Gone jc-5

by Mo Hayder

  She checked the meter on her gas detector: the air was clean. It was safe to fire up a bigger lamp. She hauled the huge HID light out of the boat, held it up and flicked the switch. There was a loud whoomp as the unit came to life, then a few moments of crackling as the light grew stronger and stronger. Flooded in blue-white light the tunnel was even more eerie, the shadows bouncing around as she tried to steady the lamp. Next to her, Wellard’s face was sombre, pale, as he took in what lay in front of them.

  ‘Is that it?’

  The light glinted on the canal stretching away from where they stood. Nothing to see except the water and the sides and, about fifty metres ahead, an impassable wall. So much fuller’s earth had detached itself from the ceiling and dropped into the canal that the ground level had risen to the ceiling, blocking the canal.

  ‘Is it the rockfall?’ Wellard said. ‘Have we reached it already?’

  ‘I dunno.’ She caught up the measuring tape and studied it. The trust’s engineers reckoned the rockfall extended about a quarter of a mile from the eastern entrance. They were a little short, but this could just about be the other end of it. She leaned into the Zodiac, pushed it along, wading through the gloopy water. When she got to the scree she shone the light up to where it met the ceiling. Let the beam trail along the juncture.

  ‘No probe,’ she murmured.

  ‘So? We knew the probe probably wouldn’t come all the way through. I think this is the other end. Come on. ‘ He began to push the Zodiac back the way they’d come. He’d gone a few paces before he realized she wasn’t with him. She was rooted where she stood, gripping the torch, staring at the top of the fall.

  He let all his breath out. ‘Oh, no, Sarge. I don’t know what you’re thinking but let’s just get the hell out of here.’

  ‘Come on. It’s worth a try. Isn’t it?’

  ‘No. This is the end of the fall. There’s nothing on the other side. Now, can we just go—’

  ‘Come on.’ She winked at him. ‘Thought you said the HSE rod wasn’t up your arse. Just this last bit. Make me happy.’

  ‘No, Sarge. This is the end. This is where I stop.’

  She took a deep breath. Let it out in a long sigh. She stood for a moment dawdling the HID lamp across the rockfall, monitoring him out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘Hey,’ she hissed. ‘What was that?’

  ‘What?’ Wellard frowned at her. ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘Sssh.’ She held a finger up to her mouth.

  ‘Sarge?’ The communications box came to life. The voice of the officer stationed at the end of the tunnel. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Sssh.’ She held her finger to her mouth. ‘Quiet. Everyone.’

  No one spoke. She took a few steps forward. The torch beam danced in nothingness, picking up dripping walls and the odd hunched shapes of fallen earth like the humped back of an animal protruding out of the water. She stopped, turned sideways in the tunnel and put her head back as if she was trying to open her ears. Wellard left the boat and came slowly through the water, going carefully so his boots didn’t make a noise. ‘What is it?’ he mouthed. ‘Did you hear something?’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ she mouthed back.

  ‘No. But you know . . .’ He waggled a finger at his ear. The team had regular hearing tests to check the water pressure they worked under wasn’t affecting their eardrums. Everyone knew Wellard’s hearing was five per cent down in one ear. ‘I’m not as good as you.’

  She put her finger into her left ear, pretended to listen again. But Wellard wasn’t stupid and this time the act didn’t work. ‘Jesus.’ He sighed. ‘You can’t even lie convincingly.’

  She lowered her hand and glared at him, started to say something but stopped when she saw that something in the tunnel was changing. The water around their knees was moving very slightly. A noise like distant thunder came from overhead.

  ‘I can hear that,’ Wellard murmured. ‘I can definitely hear that.’

  Neither moved. They turned their eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘A train.’

  It grew louder and louder. Within seconds it was deafening: the walls shook as if the earth itself was rocking. The tunnel seemed to roar and the water wallowed around them, sending back moving reflections of the big lamp. From somewhere up ahead in the darkness came the noises of rocks splashing in the water.

  ‘Shi-it.’ Wellard hissed, ducking his head. ‘Shit and fuck.’

