‘Y
ou ready, then?’
Marina nodded and got in the car. They set off for Halstead.
Neither spoke.
Johnny Cash: Unchained
provided the soundtrack.
‘You OK?’ Marina asked eventually, her voice low.
Johnny Cash was singing about how everything was done with a Southern accent where he came from. Some beautiful guitar work accompanying him.
Phil nodded as he drove. ‘Working through it. You know.’ He turned to her. Smiled. ‘We’ll get there.’
She placed her hand on his thigh. He kept it there.
The drive out to Halstead was busier than they had expected, catching the tail end of the evening rush-hour traffic. With the darkness had come rain, blowing across the road in front of them, hitting the windscreen like sheets of diamond-hard static. Cars were moving slowly on the twisting country roads, taking time on the hills, avoiding skids and spills.
They followed the villages along the River Colne, eventually arriving in Halstead.
Phil came to the crossroads in the town centre, went right. As he did so, he looked down the hill leading to the old mill at the bottom that represented the town centre. It was an old market town, the original architecture maintained, a place of decent restaurants, bars and pubs, upmarket independent furnishing stores. He and Marina had driven out for Sunday lunch a few times, bought a couple of little things for their new house. The shops were still hanging on. A few more empty ones than previously, a few more charity shops sprung up. He saw Marina looking.
‘We’ll have to come back here one Sunday,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘When this is over.’
‘Yeah. When this is over.’
He drove out of the centre, down the hill towards the Halstead Manor Hotel. Pulled up in the gravel driveway. Johnny Cash was singing that it was so hard to see the rainbow through glasses as dark as his. Phil turned the music off. They looked at each other.
‘Ready?’ said Phil.
‘You sure this is going to work?’ said Marina. ‘Asking a mad tramp what’s going on?’
‘Let’s hope so,’ he said.
‘You sure he’s not the murderer?’
‘Wouldn’t I have brought him in if he was?’
Marina shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You haven’t been thinking straight these last few days.’
Phil sighed. ‘I know. But I looked at him, looked in his eyes. It’s not him, Marina. He’s damaged, yes, troubled. But not a killer. He wanted the Garden to be a place of healing. Retreat.’
‘And look what happened to that.’
‘Let’s go.’
They got out of the car. Seeing the rain start, they had both dressed practically. Jeans and boots. Waterproof jackets. Phil took a torch out of the boot of the car. ‘This way.’
They walked off behind the back of the hotel, started down the bank towards the river. Phil swung the torch around. Picked up marks on the ground.
‘Someone’s been here,’ he said.
‘There was a murder here,’ said Marina. ‘I should think there have been a lot of people tramping around.’
‘No,’ said Phil, pointing to the path they were following. ‘Look. There are fresh footprints. Fresh tracks. Someone’s been down here recently.’
‘Is that good?’ asked Marina.
‘If it’s Paul,’ said Phil, ‘yes.’
‘And if not?’
‘Let’s hope it’s Paul,’ he said.
They walked along the route as Phil remembered it. It was harder going in the dark, harder still in the rain. Secure footholds crumbled away to muddy nothing. Branches and trees used night as camouflage to entrap them. The two of them had to hold on to each other, help each other down and along.
‘Here it is,’ said Phil at last as they reached the river’s edge. ‘At least I think so.’
He swung the torch round. Listened. There was no sound except the rain hitting the water, the leaves. Like hot, sizzling fat or incessant machine-gun fire.
Along the muddy bank the torch picked out a larger area of darkness.
‘There.’
They began to walk towards the cave mouth.
‘This is it?’ said Marina, stopping in front of it. ‘The man who started the Garden. This is where he lives?’
‘Yep. When he’s not in one of his other properties dotted around town. All connected to the Garden, all derelict.’
She nodded. ‘I could get a PhD out of him alone.’ She peered into the cave mouth. ‘Well, that looks inviting. What do we do, call to him? Leave food outside?’
‘Or whisky,’ said Phil. He swung the torch into the cave, stepped inside.
‘Careful.’
‘I am.’ He walked on. ‘I think someone’s been here,’ he called back.
Marina heard his voice echoing round the stone mouth.
‘I think—’
Phil screamed. There was a clattering, smashing sound. Silence.
‘Phil? Phil?’ Marina ran into the cave mouth, still shouting. Panic rising inside her. ‘Phil … Phil … ’
‘It’s … all right … ’ His voice, distant, distorted. Echoing.
‘Where are you? Phil?’
‘I’m … Don’t come any closer. You’ll do the same.’
‘What?’
‘There’s a … an entranceway here. A slope. I didn’t see it and I’ve just slid down it.’
