by Matt Brolly
‘You’ve certainly stumbled on something here,’ she said, her words muffled by the face protection.
Lambert remained silent, words failing him.
‘How long have these bodies been here for?’ he asked eventually.
‘It’s hard to say at the moment. But it’s possible some of the remains have been here for decades. One thing I’ve started to notice though.’
‘What’s that?’ said Lambert.
‘Many of the bones I’ve seen are deformed in some way. I’m afraid there are the usual breaks and abrasions that haven’t fully healed. I’m sure you’ve seen that before, horrendous though it is. But one thing I’ve seen here I haven’t encountered before. Some of the bodies aren’t fully grown. Or their growth’s been hampered in some way. If I had to guess, I’d say some of the bodies down here never left this place.’
Lambert felt nauseous. ‘You mean they were born here?’ he said, not wanting to believe what he was hearing.
‘I’m afraid it looks that way,’ said Harrington. ‘They were born in the darkness and, unfortunately, were left to die in it.’
Chapter Fifty-One
Lambert retreated from the underground bunker.
Although it could be seen as a success uncovering such a place, Lambert felt like a failure. If what Harrington had told him was true then some, if not all, of the bodies would never be accounted for. Furthermore, aside from Sinnott, who had now been officially charged, there was no one to assign blame to. Worse still, nothing about the situation led them to the whereabouts of Caroline Jardine.
The sun had risen by the time he was back above land. Without the floodlights on, the surrounding area of Waverley Manor had a drab and common countenance. His fellow officers busied away above ground as if in shock. Lambert saw months, if not years of work spiralling out in front of him. Whoever was responsible for the atrocities beneath ground, it extended beyond just one person. Sinnott had denied detailed knowledge of the place and despite himself Lambert believed him. He wondered too if Weaver really had any part to play or if he’d been a scapegoat, a diversion tactic.
As he headed back through the clearing on the now well-trodden pathway, he thought about DCI Barnes’ frustration at the operation and how things seemed to be moving away from Caroline Jardine. To some people it had become bigger than finding the officer but to Lambert it was still his only true goal.
Mia Helmer stopped him as he reached where his car was parked. ‘DCI Lambert,’ she called, her hand raised as if they were best friends.
Lambert stopped, anger surging through him as the petite woman moved towards him. He told himself she was just doing her job but this didn’t calm him.
‘Ah, DCI Lambert,’ she repeated, catching up to him. ‘Would you care to comment on the latest developments?’
‘No,’ said Lambert. He was still, acutely aware of his feet planted into the ground as if ready to push up; in attack or retreat.
‘Have you located Caroline Jardine? I can’t get any answers from anyone,’ said Helmer, glancing round at the uniformed officers.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ said Lambert.
‘Oh come on, don’t give me that. The public has a right to know what’s going on.’
Lambert thought about what he’d seen, about what Harrington had said about the babies born into the living hell of the Manor, and finally snapped. ‘Get her out of here,’ he said, to one of the uniformed officers.
‘Sir?’ said the officer, moving towards Lambert.
‘Get that confused look off your face, officer. This person does not belong here.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Helmer, showing her press card in defence.
The officer hesitated, glancing at Lambert before deciding the best course of action was doing as instructed. ‘Please follow me, madam,’ he said to Helmer.
‘I will not,’ said the journalist.
Lambert took in a deep breath. ‘If she refuses again, arrest her,’ he said, heading to his car.
He heard Helmer’s protestations from the shelter of the vehicle but managed to tune them out. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t get the images of the bunker out of his head. He feared Caroline Jardine was in a similar place. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel. He needed to help her but didn’t know where to start. Maybe he should have let Tillman interrogate Sinnott further after all. He shut his eyes and tried to think, but the images from the Manor kept returning, Harrington’s words haunting him. Born in the darkness, and left to die in it. It had a cadence to it. A refrain he couldn’t quite place but he was sure he’d heard the words before.
He trawled his mind trying to recall every aspect of the case. He worked methodically from beginning to current end. And then he remembered where he’d heard similar words before. Gladys Hodge had been discussing the death of her daughter and how her husband had never fully recovered from the loss. Lambert had asked her what had become of him and she’d answered, ‘he got lost in the darkness for a final time and never returned.’ At best it was a tenuous link but it gave Lambert hope.
He started the car and headed towards the nearest town. He needed to get online to check the System to discover more about Trevor Hodge’s father.
* * *
Lambert didn’t bother ordering coffee. He walked straight past the counter of the chain coffee store and found a seat at the rear of the shop. Out of instinct, he faced the door before taking the laptop out of his holdall and accessing the System via a secure dongle.
Gladys Hodge had said her husband was alone in the darkness. She’d also informed him the man had been something of a loner following the death of his daughter. But, in retrospect, Lambert was convinced she’d meant more by the statement. She was a keenly intelligent woman and it wasn’t beyond her to have given him a cryptic clue.
He accessed as much of the information as he could on her husband. According to the records, he’d died of natural causes aged a mere fifty-five. He’d suffered a fatal heart attack whilst at work. He searched for more detail on the man. He’d had no criminal record. He’d been on the electoral role since age eighteen and had been up to date with his National Insurance contributions.