  And then, almost as quickly as it had started, it was over. For a long time neither of them moved. Then, cautiously, Wellard straightened and they stood, shoulder to shoulder, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of one or two residual rocks falling in the darkness ahead.

  ‘Pull back.’ A voice came from the comms box. It sounded to Flea like Jack Caffery’s. ‘Tell them to come out.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Sarge?’ said the communications officer. ‘SIO says pull back.’

  Flea pushed her helmet off her face, hooked her hands into the gunwales of the Zodiac and leaned over to speak into the box. ‘Tell DI Caffery that’s a negative.’

  ‘What?’ hissed Wellard. ‘Are you fucking insane?’

  ‘There’s no probe here. And, anyway, I heard something on the other side of this rockfall. Sir.’ She was already pulling the equipment she needed out of the Zodiac: spade and a face mask. ‘I’d like to satisfy myself of what that was. There could be spaces between this fall and the main one.’

  She heard Caffery saying something to the comms officer, his voice echoey. He must have waded into the tunnel to speak to him.

  ‘Sarge?’ said the officer. ‘The SIO’s saying he went through it in the briefing. He says there’s no hard evidence she’s in the tunnel and he’s not risking any lives. Sorry, Sarge, just relaying it as it is.’

  ‘That’s OK. And if you would relay back to him just as it is, though I know he’s listening, that I’m a professional, I’m doing my job, and I’m not going to risk any lives. And—’

  She stopped. Wellard had pulled the lead out of the comms box. The tunnel fell into silence. He was staring at her, his eyes glittering.

  ‘Wellard. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I’m not letting you do this.’

  ‘There might be something over that rockfall. Just on the other side.’

  ‘No – that fall’s been there for ever.’

  ‘Look – I’ve got a feeling—’

  ‘A hunch? Got a hunch about it, have you?’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘No. You’re taking the piss, Sarge. I’ve got a wife and kids at home and you’ve got no right – no right—’ He broke off and stood there, breathing hard, glaring at her. ‘What’s the matter with you? For six months you’ve acted like you don’t give a toss about the unit. It could have lain down and died for all you cared. Now, out of nowhere, you’re so gung-ho you’re going to kill us both.’

  Flea was speechless. She’d known Wellard seven years. She was godmother to his daughter. She’d made a speech at his wedding, had even visited him in hospital when he’d had his hernia stitched together. They worked together brilliantly. He’d never let her down. Never.

  ‘You’re not with me, then?’

  ‘I’m sorry. There’s a limit.’

  She closed her mouth, looked over her shoulder at the wall, turned back to him and shrugged, not meeting his eyes. ‘Fair enough.’ She took the lead from his hand and put it back in the box.

  ‘. . . out now,’ came Caffery’s voice. ‘If this goes on I’ll get your own inspector down here.’

  ‘He says come out,’ the comms officer repeated tonelessly. ‘Now. Says if this goes on he’s going to get Inspector—’

  ‘Thank you.’ She put her face close to the box and spoke clearly. ‘I heard. Tell Mr Caffery that one officer is coming out. He’ll bring the boat with him. And meanwhile,’ she hooked the little throat mic out of the zip pocket on the dry suit and attached it round her neck, �
��I’m switching to VOX. OK? Might not have line of sight with the comms box.’

  ‘What the fuck is going on in your head?’ Caffery shouted.

  She hummed to herself, blocking his voice out. When she’d crawled into the rockfall, double-checked it really was the other end and not just a smaller fall, and when she’d maybe found something that led them closer to Martha, then he’d shut up. Might even thank her.

  ‘Nah,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Say thank you? Now you’re in Fairy-tale Land.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just trying to open the throat mic.’

  He didn’t answer. She knew what he’d be doing. He’d be shaking his head regretfully, as if to say, I’m a reasonable man, so what is it about me that makes me a magnet for all the nutjobs in the world?

