The Drowners (23 page)

Relieved of the additional weight, Derek turned his full attention to freeing himself from the marsh but despite all his care, all his knowledge and experience his left side continued to slide down into the infinity of mud below him. Trying to keep himself flat, level with the surface, Derek reached out towards the reeds on the small rise, hoping somehow to use them as leverage. It was very cold in the water and he could feel the start of the shivers, the beginning of the end if he did not free himself in the next few minutes. Mentally he cursed the police, all the people who had driven him to this desperate life on the run, and himself for a clumsy, arrogant fool.

‘No-one knows the marshes’, his late father had told him. ‘A safe path one day is gone the next. Just you learn the signs
and treat ’um with some respect unless you want to end up rotting in the peat!’

The smell rising from the icy water filled his senses, the scent of earth and rotting vegetation overlaid by the smell of grasses from the new growth. As the water rose around his prone body Derek abandoned caution, lunging for the false hope of the reeds. The sudden movement disturbed his fragile balance and his right leg sank below the surface, sucked down into the mud, taking all hope with it. As the realization of his fate struck him, Derek ceased to be a rational, thinking person. Reduced to a creature trapped and dying, his instincts took over as he struggled in the mire, hands and feet
snatching
and clawing for some support, anything to keep him above the rising water. Suddenly his right arm struck
something
solid, just a few inches under the surface. Ignoring the pain in his festering hand Derek reached out, scrabbling through the mud until he felt something – wooden, solid and blessedly stable.

As his strength began to fade he grabbed the structure and hauled himself towards it, fighting the mud around his other limbs. After an agonizing time when it seemed he was too late to save himself there was a stirring around his left leg and his body moved an inch or two towards the security of the underwater framework. Slowly and painfully he pulled his frozen body towards the mysterious structure until he was able to haul himself up, almost clear of the marsh. For a minute he just lay there, trembling from cold and shock, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was lying on some sort of wooden platform that ran a few inches under the surface of the water. Feeling around with numb fingers he came to the conclusion it stretched across the liquid mud, running from the clump of reeds behind him to more solid ground where the land rose to form the low hillock where the cider factory stood. Confusingly, however, he could not feel any supports underneath. It didn’t seem to have any legs but something had to be holding it up. After a few minutes he felt a little better and began to move backwards towards the shelter of the
reeds. A hundred yards or so away he could see the figures of the two men – police he reckoned – who were walking back and forth, examining the broken window and occasionally turning to peer out over the marsh. Squirming slowly through the thin layer of water to safety, he timed his movements carefully, lying flat when they were looking, trusting the mud and debris that soaked his clothes to camouflage his bulk.

As he reached the small section of firmer ground his foot hit something hard and he bit his lip to stop a curse at the jolting his knee had taken. Twisting round cautiously, making sure his weight was still supported by whatever it was he was lying on, he saw two low wooden uprights hidden in the undergrowth and a slow grin replaced the scowl on his face. He had stumbled on one of the Levels’ oldest secrets,
something
he had searched for in vain throughout his youth. Safe in the shelter of the reed bank he examined the curved supports that held one end of the wooden pathway. Made of alder wood sourced from the surrounding wetlands, the uprights were set into the ground forming an ‘x’ with the boards of the path running through the middle. The recent rain and flooding had raised the water level to cover the bridge rendering it invisible to anyone who didn’t know it was there. Derek peered out across the water, searching for the other supports. Now he knew what he was looking for, he identified the rest of the path hidden in the mud. The bridges and pathways offered a secret way across the
supposedly
inaccessible stretches of the Levels and stories of this hidden network had circulated the area for many years. Originally devised by settlers in Neolithic times, the tracks had been recreated and used for smuggling, illegal peat cutting and a wide range of nefarious activities over recent years. Derek lay on the small rise and considered the
positioning
of this particular path. Thinking about his recent sighting of Tom Monarch, he doubted very much it was coincidence.

It was difficult, Alex thought, trying to balance the two roles making up her job. The social worker in her wanted to sit down with Simon and talk through the issues surrounding his new ‘job’, looking at the wider implications and perhaps even making some sense of his obsession with ‘driving’
everywhere
. She was sure that, given a bit of time, she could help him overcome his fixation. If she could do that, she might be able to find him a job, or training scheme or something that allowed him to earn some money – and then he wouldn’t need to carry drugs for unknown dealers like Max from Bristol. So many of her clients ended up in trouble with the law because they solved their problems by committing offences. Alex still considered the most important part of her job was helping them find other, legal solutions round their difficulties. It seemed very simple in theory but in an economy with rising unemployment, limited opportunities and a system that demonized those dependant on the dole, it was sometimes almost impossible to achieve.

