More Short Fuses

by Stephen Leather

  They went down together to the car park. Reid’s car was a four-year-old Honda Civic with forty-three thousand miles on the clock and a back-seat littered with empty fast-food containers.

  They drove out on to Tavistock Place, headed south to the River Thames and turned right along the Embankment. It began to rain and Reid switched on the wipers. They smeared greasily across the glass.

  Wright flicked open an A to Z. “Where are we going exactly?”

  “Nine Elms, not far from New Covent Garden Market. Nearest road is Haines Street, off Nine Elms Lane. I thought I’d swing across Vauxhall Bridge and double back, the traffic’ll be lighter.”

  Wright tossed the street map on to the back seat. “I don’t know why you bother having an A to Z,” he said. “You know every bloody road there is.”

  “Just one of my many talents, Nick. You hungry?” Wright shook his head. “Thought we might stop off at a pub or something.”

  “Maybe afterwards,” said Wright.

  Reid snorted contemptuously. “What, want to see it on an empty stomach, do you?”

  Wright said nothing. It wasn’t his stomach he was thinking about: he was more concerned about his partner turning up on a job smelling of drink.

  It took them a little under twenty minutes to reach Nine Elms. They saw two police vans and a white saloon parked at the roadside, and Reid pulled in behind them. Wright climbed out of the Honda and peered down an embankment overgrown with nettles. A beaten-down pathway through the vegetation showed where the occupants of the vans had gone down to the tracks. The sky was a dull grey and a fine drizzle gave the scene the feel of a washed-out watercolour painting.

  “I thought you said this was a body on the line?” said Wright.

  “That’s right,” said Reid, opening the boot and taking out a pair of mud-covered Wellington boots. “What’s wrong?”

  “See for yourself,” said Wright.

  Reid took off his shoes, pulled on the Wellingtons and joined Wright at the edge of the embankment. The two lines down below were crusted with rust and dirt. “Ghost train?” said Reid. He popped a mint in his mouth and started down the slope. Wright followed him, his shoes slipping on the muddy path.

  At the bottom, they looked up and down the tracks, unsure which way to go. To the south, they could see several hundred yards before the lines were swallowed up in the drizzle; to the north, they curved to the left. Wright looked down at his feet. A trail of muddy footprints led north. He nodded in their direction.

  Reid grinned amiably. “You ought to be a detective,” he said.

  They followed the trail. Moisture flecked Wright’s suit and he put his hands in his pockets and shivered. Reid was wearing a brown raincoat which fluttered around his boots, and from somewhere he’d produced a battered tweed hat. He looked like a farmer setting out to market.

  As they walked around the bend they saw a young uniformed policeman in a fluorescent yellow waterproof jacket standing at the entrance to a tunnel. The tunnel entrance was of weathered stone crisscrossed with veins of moss and overgrown with ivy and brambles. The policeman tensed as the two men approached.

  “British Transport Police,” said Reid, taking out his warrant card and showing it to the constable. “Tommy Reid. This is Nick Wright.”

  “Reid and Wright?” The constable rubbed his hands together. “Sounds like a comedy act.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’ve heard all the jokes,” said Reid wearily.

  “Our guys are already inside,” said the constable.

  “Then they’re wasting their time, it’s a BTP case,” said Wright.

  “There hasn’t been a train along here for ten years,” said the constable.

  Wright shrugged. “Makes no odds. It’s Railtrack property, so it’s ours.” He put his head on one side and listened to a rumbling noise from inside the tunnel. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Generator,” said the constable. “The SOCO boys brought it with them to run the lights.”

  Reid stepped into the tunnel. Wright stayed where he was. “Nick?” said Reid.

  Wright swallowed. “Yeah, coming.” He followed Reid into the tunnel mouth. He shivered involuntarily. Ahead of them they could see white, ghostly figures moving around, and beyond them, a bright wall of light. Wright stopped. He could feel his heart pounding.

  “Nick, are you okay?”