  Wellard was loading the boat, a sick look on his face. She didn’t try to catch his eyes as she pulled her trenching tool out of the elasticated loop she’d stored it in. She had a feeling they’d never talk about this moment again. She turned, carrying the spade and her other equipment, and waded to the fall. She began to scale it, the fuller’s earth crumbling under her weight, sinking with every step. She had to throw the equipment ahead of her, hoping it would stay where it fell. It took three minutes to half crawl, half scramble, up the scree to the ceiling and by the time she got to the top she was panting. But she didn’t stop. She started to dig, pulling at the heavy earth with the spade, hearing it roll down behind her and splash into the canal.

  She’d been working for about five minutes when Wellard appeared next to her. ‘You’re supposed to be halfway back by now.’ She twisted and glanced back at the Zodiac, which was still sitting in the black water. ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like?’ he said.

  ‘You’re not coming with me.’

  ‘No. But I can dig. You don’t have to do that part on your own.’

  She let him take the spade and sat back, watching him work for a few minutes. She thought of what he’d said: I’ve got a wife and kids. You’ve got no right, no right . . . She felt tired. So tired.

  ‘OK.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘You can stop now. Stop.’

  They sat back and looked at the hole he’d made.

  ‘It’s not very big,’ Wellard said.

  ‘It’s big enough.’

  She snapped the little Maglite out of the holster in her dry suit, crawled a short way into the hole on her belly and pushed the torch out in front.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered, as she made sense of what she was seeing. ‘That’s good. Very good indeed.’

  ‘What?’

  She let out a low whistle. ‘I was right.’ She pulled back out of the hole. ‘There’s another chamber in there.’ She reholstered the torch and unstrapped her hard hat, her head lamp, the gas meter.

  Wellard watched her. ‘You taught us we never take these things off.’

  ‘Well, I’m unteaching you now. I can’t get through with them on.’ She grappled with the Dräger rebreather.

  ‘Not that too. I can’t let you do this.’

  She put the emergency set into his hands. ‘Can’t you? I haven’t got a wife and kids. If something happens to me no one’s going to cry.’

  ‘That’s not true. It’s just not—’

  ‘Sssh, Wellard. Zip it and take this.’

  He rested the rebreather on a flat part of the scree without a word.

  ‘Here. Hook me up.’ She handed him the semi-static climbing rope and waited for him to attach it into the back of her harness. He put his knee on the small of her back and gave the harness an experimental tug.

  ‘OK.’ His voice was dull. ‘You’re secure.’

  She hoisted herself forward, pushed her head and shoulders into the dark gap. Tree roots trailed out of the ceiling, tickling her neck and back like fingers. She elbowed her way a few feet in.

  ‘Give me a push.’

  There was a pause. Then she felt him grip her feet and shove her as hard as he could. For a moment nothing happened. He tried again and this time, with a loud sucking noise, she plopped out on the other side, like a cork, covered with mud. She half commando-crawled, half rolled down the slope, tumbling the last few feet to land in the canal on the far side.

  ‘Jesus.’ She sat up, spitting and coughing. Around her the thick, stagnant water rocked lazily with the shock of her landing. Something fell down behind her from the top of the mound. She heard it bounce, leap and land at the bottom. A clink, not a splash, so it was shy of the water. She leaned over and felt in the muck. Her head lamp. ‘Top man,’ she shouted to Wellard. ‘Top man.’

  ‘I can only just hear you, Sarge.’

  ‘You deaf bastard.’

  ‘That’s more like it.’

  She clicked on the lamp and pulled herself to her feet, the stagnant water running off her. She shone the light around. It picked out the brick walls, the great scars in the ceiling where the strata had collapsed, the lines of other faults that looked precarious enough to come down at any time, the water, still moving – and up ahead, only about thirty feet away, another rockfall.

  ‘See anything?’

  She didn’t answer. The place was empty, except for an old coal barge at the far end, just its stern visible, half covered by the next pile of earth. The water was so shallow that a child – or a child’s body – would be visible even if it was lying in the canal. Flea waded to the barge and bent over, shining the light into it. It was full of sludge, with bits of timber floating on the surface. Nothing there.

