Lost (29 page)

He motions with his sandwich. “That over there is the low-level interceptory sewer. It starts at Chiswick and runs east beneath the Thames Embankment to the Abbey Mil s pumping station in east London. Everything gets diverted from here to the treatment works.”

“Why the spil way?”

“Storms. You get a decent downpour in London and there's nowhere for the rain to go except into the drains. Thousands of miles of smal local lines feed into the main sewers.

First you get a gust of wind and then the whoosh!”

“Whoosh!” echoes Moley.

Angus picks a crumb off his chest. “The system can only accommodate a certain level of water. You don't want it backing up or the politicians would be knee-deep in shit in Westminster. I'm talking literal y. So when the water reaches a certain level it spil s over the weir and gets diverted through those gates.” He points at the huge iron doors, which must each weigh about three tons. “They open like a valve when floodwaters come roaring over the weir.”

“Where does it go?”

“Straight into the Thames at a good ten knots.”

Suddenly another scenario emerges, swirling around me like the smel of almonds. The Thames Water foreman described the water main having “blown apart,” creating a tremendous flood. This would have discouraged anyone from fol owing the ransom and could also have served another purpose—to carry the packages over the weir.

“I need to get through those gates.”

“You can't,” says Moley. “They only open during floods.”

“But you can get me there. You know where it comes out.”

Moley scratches his armpits and rocks his head from side to side. My whole body has started to itch.

24

Weatherman Pete produces a high-pressure hose and hooks it up to a tap. The blast of water knocks me back a step. I turn around and around, getting pummeled by the spray.

The van is parked almost directly above an open manhole in Ranelagh Gardens in the grounds of the Royal Hospital Chelsea. The grand hospital buildings, painted by the rising sun, are just visible through the trees. Nearby, at Chelsea Barracks, I can hear the strains of a military band practicing.

These gardens are normal y closed until 10:00 a.m. and I don't know how Weatherman Pete managed to get through the gates. Then I notice magnetic mats on the side of his van advertising the City of Westminster.

“I got dozens of them,” he explains, rather sheepishly. “Come on, I'l show you what you want to see.”

Shedding the overal s and waders, we seal them into plastic sacks and load up the van. Moley has changed into his camouflage uniform and blinks into the sunlight as though frightened it might do him permanent damage. The others are drinking tea from a flask and recounting the night's journey.

Piling into the van, I lean over the seat as Weatherman Pete drives along the narrow tarmac paths and waves at a trio of Chelsea pensioners on their morning walk. Pul ing through the front gate, we circle the outer wal s of the gardens until we reach the Thames.

Parking in the Embankment Gardens, I cross the road to Riverside Walk, overlooking the river. The Thames, caught between tides, smel s like perfume after where I've been.

Pete joins me and glances across the brown slick of water. Clambering onto the wal , he hooks his arm around an iron lamppost and leans out over the muddy bank.

“There it is.”

I fol ow his outstretched arm and notice a depression in the stone bank. A round metal door seals the entrance of a pipe that disappears underground. Water dribbles from the edge, forming a puddle in the mud.

“That's the Ranelagh Storm Relief Sewer. The door opens when it floods and closes again to stop the tide washing back into the sewer.” He turns and points past the hospital. “You were directly north of here. You fol owed the fal of the Westbourne River.”

“Where does it come from?”

“It rises in West Hampstead and gets fed by five streams that join near Kilburn. Then it crosses Maida Vale and Paddington before flowing into Hyde Park where it fil s the Serpentine. After that it disappears underground again, down Wil iam Street, under Cadogan Lane and Kings Road, past Sloane Square and final y beneath Chelsea Barracks.”

“I can't see any water flowing.”

“Most of it gets used by the sewer. You won't see this gate open unless they get surplus water in the system.” I don't hear the rest of his explanation. Instead I think of a story my stepfather told me about an old blind horse that fel into a dried-up wel . The horse wasn't worth saving, so the farmer started shoveling earth into the wel . But the old horse just shook off the dirt and stamped it down. More earth fel , and the old horse went right on stamping it down, slowly rising out of the darkness.

People have been trying to bury me but I keep stamping it down. Now I'm close to climbing out and, I promise you this, anyone holding a shovel wil get a kick in the head.

I think I know what happened that night. I built a valuable boat and it floated away, sealed in plastic and buoyed by foam. The diamonds washed through Ranelagh sewer, pushed along by water from a busted main. Someone was waiting for the ransom; someone who knew his or her way around the sewers; someone like Ray Murphy.

Only now am I beginning to realize how angry I've been ever since I woke in the hospital with a gunshot wound, dreaming of Mickey Carlyle. This is far bigger than the sum of its parts. Clever, driven, cunning people have manipulated the emotions of a desperate mother and taken advantage of my own blinkered desire. Where has Mickey been al this time? I know she's alive. I can't explain why or point to the proof; I just know she belongs in the world on a morning like this.

Moley is taking batteries from the gas monitors and checking the harnesses. Angus and Barry have already gone—walking to the Underground station. It is almost seven in the morning.

“Can I drop you somewhere, DI?”

I think for a moment. I'm due in court at midday. I also want to visit Ali in the hospital. At the same time, having come this far, I don't want to stop searching. Facts not memories solve cases. I have to keep going.

“Maida Vale.”

“Sure. Jump in.”

The traffic seems to grow lighter as I get closer to Dolphin Mansions. My shoulders stil ache from my journey in the sewers and I can smel the foulness in my nostrils.

Weatherman Pete drops me on the corner opposite the delicatessen and I walk the final seventy yards. Nestled in the lint of my trouser pocket are my last two morphine capsules. Every so often I reach inside and feel their smoothness with my fingertips.

