He pointed to a dark patch to their left and very low down.
‘See that door?’
She tried to make it out. ‘Is there a door?’
‘Doesn’t look like one from here, but it is one. You’ll see when we get closer.’
‘Are we going to get closer?’ She looked down at her white slippers, not fancying the mud and muck she could see there. Also, would they have to swim?
‘There’s a tunnel behind the door. It leads right up the hill into the park. I’ve heard that there’s another door in the park somewhere, but I’ve never been able to find it. I spent hours looking when I was a kid.’
‘What was the tunnel used for?’
Seriously, he said, ‘I used to think for smuggling or for prisoners to escape. But I suppose really it was for supplies that came by ship to be carried to some of the houses on the hill, the Ranger’s House, or the Observatory.’
‘Is it used now?’
He shook his head, looking amused. ‘Most people don’t know anything about it.’
‘You do, though.’
He nodded. ‘I’ve been down there. It’s good. Secret. Private.’ He took her hand in his own warm, dry one. ‘Come on. Let’s go there now.’
‘No. It looks wet and horrible. And I don’t see how.’ She tried to draw her hand away.
‘Not wet at all,’ he coaxed. ‘Dry as a bone. And there’s a little ledge to walk on. You won’t get your feet wet. Or I could carry you.’
‘If I come, then we won’t stay long?’ After all, she had entered on this day to please him. And she had said she wanted to see places of historical interest. He was only doing his bit.
‘No, of course not. Then have our picnic.’
There was an iron gate which looked rusted and stuck but which opened to a touch, a flight of stone steps to the water level, and then she let herself be led along a narrow shelf which from the look of it was usually under water.
The entrance to the tunnel was a low wooden door. Tucked away unobtrusively in an angle of the river wall, it was also protected by a brick overhang. She could understand why most people did not know it was there.
‘Do we have to go in? Anyway, it must be locked.’ In spite of her best efforts there was a green stain on her white slippers. ‘And damn, I’ve dropped the chocolates in the water.’
‘Forget the chocolates, and the lock is broken. Come on.’ He gave the door a strong push. With a creak it opened inwards on a dark hole. A breath of moist, yeasty air puffed out towards them.
‘Thought you said it wasn’t damp?’
‘Look at the walls and floor. Dry as a bone.’
The walls were brick lined and the floor covered with dull tiles set in a herringbone pattern that reminded her of a Roman villa she had once seen near the South Coast. A small interest stirred inside her. Couldn’t be Roman, of course, she could see that, but wasn’t it interesting how traditional ways of doing things carried on?
‘If you say so.’ There were things that looked like ragged mushrooms growing out of the wall. On the other hand, the floor was dry.
Peter drew a torch out of his pocket and held it above his head; the beam spread out, eventually spending itself against the darkness of the tunnel. The path rose gently above water level and then bent to the left. Probably it went up the hill in a series of gentle planes. Carts might have been used to drag supplies up it, sufficient width was there.
‘That’s it, then.’ She had seen enough and was ready to go.
‘No, let’s go inside. Just a bit. I’ve always wanted to go beyond that curve and I haven’t liked to do it on my own.’
She gave him a sharp, surprised look. ‘Why not?’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t know what’s beyond. Better to have someone with you.’
He was a surprising boy. Imagination and nerves just when you did not expect it.
She took a few paces forward. ‘What about rats?’
‘If there are any, then they will be more frightened of us than we are of them.’
‘Not true,’ she said with conviction. ‘I will be more frightened than they are.’
‘Oh, come on. I’ll keep any rats away.’
‘I thought I heard something.’
‘Let’s take a look.’ He was moving forward, and to keep in touch with him and the light from the torch she had to move too. ‘We might find the other exit. No one’s been here for years.’
‘No?’
The air in the passage stirred and folded itself about her. She wrinkled her nose.
If no one had been here for years, why did she fancy she could smell cigarette smoke?
Inside the hall of the house in Maryon Park Gardens, a tearful, frightened little man was explaining that his name was Bill Pitkin, that he was not Terry Place, that he had never seen Terry Place nor ever heard of him. And, no, he had nothing to hide. The only reason he had not opened the front door had been because he was frightened. He did not know who was trying to break in.
Chapter Four
‘And of course, he does look like Place,’ Lane admitted ruefully. ‘Strong general resemblance. Not twins by any means, but close enough. And you can’t blame him for being frightened. I frighten myself sometimes.’
He and John Coffin were standing in Maryon Park Gardens. Roxie Farmer was still sitting in the police car, looking out at them with an expressionless face. She wore a great deal of make-up at all times, but that day, perhaps just as primitive man might have painted his face as a protection, she was garnished with particularly bright eye colours and lipstick, so that it was a little garish mask staring at the two policemen. She saw the Chief Superintendent looking at her and turned her head away.
‘Let’s have a word with Roxie,’ Coffin started to stroll towards the car. ‘See what she can tell us. She used to be quite a truthful girl. In her own way.’
‘You know her?’ Lane was surprised.
‘From the past. She was a case once herself, poor Roxie. Before your time.’
‘What sort of case?’
