By the time they reached the Floating Harbour, the city’s old dockland area, which in Victorian times had been formed by impounding 80 acres of the tidal River Avon so that visiting ships could remain afloat at all times, much of the traffic ahead had mysteriously cleared. Had it not been late on a wet and windy night, they might have had a view of the old wooden sailing vessel moored alongside Mardyke Wharf. But visibility was terrible in spite of the street lights, and in any case Joyce was too preoccupied with the nasty little drama which was taking place inside her own vehicle to enjoy the view.
She did notice that there were suddenly only a few vehicles ahead and that the traffic was now running smoothly. Charlie began to accelerate. Joyce was not unhappy about that. She wanted to get to the Royal Infirmary as quickly as possible. She still wasn’t sure exactly how she was going to make things pan out the way she wanted when they did get there. All she knew was that she had to get this nightmare to end. And the faster Charlie got them to the hospital, the faster that might be achieved.
She could see beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, even though the car’s climate control was working perfectly and the air con control panel monitor showed that the temperature inside the vehicle was a comfortable 20 degrees.
Charlie leaned forward in his seat, then looked across the road towards the harbour.
There was a gap ahead in the ornate iron railings along the roadside, one of several left to allow access to the quay by maintenance and port authority vehicles.
Charlie suddenly swung the steering wheel to the right and slammed his foot hard on to the accelerator.
The Range Rover was an automatic, requiring no gear change. The car hurtled towards the harbour, and shot through the gap.
A metre to either side and the railings might have halted or at least slowed the vehicle, which also only narrowly avoided collision with an oncoming taxi. There would still have been a crash, but nothing like what lay in store.
With a terrible lucid clarity, Joyce grasped at once what was happening: Charlie intended to drive them all straight into the harbour. He had spotted that gap and deliberately aimed at it. But she had no time to do anything to prevent the inevitable. There was a second set of railings at the waterside, which she hoped might provide a preventive barrier. However, the new Range Rover Sport boasts a 0 to 60 acceleration speed of under seven seconds. Charlie had been driving at around 35 miles per hour along the Hotwell Road when he’d suddenly accelerated. It took only three or four seconds for the vehicle to reach those railings, but by the time it did so the speed of the Range Rover had increased to over 60 mph.
Joyce heard Molly screaming and thought she probably was too. Charlie didn’t utter a sound. His body was rigid, his eyes focused straight ahead. If they were actually focused on anything.
The Range Rover crashed into the waterside iron railings, which only partly gave way on impact. The front of the vehicle caved in, but the impetus carried it forward, sending it somersaulting over the railings until it met the murky waters of the Floating Harbour nose first. It was almost instantly submerged.
The glass in the window next to Joyce shattered. So did the windscreen. The driver’s door burst open. The car was totally wrecked. Water flooded inside, causing the vehicle to become more quickly submerged than had it remained intact and any kind of significant air pocket formed. The Range Rover weighed more than 240 kilos. It sank to the bottom like a bloody great stone.
The Mardyke Wharf section of the harbour had a depth of only around four metres. There was therefore only two and a half metres of water above the sunken car. But under such circumstances that was potentially as lethal as ten times the depth.
Joyce was covered in broken glass. She had no idea whether or not she had suffered any cuts. Both the front safety bags had inflated. Joyce was half trapped by hers, and her safety belt still held her firmly in her seat. It was pitch-black in the car, although some light from the street lamps above permeated the gloom. She could not see Charlie, but she was aware that he was totally still. She didn’t know if he had been seriously injured or if perhaps he was dead. He certainly was not fighting for his life as she was trying to fight for hers. Presumably he had wanted to die, along with most of his family, and he seemed to have achieved his intention.
