Dead in the Water (25 page)

Take-off is relatively easy, with almost everything in their favour: there’s a lengthy
estirón
less than quarter of a mile downstream of La Esmerelda.

“
Logs, Jez.”

“
I’m on the case, boss.”

“
Good man,” says Terry.

Jeremy grins. By God, whatever was in that drug cocktail it was good. Once airborne, Terry flies the river, keeping below the low cloud, both of them watching carefully for Rachel and Dias. After some twenty minutes or so Jeremy calls out:

“
I saw something. I saw something. There’s something down there.”

“
Doesn’t matter what it was, Jez. You know the score. You shout, pal. You want to go back?”

“
Looked like a dugout canoe. Drifting.”

“
Anybody in it?”

“
No.”

“
Not what we’re looking for then.”

They continue upstream.

Mark has still had no response from Angela Walker. ‘Do me a paper, we’ll talk again tomorrow.’ Fat chance. But what’s really getting to him are his looming appearances before Select Committees: Environment, Food & Rural Affairs tomorrow morning; the Environmental Audit Committee on Thursday. And he’s not properly prepared for either. He’d earmarked today as a time for focusing on detailed preparations for the summit; but instead has spent hours pushing paper, messing around with fiddly details on reports for the bloody Committees. His head’s all over the place. Wherever he goes, there is constant background murmuring about the state of London and whether there’s worse to come.

And that haunting memory which, try as he might, he simply cannot banish, of the drowning dog.

The offices are virtually empty. By six, he’s one of the last people left in the building. He’s had his mobile switched on all day – silent and vibration free, but checking it every so often. That’s how he picked up the text from Rachel. Short and sweet; but she’s OK. Thank God for that.

He checks the phone again. In amongst the usual crap, there’s a message from the garage to say they’ve delivered the car and put the keys into his mailbox. But nothing from Stephen and nothing from Johnny Bonehead. He calls Joanna to say that Rachel’s OK – yet another bloody answering service.

Then a text comes through from Sara asking if he’d like to meet for dinner, and to ring her at home between seven and half past.

47
Amazonas, Venezuela

There are two guys in the rigid hulled inflatable; two guys and the blanket-covered body which Terry has assumed to be a drunken Indian. Once the floatplane is anchored, the inflatable approaches and the guy at the front throws a rope across to Jeremy.

“
Hi,” he says. “I’m Ray. Thank Christ you guys turned up. We found her drifting in an Indian dugout. We only just got to her in time,” he says, pointing to the body curled up and half covered with the blanket, lying like a dead animal on the bottom of the boat. “She’s in a bad way.”

The man sitting at the back of the canoe, holding on to the tiller of the outboard motor, raises a hand in greeting, but stays where he is. A rifle lies on the floor of the boat beside him.

Terry cuts the floatplane engine and Jeremy clambers across onto the inflatable. In the air he may not know diddle from squit, but here he assumes control of the situation with calm confidence. Lifting the blanket, he’s startled – not that it’s Rachel, he’d guessed that – but to see her dressed in ill fitting military fatigues. Her breathing is regular. He lifts her head, softly speaks her name, but she doesn’t surface from unconsciousness. He calls to Terry, standing in the doorway of the
Duck
, that they have to get her immediate medical attention; then turns to the American: “How long has she been like this?”

“
We picked her up about an hour ago. She was just about conscious then. Since then… Thank Christ you guys saw us. You’re right. We need to get her to a doctor. Can you get us to a medic in that thing?”

“
Was she on her own?”

“
In a dugout canoe. One of those Indian things. Full of water. God knows how it was still afloat. No. She wasn’t alone. Brazilian looking guy with her. Standing up. Shouting. Couldn’t make out what the hell he was saying. Looked like she was trying to keep him calm. We must have been a hundred metres down river. I shouted to her. Then … I don’t know … I don’t know what happened. Looked to me like the guy overbalanced and fell. And when we get there, she’s about to jump in after him; but the guy was drowning. There was a helluva current back there and I reckoned it was better to stop her going in after him than chase after a dead body ––”

“
José Dias. The man’s name was José Dias.”