  Wright took a deep breath. “Yeah.” He shook his head and started walking briskly down the line, towards the lights. As they got closer, they saw that the ghostly figures were Scene of Crime Officers in white overalls and boots, gathering evidence. Two dark silhouettes carrying flashlights walked towards Reid and Wright, tall men with their hands in the pockets of their raincoats. Wright recognised them immediately and his heart sank. The slightly shorter of the two, Inspector Gerry Hunter of the Metropolitan Police CID, was a good-looking man in his mid-thirties with black curly hair and tanned skin. His sidekick was Detective Sergeant Clive Edmunds, slightly older with receding hair and a thickening waistline.

  “What brings you on to our turf, lads?” asked Reid good-naturedly.

  “A uniform found the body and called it in,” said Hunter. He nodded at Wright. “Thought we’d have a look-see.”

  “What was the uniform doing down here?” asked Wright. “Having a kip?”

  Hunter smiled coldly and ignored Wright’s sarcasm. “A down-and-out name of Annie Lees was sheltering from the rain a couple of day’s back.”

  Edmunds lit a cigarette. “She’s a bit crazy. She kept talking about finding Jesus.” He offered the pack of cigarettes to Reid and Wright but both men shook their heads.

  “Jesus?” repeated Reid.

  “You’ll understand when you’ve seen the body,” said Hunter. “No one took her seriously at first.”

  “Where is she now?” asked Reid.

  “We’ve got her back at the factory. We’ll keep her for you.”

  Reid nodded. “Cause of death?”

  Edmunds chuckled. “Well, it wasn’t suicide.”

  “The doctor’s there now,” said Hunter, “but I think it’s safe to say we’ve got a murder enquiry.”

  “We?” said Wright quickly. “This is our case.”

  “Yeah, handled many murders, have you?” asked Edmunds.

  Wright felt Reid’s hand on his shoulder. He realised he was glaring at Hunter and he forced himself to relax.

  Hunter started to walk away and he motioned with his chin for Edmunds to follow him.

  “Don’t forget your gloves, lads,” said Edmunds.

  Wright was about to reply when Reid squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t let them get to you, Nick. They’re just taking the piss.”

  They continued along the tracks towards the lights. There was a flash, then, a second later, another. “What’s that?” asked Wright.

  “Photographer,” said Reid. They walked by a small generator. A white cable snaked away towards two large fluorescent lights mounted on tripods.

  A woman came down the tracks towards them. She was in her forties with greying blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She was wearing disposable rubber gloves and carrying a large moulded plastic briefcase.

  “Excuse me, are you the doctor?” asked Reid.

  “Pathologist, actually,” she said brusquely. “Anna Littman.”

  “Tommy Reid and Nick Wright,” said Reid. “British Transport Police.”

  “I’ve already spoken to your colleagues,” she said briskly, and stepped to the side to walk past them.

  “They’re not our colleagues,” snapped Wright.

  She raised her eyebrows and stared at Wright with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. “I’ve known Gerry Hunter for three years,” she said. “I can assure you he’s a detective.”

  “He’s with the Met, Dr Littman,” said Reid. “We’re British Transport Police.”

  “Sounds like too many cooks to me,” she said.

  “Can you tell us what we’ve got here?” asked Wright.


  “What we’ve got is a dead white male, late forties, I think, and he’s been dead for several days.”

  “It’s murder?” asked Reid.

  “Oh, there’s no doubt about that.”

  “Murder weapon?” asked Reid.

  “A knife, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “The body’s in a bit of a state. The rats have been at it. I’ll know better after the post mortem. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” She brushed past Wright.

  The two men turned to watch her go. “Nice legs,” said Reid.

  “I’m off women just now,” said Wright.

  Reid sighed and turned up the collar of his raincoat. “Why would anyone dump a body down here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bound to be found eventually. If you really wanted to hide a body, you’d bury it, right?”

  They walked down the track, their feet crunching on gravel. “No footprints,” said Reid. “And none outside if it was two or three days ago.”

  “No drag marks either. So how did they get the body in here?”