The façade of Dolphin Mansions is in ful sunshine. Stopping periodical y, I study the gutters, looking for the openings and metal grates. I notice the camber of the road and where downspouts enter the ground.

Some of the mansion blocks have basement flats that are below street level. They have drains to take rainwater away and stop them from flooding.

I wait on the front steps until one of the residents leaves, nodding as they hold the door open for me. Then I glance up the central stairwel , checking I'm not being watched.

Skirting the lift wel , I discover the door leading to the basement. A low-wattage naked bulb suspended from the ceiling transforms the darkness. The stairs are narrow and steep and the wal s are a mottled green where patches of damp have broken through the plaster.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs I try to put myself back in this place, three years ago. I remember searching the basement. Like every other room it was turned upside down.

Along one wal , cut into an alcove, is a large disused boiler. It must be fifteen feet around, with meters, valves and pipes of every caliber. The square copper nameplate bears the inscription FERGUS & TATE. The floor is covered with half bags of plaster, cans of paint, offcuts of carpet and a Victorian gas lamp encased in bubble wrap.

Moving materials aside, I begin searching the floor.

A noise makes me turn. A young boy sits on the top step holding a plastic robot on his lap. His khaki trousers are stained with paint and his dark eyes peer at me suspiciously.

“Are you a stranger?” he asks.

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“My mum says I shouldn't talk to strangers.”

“That's very good advice.”

“She says I could get kidnapped. A girl got kidnapped from here—from right off the stairs. I used to know her name but I forgot. She's dead, you know. Do you think it hurts when you die? My friend Sam broke his arm when he fel out of a tree and he said it real y hurt—”

“I don't know.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I don't know that either.”

“You'l never find my hiding place. She used to hide there, too.”

“Who?”

“The girl who got kidnapped.”

“Michaela Carlyle.”

“You know her name! Do you stil want to see it? You have to promise not to tel anyone.”

“I promise.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die, stick a needle in your eye.”

I cross my heart.

Tucking his robot into his belt, the boy slides on his backside down the remaining stairs and steps past me toward the boiler. He disappears through a gap no wider than his shoulders where the curved side of the boiler doesn't quite touch the brickwork.

“Are you al right in there?”

“Yes,” he replies, emerging again. He's holding a book in his hand. “That's my cubbyhole. Do you want to come in?”

“I don't think I'l fit. What have you got there?”

“A book. It used to be hers but it's mine now.”

“Can I have a look?”

He hands it to me reluctantly. The front cover is tattered and chewed at the edges but I can stil make out the il ustration of a mother duck and ducklings. On the inside cover there is a large label with a scrol ed border. Written on it is “Michaela Carlyle, 41⁄2.”

The story is about the five little ducks that go out one day, over the hil s and far away. The mother duck says, “Quack, quack, quack, quack,” but only four little ducks come back.

The ducklings disappear one by one but on the final page they al return.

Handing the book back to him, I slide to my knees and put my head on the floor, peering into the gap between the boiler and the brickwork.

“It's dark in there.”

“I have a light.”

“Is that running water I can hear?”

“My dad says there's a river down there.”

“Where?”

He gives me a thumbs-down and I look at his feet. A sudden chil rushes through me, like ice at the roots of my hair.

Dragging aside half bags of plaster and cement, I find a frayed square of carpet, folded twice. Pul ing it back I reveal a metal grate with perpendicular bars embedded into the stone floor. Pressing my face close, I try to peer between them. My eyes fol ow the bricks downward, along wal s that seem to be weeping black tears. I can hear water gurgling below as if fil ing a giant cistern.

The boy is stil talking but I'm no longer listening. We should have found this three years ago. We weren't looking for tunnels and the noise of the search would have drowned out the sound of water.

“What's your name?”

“Timothy.”

“Can I borrow your flashlight, Timothy?”

“Sure.”

Although not powerful, it il uminates an extra six feet of the shaft. I can't see the bottom.

Hooking my fingers between the bars, I try to lift the grate. It's wedged into place. Looking around for a lever, I find an old blunt chisel with a broken handle. Sliding it into the gap between metal and stone, I work it from side to side, pushing it deeper. Then I force the chisel sideways, leaning my weight against it. The grate lifts just enough for me to squeeze my fingers beneath one edge. Christ it's heavy!

Timothy gives me a hand as we push it past vertical and let it drop with a clatter. He leans over and peers into the square black pit.

“Wow! Are you gonna go down there?”

I shine the flashlight into the hole. Instead of penetrating the darkness the light seems to bounce back at me. There are U-shaped handholds down one side.

“I'm a police officer,” I tel the boy, taking my wal et from my pocket and giving him a business card. “Have you a watch, Timothy?”

“No.”

“OK, do you know how long an hour is?”

“Yeah.”

“If I haven't come to find you within an hour, I want you to give this card to your mum and ask her to cal this number.” I write down the Professor's details. “Tel him where I went.

Do you understand?”

He nods.

Tucking the flashlight into my belt, I lower myself into the hole. Within a few feet I am soaking wet and the sound of running water is constant. The boy is stil there. I can see his head silhouetted against the square of light.

“Go upstairs now, Timothy. Don't come down here again.”

Fifteen feet down I pause, holding on to a metal rung with one hand and aiming the light below me. Nothing.

I descend farther, feeling the air grow colder, until my foot strikes something flat and hard. The light picks up a river rushing through a tunnel. A ledge seems to run along the edge, about ten inches above the water in both directions before the light beam disappears into the darkness. This is not a sewer. Large beams support the ceiling and the wal s are worn smooth by the current.