Lambert began cross-referencing his sources, searching for something that would explain Gladys’s statement to him. Had Leonard Hodge been involved with the atrocities at Waverley Manor? Was it this which had led to Trevor Hodge setting fires? Had he found out about his father’s shameful secret? There was very little to go on. He didn’t have a criminal record so there was no report of him on HOLMES or the System for that matter. However, the System had one advantage over HOLMES. It had access to social media databases, which were still legally a grey area. Again, Lambert had reached a dead-end, Leonard Hodge having died too early for either Facebook or Twitter.
He ran a few more searches, deciding he would have to speak to Gladys Hodge if no answers were forthcoming. It was a long trek over to Dartford and time was certainly of the essence. He tried every trick he knew, even entering typos on purpose and searching for the results, but still he came up blank. He cursed loudly in the coffee shop, receiving a dirty stare from one of the baristas who was obviously still unhappy he hadn’t purchased something. He left without thanks, jumped in the car and headed towards Dartford.
It wouldn’t make a difference, after all. Matilda had everything under control at the Manor, Sinnott was safely in custody and was Tillman’s responsibility now. He played the words in his head as he drove. Alone in the darkness. Each time he did, the images of the last two days sprung to mind. He couldn’t let such things distract him now. He was convinced Gladys Hodge had meant something and he was going to find out what.
* * *
It was midday by the time he arrived at Gladys Hodge’s care home. As he parked up he was momentarily distracted by the remembrance of seeing DS Duggan’s car in the street the other night. He’d yet to question the man over why he’d been following him, and decided he’d find out the next time th
ey met.
The white T-shirted receptionist nodded to him as he walked into the main reception area.
‘DCI Lambert, isn’t it?’ said the man.
‘Sharp memory. I need to speak to Gladys Hodge now,’ said Lambert, skipping pleasantries.
‘She’s up in her room. You wait here, I’ll get someone to show you up.’
‘That’s OK. I know the way,’ said Lambert.
He controlled his pace as he made his way up the stairs, despite being desperate to run. He knocked on her door and shuffled his feet as he waited for an answer.
‘Come in,’ came the confident reply from behind the barrier.
Gladys Hodge sat by the window, a different novel from the last time in her hands. Instead of a semi-naked man on the cover, this particular tome had a picture of a raven-haired woman in a green dress. Hodge shut the book and stared at Lambert as if she’d been expecting him.
‘My son’s dead,’ she said to him, as if somehow he was to blame.
In his desperation to see her, he’d somehow forgotten she would be in a period of grief.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’
‘You were with him when he died?’ said Hodge.
Lambert nodded. ‘I did everything I could to save him.’
‘And that’s why you’re here? To pay your condolences?’
‘In part,’ said Lambert.
‘I know the circumstances. Someone stabbed him. Multiple times from what the officers said to me. It was all my fault.’
‘How was it your fault, Gladys?’ said Lambert.
‘Because I called his number, I led you to him.’ Hodge squeezed her eyes shut and for a second her body contorted as if she was trying to expel the pain from her body.
‘Please don’t feel that way, Mrs Hodge. Nothing about that phone call had anything to do with your son’s death.’
‘Do you think that matters?’ snapped Hodge, shaking herself out of her remorse. ‘Just tell me why you are here.’
‘It’s your husband I’d like to speak to you about,’ said Lambert, still standing, having not been offered a seat.
‘That fool,’ said Gladys with a sneer. ‘What do you want to know about him for?’
‘It was something you said to me. About how after your daughter died Mr Hodge never fully recovered.’
‘Of course he never recovered,’ said Gladys. ‘If you think anyone recovers from the death of their child you’re insane.’
Lambert nodded, not about to besmirch Chloe’s memory by mentioning his own grief. ‘It was more than that,’ he said. ‘It was a phrase you used. That he’d retreated back into the darkness.’
Lambert studied Gladys and noticed the flicker of recognition in her eyes as he said the words.
‘You have a good memory,’ said Gladys. ‘Remember I said he was a simple man, Mr Lambert. Simple in heart and mind.’
‘What was the darkness you talked of?’ said Lambert.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t ask me at the time. Apart from his daughter, the only thing my husband loved was his work and once she was gone he retreated more and more. Some days he wouldn’t even come home.’
‘What did he do for a living?’ asked Lambert, sensing he was close to something.
‘As I said, he was a simple man and, as such, he had a simple job.’
Lambert rubbed his face, his patience close to snapping.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ said Gladys with a cruel gleam in her eyes. ‘He was a guide.’
‘A guide?’ said Lambert, not liking what he saw in Gladys’s face.
‘Yes, he was a guide. And where he worked, he died. His body was found there.’
For Christ’s sake, thought Lambert. ‘And where was that, Mrs Hodge?’
‘In the caves of course. My husband was a guide at Chislehurst Caves.’
Chapter Fifty-Two
Lambert wasted no time. He called Croft and Bickland and instructed them to meet him at the caves with a rescue team.
