by Tim Ellis
‘With guns?’
‘Target rifles.’
‘Okay, so you haven’t really got anything for me, have you, Andy? Please pass me back to the Chief.’
‘Quigg?’
‘I’m going to carry on through the passageways until I reach the end. I’ll call you then.’
‘Any sign of the storm troopers?’
‘No, quiet as a graveyard in here, Sir.’ There didn’t seem any point in telling him about the boot prints – they weren’t proof of anything.
Continuing on, he reached a short passageway that emptied out into a huge underground cavern. The rocks gave off an eerie glow, hundreds of elaborately carved columns erupted from a sea of water. He felt like Professor Otto Lidenbrock in Journey to the Centre of the Earth when faced with a vast ocean full of prehistoric creatures. Thankfully, there were no petrified trees or giant mushrooms.
He was standing on what he thought might be a landing area for a boat, but there was no boat that he could see. In his mind, he had a vision of the River Acheron – the river of woe – that separates the living from the dead, and the marks in the stone could have been made by the boat that the old ferryman – Charon – used to carry the souls of the dead into the underworld. He shivered, hoping it was just his imagination running riot.
‘Chief?’
‘What’s happening, Quigg?’
‘You can tell Andy that the rumours of a Roman bath are true. I’m standing in an enormous cavern full of water and carved marble columns.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’
‘It’s a good job that I nearly like you, Quigg. What about Kline and the professor?’
‘No trace of them. It could be that there were boats here, and they’ve purloined them.’
‘You mean like punts on the River Cam in Cambridge?’
‘I suppose . . .’
‘Did I ever tell you about my university punting exploits . . . ?’
‘Now is probably not the time, Chief.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right. So, what’s your plan now?’
He looked around. No boat, the cavern disappeared into the darkness, no noise apart from the drip-drip-drip of water . . . God knows what was in there. He had the idea of prehistoric snake-like creatures with teeth reminiscent of piranha fish inhabiting the murky depths. There was no way in hell he was going into the water. Swimming wasn’t really his specialist subject anyway. After a traumatic experience losing his swimming trunks as an eight year-old in the public baths – he’d decided that swimming really wasn’t for him. As such, he could barely tread water.
‘KLINE?’ he shouted.
Only an echo replied.
‘I suppose I’ll have to come back.’
‘You’re not going to dive in the water and search for them?’
‘I’m not a very good swimmer. And anyway, there’s no evidence that Kline and the professor were actually here.’
‘You do surprise me.’
‘But they must have come this way.’
‘Did you find other openings in the passageways?’
‘Well yes, but . . .’
‘So they could have gone anywhere?’
‘Well yes, except there were tracks leading . . .’
‘Did those tracks have names on them?’
‘Well no . . .’
‘So they could have belonged to a pair of Victorian lovers skinny dipping in the Roman bath?’
‘I suppose . . .’
‘Come back, Quigg. No doubt Kline and the professor will turn up in due course.’
‘What about sending a team to . . . ?’
‘Will you stop talking about teams. There are no teams. In the distant past teams – like dinosaurs – might have existed, but now there are no such animals. I’m sure you’ve heard of the austerity program. Well, my budget makes no mention of teams – ergo the Metropolitan Police Force do not possess teams of any description. Are we clear?’
‘I guess. A man and a dog then?’
‘Dogs require a handler and eat a lot.’
‘All right, maybe a PCSO – they’re cheap enough. We could send one to take a look at the disused Aldwych station.’
‘One PCSO, and I’m beginning to feel as though I’ve been fleeced at the market in Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘Just a quick look, Chief. We have to cover all the bases.’
‘Is that an American term?’
‘I guess so, but . . .’
‘A quick look then, and I’m being overly generous.’
‘Thanks . . .’
‘And instead of chasing shadows, don’t you have a murder to investigate?’
‘I’m on my way, Chief.’
***
Emilia began spluttering and vomiting up copious amounts of water.
‘Thank God,’ Kline said, but as she said it a muscular tattooed man with a skinhead and a mangled left ear erupted through the surface of the water growling like an animal.
Adrenaline flooded her body, she could hear her heart pounding in her ears, her breathing came in short gasps and she knew she either had to fight or run like hell.
She had nothing on her with which to defend herself, but when she looked around she saw a shard of rotten wood lying on the ground.
Grabbing it, she leapt at the man as he reached the side of the overflow tank, screamed like a banshee and rammed the shard of wood through his left eye.
He fell backwards.
Another tattooed skinhead burst through the surface.
Quickly, she looked around again, but all she could find was a longer piece of rotting wood.
The man was pushing through the water towards her.
She grasped the wood and swung it at his head. It snapped in half with a crack, but barely registered in his black eyes.
With a smile etched on his face, he began to climb from the tank.
Emilia came running up behind her. Grunting, she rammed a rusty metal rod up through the soft skin beneath his jaw, and into his Neanderthal brain until it crunched out through the top of his skull.
Kline heard two more Einsatzgruppen burst through the water. She grabbed Emilia’s wrist. ‘Come on, we have to go.’