She saw the faint glow of torchlight against the darkness, went towards it. She reached the lip of the shaft Phil had fallen down. Knelt before it. It was just big enough for one person to go down, as long as they weren’t too wide. She could see him at the bottom, looking up. The sides, where the torchlight hit them, looked smooth. Too smooth to climb up again.
‘How are you going to get out?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe Paul’s down here. I’ll ask him.’
‘And maybe he isn’t.’ She sighed. ‘Have you still got that tow rope in the boot?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘I’ll go and get it. Don’t wander off.’
‘Yeah, thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’
Marina stood up, made her way back out of the cave. She looked around, tried to get her bearings. The woods seemed scarier without Phil. Bigger, wilder. Things unseen lurking behind trees.
Trying to swallow down the panic that was threatening to rise within her, and telling herself there was nothing to be scared of, she set off in what she hoped was the direction they had come from. Back to the hotel, back to the car.
As quickly as she could.
T
he circus was on the move. Under cover of darkness and with the Super’s reluctant, angry blessing. Mickey sat in the first van of the convoy, up front with Fennell and Clemens. Body armour on over his day clothes, the two SOCA officers doing the same.
The Super hadn’t been happy when Fennell had called him. Engaging in a clandestine operation on his turf without his consent was exactly the kind of thing to make him angry. But Fennell, displaying great political skill, had won him round. Reminded him what a feather in his cap it would be for a people-trafficking operation to be halted on his manor. That the covert joint operation (he had stressed the word
joint
) would result in the rooting out and successful capture of a corrupt police officer. How such a superintendent would be looked on by the Home Office in the next round of budget cuts. When all this was pointed out, whatever misgivings the Super had were kept to himself.
Fennell had hung up, clearly happy with himself.
Yeah, thought Mickey, now we just have to carry all of that out. Because if we don’t, it won’t be the SOCA glory boys who’ll take the blame. Not once they’ve involved the locals.
The convoy drove along the A120 towards Harwich. There were two ports on the mouth of the River Stour. Felixstowe and Harwich. Most of the heavy cargo, Fennell had informed them all at the briefing, came through Felixstowe. And as a result it was the more carefully guarded of the two. Weaver and Balchunas’ cargo was coming in the Harwich side, where it would be less likely to be stopped and searched.
They would get in place for the shipment, identify it, follow it to the lock-up.
And then take them down.
The firearms unit was in the van behind. Mickey felt uncomfortable with them around. The cowboy outfit, Phil always called them. The shoot-first-fill-in-compliance-forms-later brigade. He must have caught Phil’s allergy to them, Mickey thought, smiling to himself.
They were approaching Harwich, going round the roundabouts, heading down to the port itself.
Mickey always found Harwich a strange place. Away from the front, there were rabbit-warren streets of old Georgian houses, interesting local pubs and even a converted lighthouse. But the front, and the port, was different.
They drove along the front and round to the side, the convoy coming to a halt in a car park by the edge of the water.
Mickey got out, walked down to the sea.
It was raining fully now, and dark. The only sound was the tide lapping against the shore, rough waves crashing in, fizzing out as they withdrew. Mickey pulled his coat around him. He could feel the cold, the damp penetrate.
Felixstowe on the opposite side was lit up against the night. Etched against the darkness, it was all looming boxlike cranes and blinking lights. It looked sinister, alien. The port itself resembled a grounded alien spacecraft, no longer needing to cloak itself, wounded but still dangerous. The cranes along the shoreline, dark and top-heavy on foursquare legs, looked like the walkers from the old Star Wars films. Like they were the advance guard from the ship, about to come stomping across the estuary, all blackened and rusting, guns blazing.
Mickey shivered. Hoped it was just the cold.
Clemens got out of the van, came and stood beside him. He shook out a cigarette, lit up. Offered the pack to Mickey as an afterthought. Mickey refused.
Clemens had been silent on the journey. Mickey didn’t know the man well enough to ask why.
‘Just heard,’ said Clemens, blowing smoke towards the other side of the estuary. ‘My partner. Slipped into a coma.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mickey. Then thought. ‘But isn’t Fennell your partner?’
‘Just drafted in. We know each other, have worked together before. But my other partner was sliced up a couple of days ago. He’s been fighting for his life since then.’
Mickey didn’t know what to say. Thought he wasn’t expected to say anything, just listen.
‘And you know who did it?’
‘Who?’
‘That slag back at the hotel. Her.’
Mickey said nothing. He could guess where this was going.
‘And she’s going to get away with it. Claim self-defence.’
‘Was it?’ asked Mickey. ‘Self-defence?’
Clemens sighed. Shook his head. Blew more smoke. ‘Didn’t expect you to understand. Met your boss. See where you get it from now. Be trying to turn you into a
Guardian
reader too.’
Mickey hadn’t taken to Clemens. Too quick to anger, too fast with his tongue. Looking for a fight. Not good traits to have in someone who was supposed to be watching your back. He would have to be aware of that.