The big vehicle had landed upright underwater, with all its four wheels on the harbour bottom. A small air bubble had formed at the top of the car, above the line of the doors, but the water had already reached Joyce’s neck. She knew she had little time to free herself and her children. She fumbled for the catch of her seat belt. Mercifully she was able to release it at once. She leaned over the back of her seat, reaching for Molly. Only then did she realize that her daughter, not wearing a seat belt in the back, had been thrown forward, her upper body smashing into the head rest of the front passenger seat. Molly remained in that position, her head forced backwards at an impossible angle.
Joyce’s brain was barely functioning, yet somehow she registered that Molly’s neck was broken. For a second she hesitated, her hands reaching out towards her daughter’s poor twisted body.
She knew there was nothing she could do for Molly. But there had to be something she could do for Fred. He remained in the rear compartment, trapped by the doggy gate dividing that area from the rest of the vehicle. A doggy gate she had never managed to insert or remove unaided, a task she couldn’t even consider underwater in such conditions. If only she’d removed it after the dog had died. If only the bloody thing had never been fitted in the first place.
She hadn’t heard a sound from Fred. And the whole car was now virtually full of water. As the water rose to cover her nose and mouth, Joyce turned away from Molly. She knew she had to leave her daughter. It was just possible she could squeeze her way out through the broken window of the front passenger door. Joyce had always been athletic. Desperation gave her greater strength and agility than ever before. Somehow she managed to force herself out of the vehicle, even though several of her ribs were broken. The pain from where her seat belt had bitten in was extreme. She ignored it.
She was never to know how, nor to care how, she got out. And although sporty on dry land, she was only an average swimmer. She used the sides of the stricken vehicle, the back-door handle, the roof-rack rails, to haul herself around to the tailgate. Then she reached out for its handle, which, to her relief, turned with surprising ease. Momentarily encouraged, she pulled at the tailgate with all her remaining strength. It wouldn’t budge. Water pressure kept the rear door firmly closed. She wished then that she had at least attempted to remove the doggy gate from inside. It couldn’t have been more hopeless than this. But she hadn’t. Now her lungs were bursting. She had no chance whatsoever of re-entering the car to try to save Fred that way.
She didn’t even know if her son was still alive. She pressed her face against the rear door’s unbroken glass panel, desperate for a glimpse of Fred. She opened her eyes as wide as she could in order to see through the murky water, barely even aware of how much that stung. It didn’t help. She could hardly see a thing.
Then in a shaft of pale light from above, directly before her, right on the other side of the glass, she saw Fred’s face, a couple of inches from hers. His poor, drowning face. Fred’s eyes and mouth were wide open. Was he screaming or was he already dead?
Joyce clawed at the glass and pulled again, with renewed strength, at the rear-door handle. The terrible shock of suddenly seeing Fred like that had caused a physical spasm within her which had made it impossible for Joyce to fight any longer to keep air in her lungs. She began to breathe in water. She too was drowning. But she could not leave her son. Nor her daughter, even though she knew for certain that Molly was already dead. She would die there in the harbour alongside her children. It was all that was left for her.
But Joyce Mildmay did leave her children. She did not die with them beneath the murky waters of Bristol’s Floating Harbour.
Ultimately the human body’s desperate and
undeniable animal desire for survival overwhelmed her whole being. She was unable to stop herself rising up from the harbour depths even though she had no conscious wish to do so.
Nature and gravity lifted her to the surface where, coughing and spluttering, she took big gulps of air, every breath causing pain to her ribs, but nothing like the terrible terrible pain of grief and despair, which was a much more excruciating agony. A quite unbearable agony.
Twenty-five
Alvin Nightingale was a twenty-one-year-old civilian investigator of West Indian descent employed by the Avon and Somerset Constabulary at Kenneth Steele House. He was intelligent, alert and ambitious. And he was not satisfied with his work. He was currently engaged in studying CCTV and other camera footage and had earlier that day been trying to follow the route of Joyce Mildmay’s Range Rover, with limited success. It was work he was good at, because Alvin was a meticulous young man, but he found it tedious beyond belief.