‘Mrs Hodge, did your husband ever take your son to the caves?’ he asked.
‘Yes, all the time. At least…’
‘At least?’
‘He stopped taking him after our baby daughter died.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Hodge. And, again, my condolences for your son’s death,’ said Lambert, things becoming clearer.
‘Wait, I don’t understand,’ said Gladys.
‘Thank you, again,’ said Lambert, shutting the door.
He was at the caves within an hour. Croft and Bickland were waiting for him, a team assembled. Bickland was in deep conversation with one of the members of staff outside the entrance as Lambert walked over.
‘Sir, this is Miles Nicholls. He’s the current manager of the caves. Mr Nicholls, this is DCI Lambert.’
Nicholls shook hands with Lambert. ‘Ah, maybe we can get some sense here?’ he said.
‘Mr Nicholls, thanks for meeting us,’ said Lambert.
‘I haven’t had much of an option. Your colleague here tells me you think someone is stranded in our caves.’
‘It’s possible. How long have you been working here, Mr Nicholls?’
‘About eight years.’
‘And what can you tell me about the caves?’
‘In what way?’
‘How deep are they? Would it be possible for someone to stow away in them? That sort of thing.’
Nicholls sighed. ‘Well, for one, they’re technically not caves. They’re completely man-made. They’re effectively chalk and flint mines.’
‘And how big is the place?’ said Lambert. He’d heard of Chislehurst Caves before, but they’d never crossed his radar.
‘There’re about twenty-three miles of tunnels,’ said Nicholls.
Lambert closed his eyes, for a second pretending he wasn’t there.
‘Twenty-three miles?’ he said, hoping Nicholls had made a mistake.
‘Yep.’
‘And I presume it’s all mapped out?’
‘It is.’
‘What’s the temperature like down there? Would it even be possible for someone to be living there?’
‘It’s a completely static temperature all year round. Seventeen degrees. Certainly warm enough to live by.’
‘So, do you think it’s feasible for someone to camp down there?’
‘I wouldn’t say camp. Once you’re inside, it’s pitch black. Of course, you can bring artificial lighting with you.’
‘Could you go undetected though?’
‘That I very much doubt.’
‘You have guided tours though?’
‘We do but they only go into the fringes of the caves. They were used as air raid shelters during the war. We even used to stage pop concerts down there in the Seventies.’
‘Show me,’ said Lambert.
Nicholls began walking to the front of a building. Lambert nodded over to Bickland and told him to follow. Croft saw the gesture and accompanied him. Nicholls led them through a souvenir area with old pictures of the mined area. The place reminded Lambert of an old railway station.
‘Through here,’ said Nicholls, leading down a passageway that led to the entrance of the caves.
Nicholls lit three oil lamps and handed them to the officers. ‘This is what we give to the people on our tours.’
‘You obviously mark people in and out?’ said Lambert.
‘We use a ticketing system to allow them in. Each tour guide obviously maintains the correct number of people on their tour, and ensures the correct people return.’
‘Have you ever had people wander off?’ said Lambert.
‘It happens. As you can see, there are loads of different tunnels. The guide usually goes down on his own so we’ve had people wander off. Some even purposely do so but they always return.’
‘May I?’ said Lambert, taking the torch from the man. He shone it onto the granite walls, the undulations. ‘How many different tunnels are there?’
‘Depends on what you classify as
a tunnel. But there are hundreds, if not thousands, of sections on the twenty-three miles.’
‘Have you walked it all?’ asked Bickland.
‘No, not personally. Some of the guides have claimed to.’
‘And could there be a section uncharted?’
‘You mean where someone could hide?’ said Nicholls.
‘Yes,’ said Lambert.
‘I’ve never heard of such a place. I suppose it’s feasible. You’ll have a lot of ground to cover. One of my guys is on shift soon. Clive Friedman. He’s been with us for over twenty years. He’s probably your best bet.’
‘When’s he on shift?’ said Lambert.
‘In about fifteen minutes’ time.’
‘OK, Mr Nicholls, I’m afraid we’re going to have to close the caves off to the public for the time being. I’ve a strong reason to believe there’s a missing person being held somewhere down here.’
Nicholls didn’t seem too bothered by the direction. ‘Seems unlikely to me,’ he said, ‘but if that’s what you want, fine. Our next tour is due when Friedman gets in. I’ll go upstairs and tell them you’ve cancelled it. If you’d like to follow me.’
* * *
Friedman was a bullish man, similar in size and stature to Tillman, only ten or fifteen years older. When Lambert told him his theory he looked at him as if he was mad.
‘I would know if someone was down there,’ he said.
‘You regularly traipse the twenty-three miles, do you?’ said Bickland.
Friedman turned his head to face Bickland and gave him a dismissive look. ‘No, but I could still tell.’
‘How exactly?’ said Lambert.
‘The smell for one thing. If someone was living down there for a few days the smell would drift. It’s hard to describe but when you’ve been going down there for all those years you become attuned to little things like that. Little differences.’
‘And you believe you’ve seen every area? Every inch of these caves,’ said Lambert.
‘In my time, yes.’
‘Are there are other ways to enter them?’