“
Son of a bitch. What a way to go… She’s in a helluva state. But who can blame her? Took a lot of persuading to get her to get into the inflatable. It was a toss up whether to head on for Mavaca or go back to Esmerelda ––”

“
Hi, Sullivan,” says Ray, once Rachel is strapped securely into the cabin seat.

“
I know you, do I?” asks Terry.

“
Ray Sanders.”

“
Sanders…. Small world, eh!”

“
Can we hitch a ride with you guys? That OK? I can pay you.”

“
What do you say Jez? It’s your hire.”

Jeremy’s inclination is to refuse; but he checks himself, mistrusting his intuitive dislike of the man. There can’t be any harm in letting Sanders fly with them to a town where they can get medical attention for Rachel.

“
José Dias’ seat is empty.”

“
You’re the boss,” says Terry to Jeremy. “Where you heading Sanders?”

“
Texas. But right now… wherever. I just want out of this hell hole.”

“
And what about your guy on the boat? We only have two seats in the cabin.” Sanders has no problem with this; they have a pick-up truck back at Esmerelda.

“
Leave your gun in the inflatable, Sanders,” shouts Terry. “Company rules. Passengers don’t carry guns.” Sanders hands over a small pistol to the guy on the tiller and, at Terry’s bidding, allows Jeremy to frisk him as he climbs up into the plane.

Jeremy would like to sit with Rachel, who is hanging limp on full harness straps in her seat in the cabin, but Terry insists that he needs a co-pilot; and at least Rachel’s pulse and breathing are regular; and she seems not to have a temperature.

As Jeremy straps himself in, Terry has already started the engine and they’re starting to taxi. So there are no opportunities to talk further to Ray, and the host of questions which surround Rachel’s rescue remain unasked and unanswered, Terry reverting to pilot mode, tightly focused on the job in hand. The river is clear and, in spite of the extra weight, they’re airborne within minutes. Using GPS, they could climb up and fly in the cloud, but Terry prefers to hug the river, flying upstream.

“
Where are we going?” asks Jeremy.

“
Brazil. Boa Vista.”

“
Why not back to Caracas?”

“
Because the hospitals are full and Boa Vista’s a whole lot safer. And it’s the nearest international airport.”

“
What about the fuel? Isn’t it risky, flying non-stop to Boa Vista?”

“
I don’t take risks, Jez. I fly planes.” His genial smile belies the hint of impatience in Terry’s tone.

“
I thought you wanted to hang around. I thought it was good for business.”

“
Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it’s in my interests to get out of Venezuela until all this calms down. I got an office, I got a few leaflets, I got an entry in the phone book. I rent, Jez. Everything except
The Tin Duck
I rent.”

Jeremy lowers his voice, although there is no way that Sanders could hear them over the engine noise. “And Ray?” he asks.

“
The Yank. What about him?”

“
How do you know him?”

“
I did a job for him once,” says Terry curtly. “Same as you. You paid me to do a job. Taking you and your woman to Boa Vista’s my way of getting the job done.” Then Terry puts on his headset and plugs it in. Up to now they’ve been shouting to be heard above the engine and wind noise. Terry switches on his microphone and indicates that Jeremy should do the same.

“
You believe his story?” asks Terry quietly.

“
I’m not sure I trust him.”

“
I’ve worked for the guy and I don’t like him. And I don’t trust him either. While you were out on the float I took a look at your woman. She’s been given a sedative of some kind. GHB or Rohypnol, I’d have thought.”

“
Date rape drugs. Are you saying –– ?”

“
Don’t worry, pal, it’s got nothing to do with sex. He doesn’t want her talking to us. That’s what this is about. After a dose of that stuff she won’t remember a thing about what happened when they picked her up.”

“
Then why the hell did you agree to take him?”

