one by one. He looked up at Hammack, deep frown lines furrowed across his brow. He showed him the hand. It was empty.
Hunter turned over the page. There were half a dozen colour photographs, three per page, of the ten-year-old May playing in the back garden. May on a red swing. May with a doting Emily Hampshire. May throwing a ball to Peter Hampshire. May sitting on the grass reading a picture book. In none of the photographs was the little girl smiling.
‘That was during the first few months,’ said Mr Hampshire. ‘She was like a little robot. She did as she was told, she played when we asked her to play, ate when we gave her food, slept when we put her to bed. But she never smiled, never looked at us, never showed any emotion at all.’
‘Perhaps she didn’t speak English,’ said Hunter.
‘No, she understood. And she was a very quick learner. Very bright.’
Hunter remembered that May had graduated with first-class Honours. He told Mr Hampshire, who smiled proudly. ‘I was the one who got her interested in computers,’ he said. ‘I was cataloguing my stamp collection and putting it all on disc. She used to sit and watch me.’
Hunter turned the page. More photographs. A slightly older May. Occasional smiles. May riding a pony. May holding a bow and arrow.
‘She won prizes for archery,’ said Mr Hampshire. ‘We used to have her trophies in here, but Emily . . .’ He looked away, the sentence unfinished. The bow she was holding was almost as tall as she was. In another picture she was taking aim at a distant target, the bow at full stretch.
Hunter looked closely at the photograph. There was something around her neck. A necklace with two oblong objects hanging from it. Hunter frowned. He flicked back several pages and looked at another photograph, May in her school uniform, a brown leather satchel on her back. There was something in her right hand. It looked like the same necklace. He looked across at another of the pictures. May balancing on a bicycle. She was holding something in that picture, too. Hunter flicked back to the previous page. Whatever it was, the girl was holding it in all the photographs.
‘What is that?’ he asked, pointing at the picture of May throwing a ball. ‘In her right hand? She’s wearing it in some of the later pictures.’
Mr Hampshire finished polishing his spectacles and put them back on. ‘They’re dogtags,’ he said. ‘It was the funniest thing. She had them in her right hand when they flew her out of Saigon, and she never once let go of them. All the time she was in the orphanage in Vietnam, all the time she was on the plane, when she was in hospital in the UK, she wouldn�
��t let go of them. The doctors tried but she screamed and screamed until they decided it was better to let her have them. She had the end of the chain wrapped around her wrist and her fingers were clenched as if she was scared that she’d lose them. For the first year she was with us, she never unclasped that hand, even when she was asleep. Eventually she wore them around her neck, and as far as I know she never once took them off. When she was older, we asked her who they belonged to, but she never told us. Emily and I thought that maybe they belonged to an American soldier who’d saved her life, that maybe he’d died and she kept them as a reminder.’
Hunter put his face closer to the photograph. ‘Do you have a magnifying glass?’ Hunter asked.
‘Of course,’ said Mr Hampshire. He scurried over to the sideboard and returned with a magnifying glass like an eager-to-please puppy carrying his master’s slippers. ‘I use them for my stamps.’
Hunter focused the glass on the dogtags. He could just about make out the letters and numbers. The soldier’s date of birth. His religion. His blood group. His name. Hunter froze. He felt as if a block of ice was being drawn slowly up his spine. The name on the dogtags was Eckhardt, M.
The three Americans stared at the bony fingers of the skeleton’s hand. ‘They’re not there,’ said Hammack.
‘Maybe the other hand,’ said Ramirez. ‘Maybe he was left handed.’
Doc prised open the fingers of the skeleton’s left hand. It too was empty. He stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers, and took a step back from the open grave.
For several seconds the only sound in the chamber was that of their breathing, then Doc spoke. ‘Someone else was here,’ he said quietly. ‘Someone saw what we did.’
He backed away from the skeleton, his hands twitching. He kept on moving until his shoulders were up against the wall.
‘Impossible,’ said Ramirez. ‘There’s only the one way in, through the antechamber, and Eric was standing there. If anyone had been watching, Eric would have seen them.’
Doc turned around and grabbed a piece of the parachute silk that lined the chamber. He ripped it down, revealing the damp clay wall behind it. Dozens of tiny centipedes scuttled away from the flashlight beams.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Hammack.
Doc ignored him. He reached for another piece of green silk and pulled it away from the wall. At the base of the wall was an arched hole, cut into the clay, just big enough for a man to hide in if he crouched down.
‘Shit,’ said Ramirez.
‘So now we know,’ said Doc quietly.
Wright opened his mouth wide and took deep breaths. He squatted back on his knees, his face inches from the damp tunnel floor. The air seemed thick, almost like liquid, and each lungful was an effort.
Ahead of him, Bamber was finding the going equally tough. He was panting and moving one limb at a time. The tunnel had narrowed considerably and Wright couldn’t see beyond Bamber’s feet and backside. Wright was in almost complete darkness and several times he’d come close to telling the FBI agent that he wanted to put on the infra-red goggles. The only thing that stopped him was the realisation that even with the goggles on he wouldn’t be able to see any further forward.
Wright couldn’t imagine how the Viet Cong had managed to live underground for years at a time. Even allowing for the fact that they’d have been able to go up for fresh air at night, they’d still have had to cope with the dirt and the bad air, the snakes and insects, and the constant pressure of knowing that at any moment they could be buried alive.
Sweat poured off Wright and his clothes were dripping wet. ‘Jim!’ he called. ‘I’ve got to have a drink.’
Bamber stopped. ‘Okay.’
Wright struggled to remove his knapsack. He had to lean forward and wriggle his shoulders to get the straps off, then push himself against the tunnel wall to drag the bag between his legs.
