‘That’s a lovely dress,’ Gillard said, admiring the low-cut satin number he hadn’t recalled seeing before. Sam’s flicked eyebrow dismissed the conversational gambit. Ellen emerged into the kitchen holding a still-full glass of white. He was surprised he hadn’t remembered her. Dirty blonde hair, trim figure and dressed to kill in a lacy black top, dark hose and high heel sandals. They batted a bit of small talk around for a few minutes, until Gillard put his foot in it.
‘I understand your boyfriend couldn’t come?’
Sam sighed, passed behind her husband and jabbed him sharply in the ribs with a fork. Ellen might not have seen the weapon, but Gillard’s jump could not be disguised. Their guest’s eyelashes flickered for a few seconds, before the obviously well-prepared statement: ‘Gabriel travels a lot, often at short notice,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry he’s not able to meet you both, he did say he was looking forward to it.’
‘Gabriel bought Ellen a pair of Jimmy Choos,’ Sam said, her eyes flicking towards their guest’s elegantly shod feet. He welcomed this hint. He’d heard of the luxury brand, but hadn’t known whether it applied to handbags, wristwatches or lingerie.
‘Very nice,’ Gillard said, reaching towards the open bottle of wine. It soon became apparent that Ellen was in no state to drive, and he hoped that he wasn’t going to be asked to give her a lift to the station. As he went upstairs to change he popped his head into the spare room, and was relieved to discover it had been made up for a guest.
The curtains were open, and he went to close them. The guest bedroom looked out over the front of the house. He glanced out and could see no signs of life in the bungalow opposite. Good. Sam had complained about Gillard’s aunt Trish staring in at them.
The detective was off duty. So he paid no attention to the aged red Fiat parked a little further down the cul-de-sac. But someone inside was paying attention to him. After fifteen minutes, the car engine started, slid into gear and drove quietly away.
Sunday
Britain’s weather seemed to be at its worst that April Sunday. Craig and Sam Gillard had given up the outdoor rock climb in favour of half a day spent indoor bouldering near Southampton. The mountain biking they had planned for the afternoon was a washout, with a thunderstorm so intense they were soaked in seconds. Lightning continued to arc across the sky as they departed, and they were stuck in a jam trying to get on the M27 because of power cuts to traffic lights. Now, having reached the motorway early on Sunday evening, the weather hadn’t yet finished with them. The eastbound M3 motorway was closed from Winchester because of an accident, the A31 was flooded at Alton, the A3 closed at Godalming. They had reset the satnav to go cross-country, and finally re-entered Surrey at eight p.m. on the B2139, heading east, south of Godalming. They were just outside the delightful riverside village of Lacey Dutton, waiting at traffic lights to cross the sixteenth-century single-lane Loxcombe Bridge over the River Wey. As they edged along the leafy road in crawling traffic, the rain began to hammer down on the roof of the Toyota RAV4. There was no traffic coming from the other direction.
‘That’s not a good sign,’ Gillard said, trying to make himself heard above the pounding on the roof. ‘Maybe the traffic lights are out here too.’
‘That’s all we need,’ Sam said. It took another ten minutes for them to get within sight of the bridge. The road was two inches deep in water, and began to resemble a stream. A couple of cars ahead were making U-turns, giving up on the wait. The lights seemed to be working, but traffic was stationary. Gillard reached over into the back seat for his waterproof jacket. He wriggled into it, slid on waterproof trousers, and pulled the cuffs down over his boots. ‘I’m going to take a look ahead. There’s an unmarked road to the right we could take if the bridge is out of action.’
‘Okay. Don’t get wet!’
Gillard gave his wife a sarcastic look as he pulled up his jacket hood, opened the door and stepped out into the deluge. Numerous car alarms sounded in the distance as he made his way along the edge of the lane past the traffic lights and onto the narrow footway over the bridge.
The first view of the water staggered him.