“
Our safe passage out. I wanted to separate him from his buddy, who had a high powered rifle if you remember. One accurate shot from that and we’d have been piranha food. Whatever he’s up to, Sanders ain’t going to cause trouble while we’re in the air.”

“
So Rachel knows stuff he doesn’t want us to know.”

“
Quick, aren’t you, JP! And we’re never going to know what happened to your mate Dias because your girlfriend’s never going to get that short term memory back. But they could have killed her, JP. They could have killed her and they didn’t. There’s a reason for that. Fuck knows what it is, but there’s a reason for that.”

48
London W2

Walking through Hyde Park on a hot cloudless evening in May should be uplifting, but the heat weighs heavy in the sticky, putrid air; small lakes cover most of the lower lying areas, and where these have drained the paths are covered in fine black mud. The kiosks near Lancaster Gate are shut and there are no picnickers, no children, not even winos to be seen. The few skateboarders and roller bladers braving the conditions are grim faced, many of them wearing the kind of breathing masks usually worn by urban cyclists. He should get himself another bicycle. The last one was stolen several weeks ago; but he’s been too busy to do anything about it.

The stench in the square here is choking. The water has drained off; but the pavements and the road surface are filthy and the mud and shit has begun to crust; footprints, cycle and car tyre trails hardening in the dirt. There has evidently been more activity around his car parking spot than anywhere else. In spite of the sense of desolation about the place, Mark gets short-lived childlike enjoyment from reading the tracks: someone has driven his own car back, got out, walked to the unused loan car, backed it out, parked his car in its rightful spot, walked up the steps to his front door, dropped off the keys, and driven the loan car away. Eat your heart out, Sherlock. They’ve done a good job on the car – which has been cleaned and polished, looks as if it might have come straight from the showroom.

The mailbox contains an envelope from the garage with his own car keys inside, and a note asking him to return the loan car keys in the envelope provided. His relief that it’s fixed outweighs his dismay at the size of the bill for servicing, but there’s no charge for the bodywork and he finds himself inwardly echoing his mum’s old mantra: ‘At least that’s one thing less to worry about’.

Mrs. Williams, his neighbour from the flat below, is standing in her doorway at the top of the second flight of stairs. “Mr Boyd. I am so glad you’re here. I’ve been waiting for you to come home.” She’s very distressed. Imagining that her cat has come to grief, he suggests she comes up to his and they have a cup of tea together. He’s very fond of Mrs Williams, and they often enjoy ‘a natter’ on the stairs. She has never told him her age, but is probably in her mid eighties. Her first husband had been a miner, who died in a pit accident. When she remarried, she came to London with her new husband, a photographer who had been working on a picture story about changing lifestyles in the valleys resulting from new investment in the nineteen sixties. Rhian Williams’ lifestyle had changed more than most; and when she’s not been regaling him about how a strong dose of Welsh radicalism would be a much more effective way of tackling environmental problems than liberal hogwash, he has gently probed to get a fascinating glimpse of her metamorphosis from fiery socialist to London socialite. She can sometimes be brusque to the point of rudeness, but today he has to coax from her what has upset her so much.

“
It’s Mr. Clemens. He lived in the basement flat at number 56. The other side of the square. He was deaf.” Mark doesn’t recall having met him, but he knows who she means. “Well, the fire engines came around mid morning, to help pump out some of the water. Some people have got the most terrible flooding. And goodness knows where they’re going to house them.” She stops, choking, holding back tears. Mark puts a hand on hers.

“
It’s OK,” he says. “Mr. Clemens?”

“
They had to break down the door. Used axes on it, so they say. They found him. Him and that dog of his. Drowned. Locked in. I told him he didn’t need to lock his doors; but all that bloody nonsense about terrorists and muggers and violent crime. He used to lock his door from inside with a key. It took him ages to find the damn key just to open the door. I ’spect when he saw the lightning he thought it was bombs going off and he locked himself in, and then the water started coming in and he forgot where the key was and … just imagine that Mr Boyd.”