Alvin wanted to be a police officer. He had always wanted to be a police officer. Unfortunately he had so far been prevented from following his dream by a sight defect which meant that his long sight fell below required standards and was likely to further deteriorate. Corrective lenses and spectacles alone could not improve Alvin’s sight to the required level. Alvin had, however, managed to get himself on an NHS waiting list for an operation about which he was fiercely optimistic, even though the success rate was only 30 or 40 per cent. But he knew he could be in for a long wait; his was not considered to be an urgent case, because Alvin could see well enough. Not well enough to become a policeman, that was all.
Meanwhile Alvin liked to pretend he was a kind of trainee police officer. He was always on the lookout for matters that might draw him to the attention of his superiors. And he was intent on demonstrating that his eyesight wasn’t that bad. He was, in fact, determined to prove that his sight defect should not prevent him joining the force, and that he was definitely made of the right stuff.
There was, of course, an alert out for Joyce’s black Range Rover, as well as for the stolen blue Honda Accord in which it was believed young Fred Mildmay had been transported out of Tarrant Park. This was not something with which Alvin Nightingale was expected to concern himself when off duty. But such was his eagerness to impress, he remained vigilant long after his shift had finished.
He was assisted in this, albeit with little tangible success so far, by his place of residence. Alvin lived with his grandmother in one of the thirties semis lining the Portway at Sea Mills, coincidentally not far from Vogel’s bungalow home. He had a bedroom overlooking the main road. And when he had nothing better to do of an evening, which was often now that he had given up swatting for police entry examinations, he would sit at his window, checking the passing traffic against a list of vehicles he and his colleagues had been looking out for that day on CCTV and ANPR.
When the Mildmay Range Rover passed that evening, Alvin had been at his window, for almost an hour, with binoculars, pen, notebook and mobile phone at the ready.
The make, colour and registration number of Joyce’s vehicle featured in the list jotted on the back of his left hand in marker pen. He had already noted several large dark four-wheel drives which had attracted his attention until they passed directly beneath his gran’s house, where a conveniently placed street lamp revealed them to be of the wrong make or colour.
Joyce’s was the second black Range Rover to pass by in the direction of the city centre. Alvin used his binoculars to check and double-check the registration. It was the vehicle owned by Joyce Mildmay, the woman whose child was missing, and whose own whereabouts was currently unknown. There was no doubt about it.
Alvin stood up in front of his bedroom window and focused his binoculars on the Range Rover’s windows, straining to see inside. The rear windows were tinted. He could see nothing though them. He could, however, see that there was a passenger in the front, and he was sure it was a woman. He could not see the driver.
That was good enough for Alvin. He punched the air delightedly. At last – a result! He couldn’t wait to call in his information. He had found the Mildmay car. He may even have found the whole family. His suspect eyesight had surely proved to be up to speed.
Alvin called the main MCIT number straightaway, and was diverted to a duty officer. The duty officer then called Vogel.
Vogel was sitting in the lounge bar of the Royal Marriott Hotel, where Nobby Clarke was staying. After two hours at Southmead Hospital, they had finally given up hope of extracting any information from Henry Tanner that night. If indeed at all. The man appeared to have suffered a relapse. Or, as Vogel suspected, he was faking it to avoid their questions. But the hospital staff did seem concerned about him, and they were unlikely to allow the police anywhere near him until the morning.
Uniform dispatched a constable, who was put on sentry duty outside Tanner’s room. He was there partly to provide protection, and partly on a watching brief. Clarke and Vogel wanted to know at once if there was any change in Henry Tanner’s condition. The two officers also wanted to know whether or not he had any visitors aside from Felicity, who had returned to her husband’s bedside shortly before they left.
Clarke, with the help of sat-nav, had driven them to College Green, where she parked the CID car illegally right in front of the Royal Marriott.
‘C’mon, Vogel, we need a drink,’ she said.
It wasn’t an invitation. More of an order.
‘What about the car?’ Vogel asked, somewhat tragically he thought, even as he spoke.