Normally this was a beautiful riverside scene, with pastures on either side and the Jolly Boatman pub at the far end of the bridge. Now the pub car park was a lake, the riverside decking submerged, most of the picnic tables floating in a leisurely circle. The Wey itself was four times its normal width and sweeping debris of all sorts towards the bridge.
It was only when Gillard spotted the first floating car that he realised how serious this was. A black BMW saloon, its rear above the water, four-way flashers and alarm still going, swept along the nearside bank of the river, bashing into the lower branches of riverside trees. Further across, the bridge itself was under siege. Peering over the parapet, he saw the water level was within a few inches of the top of the arches. A large uprooted tree had wedged itself underneath the central span, with a thick bough arching over the bridge, blocking access to traffic from both directions. A small crowd had gathered on the left-hand side of the bridge, looking over into the water at the base of the tree. From the shouting and gesticulation he could tell something serious was going on. As he joined them, Gillard could see there were two more cars in the water. One, a small Peugeot saloon, was being rammed repeatedly underneath the central arch of the bridge, next to the tree. Its roof and crazed windscreen were already partially flattened, but there was a waving arm protruding from the driver-side window. A second, larger vehicle was rolling over and over laterally against the next arch towards the Lacey Dutton side. A young man in soaked jeans and T-shirt was trying to climb down the bough of the tree to reach the occupied car, but the tree was rolling left and right in the water threatening to throw him off.
The policeman knew what he had to do. He ran back to the RAV4 and pulled open the driver-side door. ‘Sam, there is someone trapped in a car in the river. We need the ropes, helmets and head torches right away.’ He went round to the hatchback, pulled it open and grabbed the equipment he needed. When Sam joined him, he placed a yellow helmet and head torch on her already-drenched hair. Without hesitation she shrugged on her jacket, fixed the helmet strap, and looked up at him. The rain had already made her eye make-up run down her face in long streaks, but determination was set there. He gave her a very quick hug, and kissed her damp face.
‘I love you,’ he said, and ran ahead with two coils of rope on his shoulder back towards the bridge. Sam followed behind.
The young man, still visible in the Victorian street lights from the bridge, had edged down to within three or four feet of the car. A couple of powerful torches were being trained from the parapet onto his intended target. ‘There is a child in there with her, but I can’t get any closer,’ he shouted. The water level inside the car was already at the top of the steering wheel, and a woman was trying to get out from the driver-side window. But her biggest problem was that the car was trapped driver-side against the pier that held up the bridge, and was being repeatedly smashed against the stonework by the force of the water and the uprooted trees within it.
The downpour was almost biblical. The gutters on the bridge were overflowing, silvery cords pouring into the river. Gillard tied one end of his climbing rope to the nearest lamp post, and clipped a loop to his harness. It was many years since the detective had attended the fast water mountain survival course and the module which covered rescues from vehicles, but he could remember the basics. Ropes were vital, but he had to be able to quickly detach himself should he become snagged. Sam tied the other coil of rope to the next lamp post, and shouted to the lad on the tree. But despite the shouts from the parapet the roiling muddy water drowned out all human noise. With many welcoming pats on the back and shouts of encouragement, the detective clambered over the parapet and lowered himself carefully down the dozen feet towards the stoved-in roof of the car. The vehicle had already lost almost all of its normal shape, the side panels and the roof battered from being repeatedly smashed ag
ainst the pier of the bridge. The lad on the tree on the other side of the car looked across to him, and Gillard gestured up to the rope that Sam was trying to throw to him. The young man followed Gillard’s gaze, and when she tossed the coils to him, he caught them. Gripping the rope firmly in one hand, the other on a branch of the tree, the lad gingerly made his way back up the tree towards the parapet of the bridge and to safety.
