K-9 (14 page)

Travellers yelled and moved to either side of the carriages, crushing the seated passengers as Darkus and Wilbur found themselves in a straight-line pursuit of the suspects down the length of the train.

The dogs galloped through the narrow space, knocking bags and belongings in all directions. Darkus picked his way through the debris, trying to keep up.

The hoodies reached the front of the train and turned back to see Wilbur closing the gap, ready to attack. The Rottweilers stomped and chattered, salivating and wagging their tails in anticipation of a fight, but the hoodies appeared to be following prearranged contingency plans. One of them reached into his jacket, pulled out a crowbar and wrenched open the train driver’s door. The hoodies and their dogs barged into the cabin and overpowered the driver. One hoodie pulled a knife and held it to the man’s neck, while the other used the crowbar to jam the door closed.

Wilbur leaped at the door but it easily withstood his assault and he bounced off it and collapsed in a heap. Wilbur scrabbled back to his feet as Darkus arrived beside him.

‘What do we do now?’

Inside the cabin, the hoodies flanked the driver, with the knife still jabbing against his neck.

‘Drive,’ said one of them.

‘I can’t. We’re approaching the station –’ the driver faltered.

‘I said
drive
.’

The driver’s eyes went wide as he sat rigid in his seat. The speedometer kept a steady fifty-five miles per hour. The cabin started to beep as instructions burst through the intercom demanding that he stop.

‘Say nothing,’ warned the hoodie.

The dogs stood poised, steady as rocks as the Tube train careered along the tracks and sped through South Kensington station.

Waiting travellers were virtually thrown back across the platform by the force of the train as it barrelled through the station without stopping. Within seconds it had exited the tunnel at the other end.

Inside the cabin, the hoodies laughed to themselves at the sight of the shocked bystanders recoiling away from the train. In the carriages behind them, passengers began to protest and soon after to scream.

‘Faster,’ urged the hoodie.

The driver didn’t argue, he just cranked it up. ‘There are trains in front of us. What if – ?’

‘We’ll take that chance,’ the other hoodie replied. ‘You’ll stop when
I
tell you to.’

The train tore through Gloucester Road station, sending waiting travellers scattering in the same fashion. The hoodies laughed again.

Outside the cabin door, Darkus looked at the passengers wailing in fear, then called out to them: ‘Hold on!’

He reached up for the emergency stop handle and pulled hard. For a moment, nothing happened. The passengers looked at each other in confusion.

In the cabin, an override option started beeping rapidly.

‘What’s that?’ demanded the hoodie.

The driver didn’t answer.

‘Tell me or I’ll bleed you dry . . .’

The driver waited another second, then said, ‘It’s too late now –’

The emergency brakes automatically activated, gripping the rails and showering the undercarriage with sparks as the entire train decelerated rapidly.

In the carriages, passengers hurtled forward, cartwheeling over each other. The deafening scream of metal grinding on metal made the scene inside the train resemble a silent but catastrophic mime show. A hail of sparks flew past the windows, lighting up the tunnel. Bags slid across the floor as if magnetically attracted to the front of the train. Darkus and Wilbur were slammed against the locked cabin door, then fell to the ground, stunned.

Inside the cabin, the hoodies were thrown against the windscreen of the train, which cracked but didn’t shatter. The dogs stood perfectly balanced, remaining upright the whole time. Only their ears twitched as the Tube train ground to a squealing, shuddering halt, with a noise like nails on a blackboard. They were now stranded between stations. The driver tried to leap from his seat until one of the hoodies punched him to the floor, while the other stepped on his unconscious body, held on to a pair of handles and swung his legs, fer­ociously kicking out the windscreen. The Rottweilers immediately jumped through the hole in the cabin and ran down the middle of the tracks in the beam of the stationary train’s headlights. The hoodies clambered out and jogged along behind them.