‘They call them battered babies now, I don’t think we did then. But battered she was, the poor kid, and by her own father. Nearly killed her. They were a violent family. And Terry was her kid brother. For some reason he didn’t get the kicks, but he certainly saw it happen.’
‘It must have made an impression on you, that case,’ observed the Inspector drily.
‘I remembered the child’s name: Roxie. It’s an unusual one round here. We used to joke that she was named after a local cinema. Anyway, I was interested enough in Roxie to look the case up again … So let’s go and talk to her now.’
‘You won’t get any more out of her, even if she remembers you.’
‘She won’t remember me or the episode. She was only a baby.’ Or so he hoped. Be all there deep inside, though, he was sure of that as truth.
He got into the car beside her. ‘Hello, Roxie, you won’t remember me, but we met once.’
She stared silently, nothing welcoming in her face.
‘You knew that wasn’t your brother in that house. Why did you let us believe it could be?’
Roxie shrugged.
‘Yes, silly question. You wouldn’t help us if you could, would you? But did you help him? Your brother had a piece of paper in his pocket with Billy Egan’s hiding place on it. That’s what I think it is. And from the forensics, I believe Egan wrote it himself, perhaps to remember the address, and the paper somehow came into the hands of your brother so he knew where Egan was. Did you give it to him?’ Roxie shook her head silently. ‘Someone did. Your brother is in a dangerous state. A bit over the edge. You know that, don’t you, Roxie. And I think you know where he is.’
‘I said.’ Her voice was gruff.
‘You said a tunnel by the pier. I think you could be much more precise if you wanted.’
He tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Let’s take a drive around and you shall tell me when we get warm. Like a child’s game. Cold, warm, warmer, an
d hot.’ He motioned to Inspector Lane, who got in beside him. There was already a woman detective in the car, acting as driver.
Roxie drew herself into the corner as if she wanted to get as far away from them as she could. ‘I don’t want to see him.’
‘You won’t have to.’
‘And I don’t want him to see me.’
‘I can’t promise anything. But I’ll do my best.’
‘Come on now, Roxie,’ said the sergeant from the front seat. ‘Tell me which way to go.’ She was driving efficiently towards Greenwich, just approaching the park.
‘You’ll find him soon enough. I gave you what help I could. Look underground, look near the pier, like I said. By the Cutty Sark. And then look out.’
‘What do you mean, Roxie?’ Coffin took her up sharply.
In a harsh voice, Roxie said, ‘He’s got a gun.’
‘I see.’ Coffin looked towards Paul Lane, who shook his head. No, his men were not armed.
‘There’s worse than that.’ Roxie paused. ‘I think he’s got some explosive on him, too.’
Peter and Nona had their backs against a wall, they were facing the man who seemed to inhabit the tunnel. Live there did not seem to be quite the word for someone whose residence there appeared so transient. He had a sleeping-bag, a torch propped up on two slabs of stone, and a couple of carrier bags. An overnight case had been placed carefully on a sheet of newspaper.
He also had a gun.
Nona felt the wall pressing into her back. Peter reached out and took her hand. This wasn’t going right. He was The Master, but no one would know it. This wasn’t how it should be. Nona knew it too, he could see in her face.
‘Let her go,’ said the man. ‘Move a step apart. I don’t want you two to be close to each other.’
He was a short man, still clinging on to youth in his clothes and the cut of his hair. His pale grey suit and suede jacket were stylish, even if now creased and grubby. He had managed to shave somehow.
Peter did not move. The man waved the gun in his face. ‘You don’t know me, remember that. And you won’t remember me when I’m away. I’m just a man. Call me that.’
‘Do what he says,’ whispered Nona, who was frightened. She knew that there were several personal matters about her that could arouse the man, and that it was better to be cautious. It was hateful to have to be like that, and usually she did not allow herself to think on those lines, but it was there and had to be recognized as a factor. Probably Peter did not see it.
Peter muttered something resentful under his breath, but did as she asked. Just one small pace. He was not particularly frightened himself, more excited and interested than alarmed, but he did not want to endanger Nona. He sensed already that her position was more vulnerable than his own. He could see it in the man’s eyes and the manner in which his gaze lingered on Nona.
He could understand it. There was a lot about Nona that made her very vulnerable indeed, and which she seemed unaware of. In a way, this irked him and always had done. He felt she should know. Even while he admired Nona and loved her, there were times he wanted to say: ‘Look, Nona, there is this thing you have to take into account between us.’ But he had not yet mastered a way of putting it into words.
He reached out and took her hand. At this moment it was for him to protect her, and he must find a way to do it. Somehow the chap, who had plainly gone over the top, he could understand that, must be convinced they were no threat to him. He tried.
‘We won’t say anything. We’ll say we only came exploring. Just let us out. It’s nothing to do with us, you being here.’ Be a troglodyte if you want to be, he thought. Stay as long as you like. Die here. See if I care. He did not let himself think how this man had killed Billy Egan, nor the ferocity he had shown. He could understand, even appreciate, the violence, but he did not want it turned against himself and Nona. Not that way.
‘Sit down.’