The woman in the car, who looked to be in her thirties, had one arm and her head out of the shattered driver-side window, a buckled space no more than eighteen inches wide and perhaps a foot high. She looked desperate. In her other arm was a crying toddler. Gillard squeezed himself down between the pier and the car, knowing that this was a dangerous manoeuvre. But it was equally clear to him that the roof on the other side was now so squashed down, there was no hope of her getting out on that side. He rested with his heels on a narrow ledge, no more than three inches wide, just above the water level. The movement of the vehicle banged him repeatedly against the stone of the bridge, making him thankful that he was wearing a helmet. The force of the water was incredible. What he needed to do was clear, yet seemed impossible. It meant challenging not only the oncoming force of the river, but the momentum of the vehicle itself. He was already drenched and very cold, his fingers rapidly numbing inside his neoprene gloves. He knew this was going to test him to the limits.
Finally close enough to the woman to be able to converse, he yelled that he was going to push the vehicle away with his legs and hopefully she could pass the child out to him. She nodded.
He looked up, his back to the bridge, sitting on the ledge, and braced his legs either side of the window. He picked a moment when the car was being drawn back by the current, and locked his legs in place. ‘Give her to me now,’ he shouted. The woman fed the child out through the window, into Gillard’s arms. He used a loop of rope under the crying little girl’s arms, and tightened the slip knot around her chest just as the next turn of the current pressed the vehicle back against the base of the bridge. He looked up to the parapet and saw helmets and the beige uniform of the fire service. Strong arms pulled the little girl up and onto the parapet above him. The water inside the car was now chin high on the woman, and she was beginning to scream in panic. He knew that there was a good chance the car would now turn over because there would be more air in the tyres than any other part of it. If it did that her chances of survival were slim.
He tried again and again to press the car back away from the bridge, but it was no good. As he looked up at the river which was now illuminated by more powerful lights from the bridge, he could see at least two caravans floating down towards him. Another figure descended from the parapet, a beefy firefighter on a harness with a hefty cordless cutter in his hands. After sharing bellowed greetings, he balanced on one branch of the tree, setting to work with the reciprocating saw. First he cut the edges of the windscreen and then the metal post between windscreen and side window. It allowed Gillard to peel back the roof and rip open a bigger gap. The woman began to wriggle out, sobbing with relief. Somehow, she was bundled up to a rescue harness, and then lifted to the parapet. Gillard followed soon afterwards, hauled up on his rope, into Sam’s waiting arms.
‘Well done, Craig,’ she said. ‘That was fantastic. I knew you could do it.’
‘I didn’t, but I had to try,’ he replied.
The woman and her child had been put in a people carrier out of the rain, shrouded in various coats and plied with biscuits. A woman who said she was a nurse was tending to the child on the back seat. Gillard crouched down to talk to the mother through the window.
‘Thank you so much, I’ll never forget what you did for me and for Keeley,’ she said. ‘Did you get the other woman?’
‘Which other woman?’ Gillard asked.
‘There was another car just round the other side of the pier. It was a little yellow one, I think, just rolling over and over and over in the water. There’s definitely someone inside. I saw a glimpse of blonde hair when the cars were side-by-side.’
Gillard blew an exhausted sigh. ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ll let the emergency services know.’
By now the fire service were in full possession of Loxcombe Bridge. Dozens of helmeted officers were guiding onlookers away from the threatened structure and using chainsaws to cut the tree which had separated the bridge crowd into two communities. Fire appliances had managed to work their way to the forecourt of the Jolly Boatman, where they trained arc lamps on the river. By the pub a fire service inflatable was being manhandled off its trailer by a crew of four. Gillard buttonholed the big firefighter who had helped him, and explained the situation. A call was put through to the fire chief on the other side of the bridge, and a thumbs up was given from the rescue boat.
The big officer relayed a message back. ‘The manageress of the Jolly Boatman says she’s got free dinner and a room for the night for you and your wife, for putting your lives on the line. She’s offered the front dining room which is still dry for the woman and her daughter, assuming they don’t have to go to hospital.’