They ran along a hard standing, but it soon came to an end and had to jump down onto the railway tracks. The noise of a speeding train reverberated from somewhere behind them.
Kline pulled Emilia along the dark tunnel and said, ‘We might be going in the wrong direction.’
‘All roads lead to Rome,’ Emilia replied.
‘Let’s hope so.’
Stones crunched underfoot.
Kline could hear the jackboots following them.
‘Thank you for saving my life,’ Emilia said.
‘Don’t thank me too soon. If those bastards catch us you might wish I’d let you die. We’re never going to outrun them, we need . . .’
To their left was an old wooden door in the blackened brick wall.
Kline had no time to think of another course of action. She ran at the door and smashed into it with her shoulder – it crashed open and she fell sprawling on all-fours onto the filthy floor. ‘Quick, in here,’ she said.
Once they were inside, they pushed the door closed.
Kline sat down with her back against the wood. ‘See if you can find something to jam the door closed,’ she said to Emilia.
God only knew where they were. There was a total absence of light. Was it just one room or another rabbit-warren of tunnels?
Kline heard the men crunch by in the tunnel outside.
‘I think I have found something,’ Emilia said, ‘but I cannot move it.’
She felt her way towards Emilia.
Together, and with great difficulty, they dragged and pushed what could only have been a heavy railway sleeper across the floor and wedged it sideways against the bottom of the door.
‘It won’t hold them up for long,’ Kline said. ‘Maybe a couple of minutes.’
‘Is there a
nother way out of here?’ Emilia said.
‘I don’t know. Let’s find out.’
Holding hands, they began to explore their surroundings. Soon, they found an archway that led into another long room full of railway sleepers stacked from floor to ceiling, then another archway, and another . . . they seemed to be in a long tunnel.
‘Is it me, or are we walking uphill?’ Emilia asked.
‘I think we are, but it’s very gradual. You were telling me what happened after you’d crawled out of that field.’
‘Was I? Oh yes! Well, the snow really began to come down. It was particularly bad that winter. And let me tell you, we are not talking about the few flakes you have here in England that seems to cause chaos each time there is a flurry. In Kiev there is proper snow. That winter it was three feet deep. The temperature was around minus twenty degrees Celsius. Many people died just from the cold, and you do remember that I had no clothes or shoes on?’
‘Yes. I’m surprised you survived. I need a hot water bottle if the temperature drops below twenty degrees.’
‘It is surprising what the human body can endure when you desperately want to live. Anyway, I made it out of that field and found a farmhouse. I was exhausted and close to death by this time. I think if I had not found the farmhouse I would not be here talking to you now.’
‘And the farmer and his wife saved you?’
‘If only things were that simple. I was a Jew. It was obvious what I was. Why else would a young skeleton of a woman be wandering around the countryside in the middle of winter naked? The penalty for harbouring Jews was death. Even if they had wanted to help – they were too afraid. The Germans would have executed everyone in the house.’
‘Yes, but sometimes you have to do what’s right regardless of the consequences.’
‘That may be so, but I could not be sure what would happen. I decided not to risk my freedom on the slim hope that they might help. They had a barn with sheep inside. Some of the sheep had given birth to lambs. I snuggled in with the lambs to keep warm and drank the mother’s milk from the teat. Out of respect, I never eat lamb now. Those sheep were kinder than humans – they kept me alive.’
‘Amazing.’
‘I found an old pair of overalls, some boots and a threadbare coat that dragged along the floor, but I was too weak to carry on. I had to stay there that night and I hid amongst the sheep and lambs. I slept like I would never wake up, and in a way I wish I hadn’t.’
‘What . . . ?’
Then they heard banging and crashing behind them.
‘I think they have found us,’ Emilia said.
Kline quickened her pace even though it was still as black as a coal hole. ‘Hurry.’
A voice echoed through the tunnel like something from the sulphur pits of Hell: ‘We’ll find you, and when we do . . . Well, we’re not going to kill you straight away. No, there are things we need to talk about, things you’re going to tell us, things we’re going to do to you . . . Are you there? Are you listening, bitches?’
‘Do not respond,’ Emilia whispered. ‘They are only guessing we are in here.’
Kline wanted to tell the bastards where she thought might be a good place for them to spend their holidays, but uncharacteristically she held her tongue. Instead she said, ‘Come on, let’s keep going.’
Chapter Fourteen
Roger Crankshank knocked on the front door of 5 Boleyn Gardens in Bermondsey, but no one came. He was hardly surprised – the grass was overgrown, the curtains were closed and when he peered through the letterbox there was a whole stack of junk mail and papers on the hall floor.
‘You’re wasting your time, young man.’
He stood up and glanced across the waist-high wooden fence to where an old woman was standing with her arms crossed. She wore a red festive apron – even though it was August – rollers in her white hair, pink knee-high bed socks and ankle-high sheepskin slippers.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You’re wasting your time. Nobody has lived there for going on six months. Mrs Quigg used to live there with her daughter Phoebe and a builder feller, but they moved out last Christmas.’