  “Carried it, maybe.”

  “Which brings me back to my first point. Why carry it in here? Why not bury it?”

  A Scene of Crime Officer stood up and stretched. He was in his fifties with steel-grey hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses. “Nice day for it,” he said.

  “Found anything?” asked Wright.

  “Lots of stuff. Problem is knowing what’s relevant. Down-and-outs have been sleeping here, kids playing around, dogs, cats, rats. There’s litter, used condoms, sweet wrappers, empty bottles, cigarettes. We’ll bag it and tag it, but as to what’s relevant and what isn’t, well, your guess is as good as mine.”

  “No sign of a murder weapon?” asked Wright.

  The man snorted softly. “No, and I haven’t come across a signed confession. But if I do . . .”

  Reid and Wright walked past one of the tripod lights. A woman in white overalls was kneeling down, examining a wooden sleeper. Wright flinched at a bright flash of light. The photographer was a small, squat man in a dark suit, standing with his back to them. He took a step back, adjusted his focus and took another picture of something against the tunnel wall.

  Wright moved to the side to get a better look. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

  “Yeah, practically crucified,” said the photographer laconically. “I don’t think they cut Jesus’s dick off, though, did they?” He turned his camera side on and took another photograph. “Who are you guys with?” he asked.

  “British Transport Police,” said Reid.

  “Don’t think he was hit by a train,” said the photographer.

  A young man in blue overalls joined them carrying a large metal suitcase. He placed it on a sleeper and opened it to reveal a large video camera and a halogen light. “Are you going to want the video, then?” he asked, pulling the camera out of its foam rubber packing.

  “Yeah,” said Wright, handing him a BTP business card.

  The body was naked, spread-eagled against the wall, the hands impaled on thick nails. The man’s groin was a mass of blood, and strips of flesh had been ripped from his chest, arms and legs. A knife had been thrust into his chest.

  “That’s not what I think it is in his mouth, is it?” asked Reid.

  Wright leaned forward. Between the man’s teeth was a piece of bloody flesh. Wright’s stomach lurched. He screwed up his face in disgust. “What sort of sick bastard would do that?” he whispered.

  “Black magic?” said Reid. “Some sort of Satanic ritual?”

  Wright shook his head. “There’d be symbols. Candles. Stuff like that. This guy’s been tortured to death.” He took a step closer to the body. There was something impaled on the knife. A playing card. Blood from the man’s face had trickled down over the card. Wright reached out his hand.

  “Don’t even think about touching that!” boomed a voice.

  Wright looked around. They grey-haired man in overalls was standing behind Wright holding a polythene evidence bag. “I wasn’t going to touch anything,” said Wright defensively.

  “Who are you anyway?” asked the man. “Gerry Hunter’s already been over the crime scene.”

  “I’m Nick Wright. This is Tommy Reid. British Transport Police.”

  “Been at many crime scenes, have you, Mr Wright?”

  “What?”

  The man sealed the evidence bag. Inside was a cigarette packet. “Standard procedure is for detectives to wear gloves and shoe covers before they go trampling over a crime scene.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll watch where we put our feet,” said Wright. “And it’s Sergeant Wright. What about the victim’s clothes?”

  “No sign of them. Assuming he didn’t walk in naked, the murderer must have taken them with him.”

  Wright put his hands in his pockets and turned to look at the body again. He peered at the playing card. “Ace of spades,” he said. “Now what the hell’s the significance of that?”

  “Bridge game got a bit nasty, do you think?” said Reid.

  “It must mean something, Tommy. Someone went to a lot of trouble to stick that on his chest.”

  The two British Transport cops end up travelling to Thailand and Vietnam on the track of the killer who left the mutilated body in the London tunnel. The Tunnel Rats is a fast-paced thriller with a startling twist at the end.