He took out one of the plastic bottles. The water was hot but he gulped it down. ‘How much further?’ he asked Bamber.
‘Five minutes, at this rate,’ said Bamber.
‘Do you want some water?’
‘Yeah,’ said Bamber. He reached back for the bottle and Wright passed it to him. There were only a couple of mouthfuls in the bottle and Bamber emptied it. He tossed it to the side.
Wright had no idea in which direction they were heading, or how deep they were. Bamber had the compass, and Wright had only glanced briefly at the map.
‘Ready to move on?’ asked Bamber. His flashlight flickered and he slapped it against his palm. The beam intensified.
‘Yeah,’ said Wright.
‘Not long now, Nick,’ said Bamber confidently. ‘It’ll soon be over.’
Doc, Ramirez and Hammack crouched together under the hatch. Doc wiped his hands on his trousers.
‘Who could it be, Doc?’ asked Hammack. ‘Who could have been there?’
‘Let’s talk about it when we’re up top, Bernie,’ said Doc. ‘There’s nothing we can do down here.’
Hammack nodded. He played his flashlight around the hatchway. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he said. ‘We can talk it through over a few beers at the Rex. Maybe it won’t seem so bad then.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ said Ramirez. He took a drink from his canteen but it only contained one mouthful. He shook his second canteen but that too was empty. ‘You got any water?’
Hammack shook his head. Doc handed one of his canteens to Ramirez. ‘That’s the last of mine,’ he said.
‘Save it,’ said Ramirez.
‘Take it,’ said Doc. ‘Three hours and we’ll be back on the surface.’ He looked up at the hatch. ‘I’ll go first.’
Ramirez drained the canteen and handed it back to Doc. ‘It’s my turn, Doc,’ he said.
Doc was about to argue but Ramirez had already got to his feet. Ramirez checked his flashlight and took his knife out of its scabbard. He winked at Doc, then eased himself up through the hatch. ‘Last one out’s a sissy,’ said Ramirez, his voice muffled by the sides of the tunnel.
Doc clipped the empty canteen to his webbing belt. ‘Okay, you go next, Bernie,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring up the rear.’
Hammack nodded grimly. He was obviously still troubled by what they’d found in the chamber, but Doc was determined not to discuss it while they were down in the tunnels. Doc put a hand on Hammack’s shoulder, just as Ramirez’s legs began to kick and judder.
‘Stop messing about, Sergio!’ Doc shouted.
One of Ramirez’s feet smacked into Hammack’s head.
‘Cut it out, you wop bastard!’ shouted Hammack. ‘It’s not funny!’
Suddenly Ramirez’s legs stopped kicking. Doc shone his flashlight up at the hatch. Blood was dripping down between Ramirez’s waist and the hatchway. Red spots peppered the lens of Doc’s flashlight, turning the beam pink and casting a macabre glow around the tunnel.
Hammack shuffled away from the feet, his eyes wide. Blood plopped down on the tunnel floor.
‘Oh Christ,’ gasped Hammack. ‘What the fuck’s happening?’
‘Bernie, help me get him down,’ said Doc. He grabbed Ramirez’s feet and pulled while Hammack took hold of the man’s knees. ‘Harder,’ said Doc. ‘Pull harder.’
The two men tugged on Ramirez’s legs but they couldn’t shift him.
‘Something’s holding him,’ said Hammack.
Rivulets of blood trickled down from the hatchway and smeared Hammack’s face. Hammack let go of Ramirez’s knees and wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt.
Doc put his hand up between Ramirez’s legs and felt for a pulse in the man’s groin. He couldn’t find one.
‘I didn’t hear anything, did you?’ asked Hammack. ‘No gunshot, no explosion, nothing. He didn’t make a sound.’
Doc shrugged but said nothing.
‘It wasn’t a booby trap, was it?’ said Hammack, his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘If it was a booby trap we’d have seen it coming in. Somebody killed him, Doc. Somebody up there killed Sergio,
just like they killed Jumbo.’
‘I know,’ said Doc, staring up at the blocked hatchway. He shook his head. ‘I should have gone first,’ he said quietly.
‘The killer’s down here with us, Doc,’ said Hammack, holding his flashlight in front of him as if it were a knife. ‘What are we going to do?’
Doc sat back on his heels and stared at the lower half of the lifeless body. ‘We’re going to have to find another way out,’ he said as his flashlight began to flicker. He opened his rucksack, took out three spare batteries, and slotted them in.
‘What about Sergio?’
‘We can’t pull him down. If we can get up to the third level and double back, we’ll be able to pull him up.’
Doc got on to his hands and knees and began to crawl back to the main chamber.
‘Doc?’
Doc turned to look at Hammack.
‘What if there isn’t another way up?’
Gerry Hunter could sense Emily Hampshire staring at him through the net curtains so he didn’t look around. He drove away from the Hampshires’ house, fumbling for the mobile phone in his inside pocket. He’d stored the BTP incident room number on autodial and it was already ringing as he turned the corner and pulled in at the side of the road. Tommy Reid answered.
‘Tommy, it’s Gerry. Have you heard from Nick yet?’ I need to talk to him. About May Eckhardt.’ Hunter explained about May Eckhardt’s adopted parents, and what he’d seen in the photographs. It was obvious from Reid’s silence that the BTP detective hadn’t grasped the significance of the discovery.
‘A ten-year-old girl is rescued from Vietnam clutching the dog-tags of an American soldier she marries almost twenty years later,’ said Hunter. ‘Two years after they marry, he’s murdered. This isn’t a love story, Tommy. It’s revenge. I don’t know why, but she killed him, I’m sure of it. And now she’s bolted.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books) Page 37