* * *
As the crowds gradually seeped from the bridge, one man sat in his black four-wheel drive watching Gillard, once again at the centre of attention under the arc lights. What on earth was that damned detective doing here? Oh, and Sam too. That was a surprise. The man clenched his fists on the wheel. Always in the way. Wherever he was, whatever he wanted to do, Gillard always seemed to be in the way. Never mind, he could adapt the tactics. He’d proved that. He’d had to think quickly tonight after the power failed, but the solution he had come up with was ingenious. And it seemed to have worked perfectly. With luck it would give him many days’ grace to clear up, without anyone suspecting. Overall, things were going to plan. To keep Gillard busy, working long hours looking for the missing girl, was a perfect feint to draw the detective away from the spectacular main event. The driver smiled to himself as he contemplated the next step in his campaign to destroy the man who had usurped him. What Gillard was involved in now was nothing compared to what would happen next. Nothing. He reversed the car aggressively out of the forecourt of the Jolly Boatman, forced a gap in the crowd of bystanders, then drove away, back into Surrey.
* * *
Wrapped in blankets in front of a roaring log fire in the lounge of the Jolly Boatman, Gillard and Sam sipped mugs of cocoa and nibbled the plate of chocolate biscuits they had been provided with.
‘So what happened to the yellow car?’ Sam asked.
‘The fire service said it got pulled right under the bridge. It’ll be downstream somewhere. They are telling me that more than forty vehicles have been washed away into the river. And there are still two caravans trapped under Loxcombe Bridge. The whole Lacey Dutton campsite has been flooded.’
‘So if there really was a woman in it, she’ll have drowned.’
‘Probably.’ He looked out of the window. ‘It looks like it has stopped raining now.’
‘Thank God.’ She picked up another biscuit. ‘It’s funny how things turn out. I was a bit dubious about the mountain biking given the weather forecast. But all that gear of yours earned its keep this evening.’
‘I always keep it ready in a big rucksack, in the car. You never know.’
She stared in wonder at her husband. ‘Craig, you’re ready for anything. You make me feel so safe.’
It was a sentiment she soon wished she had never voiced.
* * *
The Gillards’ final journey home was hardly without incident, with heavy rain and gusty winds making driving conditions treacherous. Only five miles from Chipstead, they joined an unmoving tailback. Sam stuck her head out of the passenger-side window into the downpour to see what the problem was, and spotted an elderly motorist vainly trying to shift a heavy sycamore bough that had blocked the road. No one seemed to be helping him, so she and Gillard ran up to help. The detective shouldered the weight of the branch, which allowed Sam and the old man to pivot the bough so
it no longer fully blocked the carriageway.
Once back in the car, the radio news was full of reports of flash floods right across Hampshire, Surrey and the Home Counties caused by an unprecedented intensity of rainfall, and made worse by a two-hour power cut. An elderly lady had drowned in her own basement attempting to rescue a family heirloom from the rising floodwaters. Two children who had been seen playing near the River Wey in the afternoon were missing. In all more than two dozen motorists had been rescued from their cars, including six wedding party guests whose vehicle had stalled under a flooded bridge in the New Forest. Their own involvement at the Lacey Dutton crossing was mentioned in passing.
Gillard could tell from monitoring the Surrey Police radio traffic, something he could do from his own smartphone, that emergency resources were stretched to breaking point.
‘Thankfully, only one person seems to have died,’ Sam said.
‘I think we will have to wait until the morning to be sure of that,’ Gillard replied. ‘There were an awful lot of cars bobbing down the river. I wouldn’t be surprised if they discover someone stuck under a bridge somewhere who didn’t make it.’
He was right.
* * *
It was firefighter Geoff Holt who made the discovery, just before three a.m. His powerful torch illuminated a small yellow car bobbing upside down in what had been Lacey Dutton’s riverside park, and was now a backwater of the river. Further progress downstream was blocked at the hamlet of Gorlaston by a slim and rather beautiful hundred-year-old stone bridge, now used only by pedestrians, and against which a dam of floating branches was lodged. The vehicle was entangled between the most leftward span and the lower limbs of a willow. This tree was one of a dozen which had originally marked the riverbank, but was now well within the vastly enlarged waterway.
The Body Under the Bridge Page 7