  THE SOLITARY MAN

  The prisoner lay in the damp grass and watched the building. It was in complete darkness. To his left was a line of small planes, standing like soldiers on parade, their noses pointing towards the distant runway. Two of the planes were four-seater Cessnas and he memorised their numbers. A police car sped down the road that ran parallel to the airfield, its siren on and lights flashing. The prisoner flattened himself into the grass, spread-eagled like a skydiver. He closed his eyes and breathed in the fragrance of the wet grass. Dew had coated his beard and he wiped his face with his sleeve. The siren sounded closer and closer and then began to recede. The prisoner lifted his head. It wouldn’t be long before they searched the airfield.

  He got to his feet and ran towards the single-storey building. There was a main entrance and fire exit, and a window that overlooked the parked planes. Two locks secured the main door: a Yale and a deadbolt. The Yale he could pick but he’d need a drill for the deadbolt. He scuttled around the side of the building and checked the emergency exit. There was no lock to pick, but the wooden door didn’t look too strong. A couple of hard kicks would probably do it. The moon emerged from behind a cloud, making the thick yellow stripes that ran down both sides of his blue denim uniform glow.

  A truck rattled down the road. The prisoner took a step back from the door, then waited until the truck was close to the entrance to the airfield. When the truck’s engine noise was at its loudest, he kicked the door hard, putting all his weight behind the blow. The wood splintered, and it gave way on the second kick. He pushed the door open and ducked inside. They keys were in a cabinet mounted on the far wall of the office.

  He dashed over to the planes. The fuel tanks of the first Cessna he tried were almost empty. He said a silent prayer and went over to the second four-seater, a blue and white Cessna 172. He fumbled for the keys, then unlocked the door on the pilot’s side and switched on the electronics. Both tanks were half-full. The prisoner smiled to himself. More than enough to get him well away from the island. He untied the chains that kept the plane tethered to the metal rings embedded in the concrete parking area.

  In the distance a dog barked. The prisoner stopped dead and listened intently. There was another bark, closer to the airfield. A big dog, a German Shepherd maybe, the sort of dog that the police would use. He walked quickly to the front of the plane and climbed into the pilot’s seat. He let his hands play over the control wheel for a few seconds. There was so much to remember. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. Carburettor heat in, throttle in a quarter of an inch, just enough to get the engine t
urning over. He turned the key. The engine burst into life. He pushed the throttle further in and the engine roared.

  The noise was deafening. He hadn’t realised how loud it would be. It was the first time the prisoner had ever been in a small plane. He shook his head. He was wasting time, and the dogs were getting closer. He put his feet on the rudder pedals and released the handbrake. The plane lurched forward.

  He wrenched the control wheel to the right but the plane kept going straight ahead. Only then did he remember what Ronnie had told him: on the ground, you steered with your feet. The control wheel was only effective in the air. The prisoner took a hand off the wheel and wiped his forehead. He had to stay calm; he had to remember everything that Ronnie had taught him.

  He pushed his right foot forward and immediately the plane veered to the right. He overcompensated and tried to use the control wheel to get the plane back on course. “Rudder,” he muttered to himself.

  He jiggled the pedals and manoeuvred the plane to the end of the runway. The windsock down the runway was blowing towards him, so he’d be flying straight into the wind. He pushed the top of both pedals forward to operate the brakes, and held the plane steady. The gyroscopic compass was about twenty degrees adrift, according to the magnetic compass, so he reset it. A heading of 340 Ronnie had said. North-north-west. He pushed in the throttle as far as it would go and let his feet slide off the pedals. The plane rolled forward, accelerating quickly. He used the pedals to keep the nose heading down the middle of the runway, resisting the urge to turn the control wheel.

  His eyes flicked from the windscreen to the airspeed indicator. Thirty, thirty-five, forty. The runway slid by, faster and faster until it was a grey blur. He waited until the airspeed hit sixty-five and then pulled back on the control wheel. The plane leaped into the air. His stomach lurched and he eased back on the wheel, levelling the plane off. A gust of wind made the plane veer to the left and he pulled back on the wheel again and started to climb.

  Below, houses and gardens flashed by, then a road. He began to laugh. He was doing it. He was actually doing it. He was flying.