In the carriage, Darkus reached for his hat and replaced it on his head, feeling a fresh bruise developing under the brim. He watched as an automatic door obligingly slid open with a hiss, then he and Wilbur hopped out on to the side of the tracks beside the wounded train. Somewhere an alarm bleated, echoing through the tunnels. What was it about him and the Underground, Darkus thought to himself. He realised with some con-solation that the trains on the District Line would be stopped as a matter of protocol. This meant he could continue the pursuit on foot without fear of being mowed down – for now. Of course the hoodies must have known this as well. It was all part of their escape plan.

The hoodies and the dogs had turned a corner in the tunnel, deserting the glare of the train’s headlights. Wilbur sniffed around and found the scent again, trotting down the middle of the tracks after them. Darkus went into the darkness behind him. He checked his earpiece and patted down his pockets for the secure phone – but they were
missing
. They must have fallen out during the emergency stop. He silently cursed. Wilbur turned the corner of the tunnel and Darkus realised it was too late to go back. Uncle Bill would have to follow
their
trail now.

Darkus jogged after Wilbur as he saw the beams of several torchlights dancing off the walls some three hundred metres up the tunnel. Then he heard the growl and bark of the Rottweilers and the terrified screams of what Darkus deduced were London Underground maintenance workers who’d had the misfortune of crossing paths with them. The torchlights fell to the ground, their beams pointing in all directions. Darkus caught up with Wilbur as he sniffed the workers’ sprawled bodies. Darkus checked their pulses: they were alive, but in a severe state of shock.

Confirming that none of the victims needed immediate attention, Darkus followed Wilbur as he continued down the tracks, past emergency lanterns that hung from the pipes and cables lining the inside of the tunnel. Wilbur pursued the scent without deviation. They passed openings in the walls that offered glimpses of parallel Tube lines, all converging on a surface station, which was now visible, lit by the last rays of daylight at the far end of the tunnel. The emergency lanterns were replaced by red, white and blue London Transport signs, bearing the words:
Earl’s Court.
The tunnel suddenly opened on to a large, lit platform area sheltered by an iron canopy.

Darkus caught sight of the Rottweilers effortlessly leaping up from the tracks on to the platform, with the hoodies dragging themselves up after them. A small circle of bystanders gathered to witness the scene.

Wilbur paused, summoning his energy, before springing up after them, scrabbling with his back legs as his front paws failed to gain purchase on the platform surface. He managed to haul himself up in a haphazard display, before looking down, concerned, at Darkus, who tossed his hat up to him. Wilbur duly caught it, then watched as Darkus pulled himself on to the platform after him.

The crowd of bystanders watched in amazement as the German shepherd in the tactical vest passed Darkus his hat, then the pair set off up the stairs after the Rottweilers. Darkus had lost visual contact, but Wilbur followed the scent like a heat-seeking missile, through the busy transport hub to the Warwick Road exit. Emergency workers in high visibility clothing ran in the opposite direction, heading for the stricken District Line train. Darkus followed Wilbur through another set of turnstiles, swiping his Oyster card and coming face-to-face with the curving art deco fa
ç
ade of Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre. Darkus looked down to see Wilbur already darting across traffic to reach the opposite pavement.

‘Wilbur! Wait –’

Darkus gave chase, dodging oncoming vehicles. Three hundred metres down the busy thoroughfare, he saw the stubby end of a Rottweiler tail turning the corner into an adjacent street. Moments later, Wilbur and Darkus arrived at the intersection, panting and hyperventilating.

‘Where are they . . . ?’

The adjacent street was empty except for a few pedestrians. Then Darkus saw two stubby tails turn another corner off in the distance, as if leading them deeper into a maze.

In seconds, Wilbur and Darkus arrived at the next intersection to find a row of shops and houses – but still no dogs.

Darkus surveyed his surroundings. Darkness was falling. Wilbur raised his snout to the air and bobbed it about. Then the dog reluctantly proceeded down the street, more hesitant this time.

‘What’s wrong, boy?’ Darkus asked.