  She straightened and propped her elbows on the deck, her face in her hands. She’d come as far down the tunnel as it was possible to come. The place was empty. She’d been wrong. A total waste of time and energy. She wanted, frankly, to sit down and cry.

  ‘Sarge? You OK in there?’

  ‘No, Wellard,’ she said tonelessly. ‘I’m not. I’m coming out. There’s nothing here.’

  23

  Caffery had borrowed some waders from the Underwater Search van. They were several sizes too big and the tops cut into his groin as he waded out into the daylight. In the short time he’d been in the tunnel the area outside had become even more crowded. Not just with the media and the hangers-on, but half of MCIU too: they were standing together about forty yards away, staring into the tunnel. Everyone had heard about the search he’d ordered and they’d all piled out to watch.

  He ignored them, ignored the reporters craning over the ornate parapet, some resting cameras in the decorative alcoves. He got to the towpath, sat down on the freezing earth and tugged off the waders. He kept his face down – didn’t want anyone getting a photo of how pissed off he was.

  He pulled on his shoes, did up the laces. At the tunnel entrance Flea Marley and her officer appeared streaked with black mud and blinking in the daylight. Caffery got up and went along the towpath until he was directly above her. ‘I am so, so fucking pissed off with you at this point,’ he hissed.

  She looked up at him coldly. She had faint blue bulges under her eyes as if she was very tired. ‘I’d never have guessed.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come out when I told you to?’

  She didn’t answer. Without taking her eyes off him she began to pull off the great chunks of wet clay that clung to her body harnesses. She handed her gas meter and the emergency rebreather to a team member to hose down. Caffery leaned closer so that the reporters wouldn’t hear what he said. ‘You’ve wasted four hours of everyone’s day for what?’

  ‘I thought I heard something. There was a gap in the rockfalls. I was right about that, at least, wasn’t I? She could have been there.’

  ‘What you’ve done is illegal, Sergeant Marley. Breaching the parameters of an assessment that complies with the HSE’s rules is technically illegal. You want the chief constable in the dock, do you?’

  ‘My unit is statistically one of the most dangerous units to work on. But in three years I’ve never once had one of my boys
hurt. No one in the decompression pot, no one in A and E. Not even for a broken nail.’

  ‘You see, that –’ he dug a finger at her ‘– that, what you’ve just said, is exactly what I think this morning has all been about. Your unit. You’ve done this just to grandstand your poxy unit—’

  ‘It’s not a poxy unit.’

  ‘It is. Look at you – it’s in pieces.’

  The bullet was out before he knew he’d even chambered the round. It hit its target head on. He saw it clearly. Saw it find its spot, bore through bone and skin, saw the pain blossom behind her eyes. She dropped her harness, handed her helmet and gloves to a unit member, clambered up on to the towpath and walked steadily back to the unit’s Sprinter van.

  ‘Christ.’ Caffery put his hands in his pockets and bit down hard, hating himself. When she’d got into the vehicle and closed the door he turned away. Prody was gaping down at him from the parapet.

  ‘What?’ Another, cold flare of anger went through him. It still rankled that Prody was sniffing around the Kitson case. Maybe rankled even more that the guy was acting exactly as he, Caffery, would act. Asking questions where he shouldn’t. Stepping outside the box. ‘What, Prody? What is it?’

  Prody closed his mouth.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be magicking CCTV footage out of thin air, not on some coach outing to the Cotswolds.’

  Prody muttered something – might have been ‘sorry’, but Caffery didn’t much care. He’d had enough – enough of the cold and the media and the way his force was behaving.

  He felt in his pocket for his keys. ‘Get back to the office and take your friends with you. You’re all about as welcome here as a cockroach in a salad bowl. If it happens again a little bird will be winging its way to the superintendent.’ He turned smartly, walked away and mounted the steps that led up to the village green they were using as a RV point, doing up his raincoat as he went. The place was almost deserted, just a man in a torn sweater in the back garden of one of the houses, emptying leaves into a large wheelie. When Caffery was sure no one had followed he opened the door of the Mondeo and let Myrtle out.