He didn’t reply. Didn’t rise to it.
The two men kept looking across the water, not speaking, each in their own world.
Others came out of the van to join them.
Then Fennell arrived, putting his phone away.
‘Your boss said you were looking forward to doing some proper police work again,’ he said to Mickey. ‘Bit of thief-taking.’
Mickey gave a grim smile. ‘Beats paperwork, I suppose.’
‘Certainly does.’ Fennell looked at his watch. ‘Time to get organised.’
P
hil tried to stand. Slowly, unsure of how much space there was between his body and the ceiling of the cave. Not much. Not enough for him to stand fully upright.
He checked himself out. No severe pains anywhere, nothing that indicated twisted ankles or broken bones. Just soreness resulting from the speed of the descent and the abruptness of the landing. He would hurt tomorrow.
If he could get out again.
He swung the torch around. The chamber he was in seemed to be a naturally occurring space that had been hollowed out further. Some of the rock looked smooth, age-worn; some looked hacked at, hewn.
He turned round slowly. Played the torch in front of him.
Someone lived down here.
A bed frame of twisted, heavy branches held a mattress made from hessian sacking, straw and leaves spilling from loose seams. Some old blankets, holed and mildewed, had been thrown on to it. The whole thing stank.
He looked more closely at the bed, trained his torch on it. There was what looked like another bed next to it, in the shadows. At the foot of it a small broken table. Probably liberated from the hotel’s bins, thought Phil. He shone the torch beam on the other bed. And recoiled as if he had been hit.
Laid out there were the remains of a mummified corpse. Clothing rotted away, skin like dusty old leather. Bones sticking through. But preserved, reverentially. Either side of it were candles.
Pulling his eyes away from the bed, he studied the small table. It had been painted with the same symbols as on the walls of the cellar at East Hill. The calendar. On it were several items, like the contents of someone’s pockets but decades old, laid out as if they were offerings on an altar. Phil moved in closer to look. A cigarette lighter. Some beads. A watch, the leather strap all eaten away. A wallet.
He reached forward and, fearful that it might crumble to dust in his hands, slowly opened the wallet.
There was still money in there. Single pound notes. Ten-pound notes. Fives. All decades old. A library card, long out of date. He screwed up his eyes, tried to make out the name. Did so.
Paul Clunn.
‘Oh my God … ’
Then: a noise. Echoing.
Phil turned, swinging the torch, catching his head on the low ceiling. He rubbed at it. Kept looking round. Listening. All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.
He tried to blink the pain away, listen.
Nothing. No more sound. He shone the torch on the walls once more, this time noticing that the same design had been painted there. Old, the paint fading away to darkness.
It wasn’t Paul who lived down here. Phil was sure of that. Whoever it was, it wasn’t Paul.
The Gardener? Was it him?
He checked the entranceway he had come down. Looked for footholds. The rock was smooth, worn. The space just big enough for his body to pass through. He tried to climb up it. Couldn’t get a grip. Slid back down again.
He looked round once more. Panic was beginning to set in. Phil hated confined spaces. Had always suffered from claustrophobia. Being underground just made it worse.
He tried once more to pull himself up the shaft. Thrust his elbows out, forced his body to move behind him. The space wasn’t wide enough. He tried again.
And his elbows jammed against the sides. He couldn’t move.
His breathing increased. He felt himself start to panic. He didn’t want to stay here, stuck. He didn’t know how long it would take Marina to return with the rope. There was only one thing for him to do.
He relaxed his arms. Felt able to move once more. Wriggled his body down the tunnel until he collapsed on to the floor, back in the same place he had started from.
He stood up as far as he could go. Looked around again. Whoever lived down here must have another way out, he reasoned. The entrance was only one way. He knelt down on the floor, played the beam of the torch round the base of the walls. Looking for cracks, other tunnels, anything.
There were a few. Most of them just looked like fissures, cracks in the rock. Not big enough to climb inside, just tapering away to nothing. But there was one that seemed to widen out into a tunnel. It was small, cramped. But big enough to get inside, pull himself along with his elbows. And push himself backwards if he had to.
Probably.
He heard the noise again. Echoing round the rock. It sounded like a cry.
Of pain. Of fear.
Was it an animal? Or a human? And more importantly, was it coming from the tunnel he was preparing to go down?
He had to find out.
He knelt down, stuck the torch between his teeth and, flattening down on to his stomach, pushed himself into the small space.
He remembered a similar situation a couple of years ago. He remembered what was waiting for him at the end of that tunnel. Felt his breathing increase at the memory, tried to control it. Save his energy for movement.
Then, not knowing whether he was going towards the sound or away from it, whether what was up ahead was worse than what he was leaving, he began to edge his way along.