‘Vogel, since when have you become a bloody jobsworth? Parking tickets are for making paper airplanes with.’ She sighed at him wearily. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get uniform to send someone to pick it up later on, and they can take you home too.’
Vogel hadn’t thought it politic to remind the DCI that he did not in any case drink.
As they made their way into the hotel through the downpour, he repeated a question he’d already asked during the drive over, one which Clarke had dodged, or so it seemed to Vogel.
‘C’mon, boss, tell me about this Mr Smith,’ he demanded. ‘Who the heck is he?
‘For your information, Vogel, Mr Smith is a woman,’ Clarke corrected, deadpan.
‘You know this is getting ridiculous, boss, don’t you?’
‘A woman at the moment,’ Clarke continued, to Vogel’s greater confusion.
She put him out of his misery then.
‘Mr Smith is the generic code name given to Henry Tanner’s government-level controller,’ she explained. ‘It’s always been Mr Smith, ever since the beginning when Henry’s father and Maxim Schmidt set up Tanner-Max. Apparently the first Mr Smith really was called Mr Smith. So for simplicity they carried on with the name.’
‘For simplicity?’ responded a bemused and irritated Vogel. ‘Boss, I don’t believe this nonsense. Codes and controllers? Smith and Schmidt? It’s the stuff of spy stories.’
‘Well, you’d better believe it, Vogel,’ remonstrated Clarke. ‘Because it’s not a story. It’s real. Now shut up and get me that drink.’
They sat together at a table beneath a window down which raindrops dripped relentlessly. Vogel ordered a soda and lime from a smiling waitress who had no idea what a bad mood he was in. Nobby Clarke ordered a large malt. No ice. Splash of still water.
Vogel paid. The Marriott charged London prices. He was still trying to make sense of the whole Mr Smith thing, whilst idly wondering what chance he had of claiming the drinks back on expenses, when his phone rang.
‘Get uniform on to it,’ he barked. ‘I want that vehicle caught up with and apprehended immediately.’
He ended the call and turned to Clarke.
‘We gotta go, boss,’ he said, already standing up and heading for the door. ‘It’s Joyce Mildmay – her car’s been spotted heading into the city centre along the Portway. That’s just down the hill. If we move fast we should be able to head ’em off. C’mon. Let’s go.’
No
rmally Clarke would have reminded him that she was the one who gave the orders. But not in this situation. She rose at once and followed Vogel without so much as a backward glance at her abandoned whisky.
The pair of them raced out of the hotel and into the CID car. Clarke set lights flashing and siren wailing, manoeuvring the vehicle at speed around College Green and in the direction of the Portway, as instructed by Vogel.
‘You know, Joyce and Molly could have been diverted for reasons we do not know. They could now be heading for the hospital as originally planned,’ Clarke suggested.
‘And it’s taken ten hours from Tarrant Park, has it?’ snapped Vogel, forgetting she was his superior officer and nearly biting her head off. ‘In any case, they’re going in the wrong bloody direction for Southmead. They were spotted at Sea Mills, where I live. They’ve already gone past the damned turning. Even I know—’
‘That’s enough, Vogel,’ interrupted the DCI.
Vogel was on a knife edge, and he knew it. This wasn’t how he usually behaved.
‘Sorry, boss,’ he muttered. ‘It’s just that we don’t know what’s happen—’
He stopped speaking when his body was flung forward against his seat belt as Nobby Clarke executed a flawless emergency stop.
‘What the fuck?’ began Vogel.
He looked ahead. The traffic was fairly light, but several vehicles in front of them had also stopped suddenly, forcing Clarke to do the same. Some of the passengers were getting out of their vehicles and hurrying towards the waterside. Then Vogel noticed the buckled railings ahead at the harbour edge.
‘Shit,’ he cried.
In a split second he was out of the CID car and running. The offices which overlooked the harbour along that stretch were in darkness, but a few local residents had emerged from their waterside flats and were also running towards the scene. Vogel pushed through everybody.
Death Comes First Page 27