Nona looked down at her clean jeans and pretty shirt, then she slid on to the floor, ignoring a patch of dirt. Reluctantly Peter sat down beside her.
‘Don’t touch,’ said the man again. ‘Keep well apart.’
Peter moved about an inch. The man, all right, call him ‘the man’, seemed satisfied. He moved back himself and leaned against the wall, studying them. He picked the stub of a half-smoked cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.
He smoked it deliberately in slow puffs, giving Peter time to consider their situation.
Their captor, if that was what he was, stood between them and the way out. They were probably strong enough if they acted as a team to push him aside, but he had the gun. If it was loaded.
Somehow, from the way he handled it, Peter thought it was loaded.
He bent down to stare at the floor. He could sense that the man was more afraid and taut than he was himself. He could pick up the fear. Smell it almost, although the man, a natty dresser by Peter’s standards, had loaded himself with aftershave.
He tried again. ‘If you let us out, we’ll just walk away.’
The man dropped the tiny fraction of the cigarette that he could not smoke to the ground, letting the last acrid smoulder of it rise in the air. Nona coughed.
‘Shut up. I’m thinking.’
Nona said, politely and carefully, ‘I think you are being silly. You haven’t harmed us. Let us go now and there will be no trouble for you. Why should there be?’
In defiance of the man, Peter reached out and took her hand, pressing it, trying to tell her to keep quiet. She was not showing her usual intelligence. ‘The chap’s not resting here,’ Peter wanted to say to her, ‘he’s hiding. And if he’s hiding, then he must have good reason for it.’ But it was safer if Nona did not go on and dig this out of him. She might suspect the exact position; with her knowledge, she probably did, but much better not to say. There were rules, he willed her, follow them.
She spoke. ‘Unless you are already in trouble.’
‘I told you to shut up.’
For once Peter agreed with him. ‘Don’t go on, Nona.’
‘We’ve been out a long while already. My parents will wonder where I am.’
If they’re at home, thought Peter. ‘It’s only just after midday. We never had our picnic.’
‘No.’ She looked very white, and somehow surprised, as if her precious youth had never met such a threat before.
‘Let’s have it now.’
‘I dropped the bag by the door.’
‘I know you did.’
Of course he knew. He was sitting looking at it. But she was relaxing a little.
He reached out with his foot to drag the lunch bag towards him. Sarah would be surprised to know what had happened to her picnic.
‘You can forget that,’ said the man. ‘Just sit still.’
Peter still quietly edged his right foot forward.
‘Stay where you are.’
He drew back his foot. To his surprise, the man went over and kicked the bag towards him.
‘Go on. Eat it if you like.’
Good thing or bad thing? Bad, probably. It meant they were here for some time. When things went wrong in this kind of game, they went very wrong.
He pressed his back against the stone wall and stretched out his hand for some food. Nona shook her head before he had a chance to offer her anything. He knew that was the wrong way to be, she ought to try to eat. It was a gesture of strength to the man who held them prisoner, if nothing else. She was one of those who, in time of crisis, cannot eat. He himself could always eat; he would have made a good soldier. He bit into one of Sarah’s ham and cucumber sandwiches; his taste buds appreciated them. He took another one. Although not given to dramatic expressions, he found himself thinking: End of Act One.
Down by the Cutty Sark, the police search had begun again. Now they knew where they were going.
In an office on the pier Coffin and Lane had maps spread out in front of them. The room was full of policemen, as well as the Chief Superintendent and the Inspector
, there was the officer in charge of the search and a sergeant. The woman detective had gone off with Roxie Farmer to give her a cup of tea and sit in her house keeping an eye on her.
‘That’s the tunnel.’ Coffin pointed to a line on the map, running from the river to the park. It even had a name, he could just make out the tiny print. ‘Victory Tunnel. Which victory would that be?’
‘Trafalgar, I should think,’ said the pier official. He was an elderly man who had worked on the river all his life and regarded his present job as something of a rest on the way to full retirement. But he loved the river which was his life. His name, Waters, befitted him. ‘Or even the Armada. It’s all old stuff round here.’
‘Usable still, is it?’
‘We keep everything in good order. But you won’t get in it easily now the tide’s up. Wait until it goes down and you can walk in without getting your feet wet.’
‘Can’t we approach by boat?’
‘We’ll do that anyway, but it’s still better to have the tide with you.’ He had a proper respect for the river as all must who work on her. He suspected Coffin of lacking it.
‘I’d like to go now.’
It was an order.
The atmosphere in the tunnel had deteriorated in the last two hours as the cigarette smoke had grown thicker.
Unless their captor had a secret supply of them, Peter reckoned he would be out of smokes before they moved.
They would be moving, and he pondered about that move, thinking about the gun. He had no idea what the time was. He did not have a watch, the only timepiece in the family was an aged alarm clock sitting on the kitchen shelf. Nona had a watch with a pretty red face, but she was sitting with her hands in her lap with the watch hidden. He knew better than to ask her the time; she was edgy enough as it was. So was Their Captor. That was his official title now in Peter’s mind. That made him both easier to think about (for were there not rules about Captors? Rules of War) and infinitely more dangerous.
Coffin Underground Page 6