Wilbur shook his head as if he was shaking off water.

‘What is it?’

Wilbur sat down on the spot – to indicate danger.

Darkus came level with him and looked ahead down the road. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. A series of shops led past a small housing estate with a tall block of flats looming overhead. But once again, Darkus was relying on the visual and sonic spectrums, whereas Wilbur was attuned to the olfactory one: in other words,
smell
.

Darkus suddenly detected a familiar and pleasant aroma. It was the smell of freshly brewed coffee, and appeared to be wafting across the entire area. Yet there was no café or coffee house in view.

Darkus sniffed again, surprised at how pungent it was, then looked down at Wilbur and realised: it was a smokescreen. Or in this case, a smell-screen. It was the same trick that drug traffickers used to outwit sniffer dogs – simply conceal the illicit substance in coffee granules.

The smell of coffee was obscuring the Rottweilers’ scent.

Wilbur whimpered, frustrated. Darkus glanced up at the tower block again and saw curtains twitch on two separate floors near the summit. Was it his imagination, or were he and Wilbur being watched? And where was that pungent coffee odour coming from?

‘It’s OK, boy,’ said Darkus. ‘We’ll just follow the coffee.’

Darkus clipped the lead to Wilbur’s collar and they carried on across the road and into the housing estate.

They descended a concrete path lined with metal railings, past a row of well-kept garages and a cluster of smaller blocks of flats, which encircled the imposing high-rise. Two dim, fluorescent street lamps provided the only light. Now equally equipped – with Wilbur’s senses having been dulled by the coffee – Darkus led the way into a wide recreation area with a deserted playground in its centre. Strangely, there appeared to be no one in the entire estate.

Darkus scanned the symmetrical rows of balconies, doors and windows, none of which exhibited any sign of life. Then he noticed something odd. Thin plumes of steam were rising from dozens of windows that had been left slightly ajar around the estate.

This was where the coffee smell was coming from.

Darkus counted approximately twenty-five windows dotted across the various buildings. Then he caught a glimpse of something else. Wilbur stood on his hind legs, seeing the same thing . . .

The two Rottweilers trotted across a long communal balcony near the top of the high-rise block. There was no sign of their handlers. Darkus quickly calculated that the suspects were ten storeys up. The canines continued along the open corridor and approached a red door at the end of the tenth floor, nudged it open with their snouts and entered.

Darkus squinted, confused. Wilbur panted, returning his front paws to the ground, unsure how to proceed. Darkus waited a full thirty seconds, before cautiously wrapping the looped leather handle of the lead around his hand and approaching the high-rise. CCTV cameras were angled on them from various vantage points – but it was unclear for whose benefit the events were being recorded. The catastrophiser oscillated nervously, telling Darkus that something bad lurked inside. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end in an almost animal reflex.

Darkus and Wilbur walked up a dimly lit walkway and pushed through a heavy set of doors into a dark entrance hall. Two rows of overhead bulbs led to a pair of polished steel lift doors. Darkus pressed the call button and the doors opened, revealing a clean, empty lift car waiting for them. Wilbur sniffed around, then reluctantly followed Darkus inside. Darkus pressed the button for the tenth floor, the doors closed and the lift gently ascended.

Moments later, the doors opened on to the long, communal balcony that connected the flats. Darkus ventured out, now overwhelmed by the smell of coffee still wafting through the air, even at this height. Wilbur shook his head violently, trying to shake the smell out of his nostrils, but the odour wouldn’t budge.

They walked along the deserted balcony, past rows of louvred glass, towards the red door at the end of the corridor. Darkus got a start as an elderly female resident looked up from her kitchen counter as they passed her window. Darkus smiled, but she avoided his gaze and returned her attention to a large saucepan on the hob, full of what appeared to be coffee bubbling. So there were people here, he reasoned. But why did they appear to be confined to their homes? And who was instructing them to create this caffeine smokescreen?