‘And has nobody been back since?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Oh yes.’ He pulled out his licence and showed her. ‘Rodney Crankshank from Bulldog Investigations.’
‘A private detective?’
‘Yes.’
‘We don’t get many of them round here. Well, not since the whole estate started going to hell in a handbasket. Used to be a lovely place to live – now look at it. Did you see the drug pushers on the corner?’
‘No.’
‘Cup of tea?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble?’
‘What else has an old woman got to do around here? I thought about joining that gang, peddling some dope, sticking it to the man you know. The trouble is, I like my home comforts too much. They say that prison has gone downhill as well . . . I don’t know, whatever happened to England being the centre of the world?’
‘Things have changed,’ he said, following her into Number 3. A wall of heat hit him. ‘Have you still got your heating on?’
‘A woman of my age can’t be too careful. You hear about old people dying of the cold all the time on the news.’
‘During winter.’
‘It is winter. In fact, it’s winter all the time in England now. Nobody in their right mind would call the couple of days that the sun actually shines summer. When I was a little girl we used to have real summers . . .’
While she made a pot of tea in the kitchen and droned on, he stood in the doorway leaning against the wall and trying to get a word in edgeways.
‘So, what have you come to the edge of the world for, Mr Thinktank?’
He didn’t see the point in correcting her. ‘Trying to locate Mrs Quigg and her daughter.’
‘It’s that useless husband of hers, ain’t it?’
‘He wants to see his daughter.’
She made an obscene noise with her mouth. ‘That’ll be a novelty. When they lived here, nobody ever saw him – always working she told me.’
‘You used to speak to her?’
‘The odd conversation here and there. Well, it was mainly me asking questions and her not answering. I don’t know, anybody would think I was a nosey cow. I was just being neighbourly. Now, when I was a little girl . . .’
He had the feeling that the clock at the edge of the universe had stopped.
She thrust a tray full of teapot, cups, saucers, milk and sugar at him. ‘Here, make yourself useful. Carry that though to the conservatory.’
‘Conservatory?’
‘One of the last things my Bert did was make sure I had a conservatory. I always wanted a conservatory. When I was a little girl everybody who was anybody had a conservatory. Of course, we were nobody because we didn’t have a conservatory. Well, Bert done me proud, he did. I got my own conservatory now, which makes me somebody, don’t it, Mr Frankshank?’
‘I’m sure you’ve always been somebody, Mrs . . . ?’
‘Of course! I ain’t formerly introduced myself, have I? Mrs Susan Roberts at your disposal.’
She led him into a small plastic lean-to on the back of the house. It boasted a worn-out two-seater sofa, an oblong coffee table and a hard-back chair – both of which had been bleached by the sun.
‘What do you think, Mr Lankshank?’
‘Lovely. You’re right, your Bert did you proud.’
She poured the drinks, picked up her cup and saucer, and sat back with a sigh. ‘My Bert’s ashes are spread all over the garden, you know – he loved that garden.’
‘Really?’
‘We both loved the garden. I have a young man who comes in once a month and tends it now. I just like to sit here and watch the birds come and go.’
‘Very pleasant.’
He took a sip of tea. ‘Do you know if Mrs Quigg left a forwarding address?’
‘A small place cal
led Canada, so she said. It’s all foreign to me, and pretty soon England will be a foreign place as well. I walk along to the shops in the village and people don’t speak English anymore. I keep wondering if I’m in a foreign country already. Now, when I was a little girl . . .’
He stood up. ‘You’ve been very kind, Mrs Roberts.’
‘Going already. I was about to tell you . . .’
‘I’m afraid I’m on the meter.’
‘Nobody’s got any time for a decent conversation anymore. Now, when I was a little girl . . .’
He gave her one of the business cards that he’d had specially made. They weren’t official, and he’d had to pay for them out of his own pocket, but as far as he was concerned they were essential equipment for a serious private investigator. ‘My mobile number is on there if you do think of anything else.’
‘People come round from time-to-time, you know.’
‘To the house?’
‘Sure. They go in, collect up all the post and leave.’
‘Do you know who these people are?’
‘Pascal & Meldrew – Estate Agents in the village. You want to go there and see what they know.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You can let yourself out can’t you, Mr Crankshank?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m going to sit here and talk to my Bert. He has no choice but listen to me now.’
***
First, she walked into the Surfer’s Lounge in Westfield Shopping Centre. Bought a mug of coffee, a salad roll and asked for two hours’ worth of internet time.
‘Nineteen pounds eighty-seven.’
‘Ten pounds for two hours!’ she said to the hairy man behind the counter. He looked like a washed-up Hell’s Angel in a pair of leather trousers, a black Fat Mattress t-shirt and a sleeveless denim jacket. ‘You’re fucking joking – right?’
‘Here’s what happens, lady: The power companies hike up their prices, so that the fat cats can get fatter; coffee beans become scarcer because everyone’s growing marijuana and coca plants instead of coffee; tablets and smart phones are taking over the world, so they raise the prices of computer hardware to compensate. I charge you ten quid for two hours. Everyone’s happy except you – that’s how the economic merry-go-round works. Any other questions?’