She picked up her diary with a sigh, going through the
sessions
she had planned and blocking in the other commitments
that made up her professional life. By the time she had finished there was hardly any white space left on the pages, leaving her to reflect how the growing popularity of the day centre was fast becoming something of a mixed blessing. She’d taken a unilateral decision and sacked the workshop instructor, a decision high on moral grounds but low on practicality, as Gordon had pointed out when he found her struggling to put a bike chain back in place for one client.

‘You can’t do everything,’ he’d scolded at the last
supervision
session.

‘He just went out and left them,’ Alex protested. ‘You don’t leave that bunch alone, especially in a workshop full of tools!’

Gordon agreed but suggested she might wait until they procured a suitable replacement should the situation arise in future. He was right, of course, though finding suitable replacements was proving difficult, unexpectedly so given the reported level of unemployment.

‘Who wants to work with a bunch of criminals?’ said Sue. ‘Let’s face it, the money isn’t great and the level of hassle can be pretty horrendous sometimes. Besides, a lot of people are scared of them.’

Alex would have liked a bit more sympathy and a bit less logic as she wrestled with a rising case load and diminished staff to help run the groups Garry had promised at his original briefings. She was now getting referrals for courses and sessions she’d not had time to plan, let alone deliver. Life skills, she thought, should be a priority, like how to budget, shop and cook simple cheap meals as well as some first aid and health sessions. Perhaps some work on applying for a job and putting a letter together. One request that appeared almost every week was for an alcohol education course, hardly surprising considering the number of offences
committed
‘under the influence’. She flicked through her reference library, pulled out a couple of books and settled down to an evening of planning at her desk.

Around eight, Bert, the evening janitor, looked in to say good night.

‘Got a big skittles match tonight,’ he said. ‘Is us against them bastards at the Iron Beehive. Reckon should be exciting evening if you want to come along.’

Whilst Alex generally avoided the local pubs in general and the Iron Beehive in particular, she was tempted. It was a big thing, to be invited out by someone in the office, even if it was for a skittles match, and she’d wanted to see how the game was played in Somerset. A lot of the pubs had old-fashioned skittle alleys and the rivalry between them was almost as fierce as it was at Carnival time. Looking at her outline for the alcohol course, still just headings and a few notes, she declined rather regretfully.

‘Well, maybe next time,’ said Bert. I’ll be putting the door alarms on so don’t you open no windows. You know how to set it when you is done?’

Alex assured him she did and then wasted a quarter of an hour wondering if she could change her mind and run after him, but finally she settled down again.

She was making some progress when the door alarm began to beep faintly across in the main office, indicating that someone had come in through the front entrance. Setting her pen down, she stepped over to her door and listened. The sound stopped without setting off the full alarm system. That meant whoever had come in knew the code. Alex cast around the room, looking for something she could use to defend herself if it came to a confrontation. The office was
depressingly
cluttered but offered nothing obvious in the way of a weapon unless she was going to creep up behind the intruder and hit them over the head with one of her many textbooks. She paused to listen again at the door, turning off the main light before pushing it open a fraction more. All was still and she decided to risk a quick foray into the main room where the pool cues rested temptingly on the table.

Before making a move, Alex glanced at the telephone. The obvious course of action, the most sensible thing to do, was to call the police but she could not get a direct line without going through the main switchboard in the office. If the
intruder was in there, the lights would pinpoint her location the moment she dialled for a line out and they would either be gone by the time help arrived or – she didn’t want to think about the alternative. Taking a deep breath she opened the door and slipped out into the darkness. Keeping close to the wall in the corridor, she felt her way towards the day centre. The connecting door was stiff, the wire-laced glass adding to the weight pressing back on her as she slid though the gap, pausing for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the gloom.

A trickle of light bled through the windows running along the top of the back wall, a sickly yellow from the sodium lamps on the road outside. Falling at an angle, it cast shadows at random across the floor, patches of darkness between her and the pool table where the cues nestled invitingly but just out of reach. As she stepped forward into the room there was a rustling from the direction of the reception area and she froze, sure her thundering heartbeat had betrayed her. She heard a soft footfall from through the main door and a shadow flicked across the reinforced glass. Fighting complete panic, Alex took two steps and grabbed the nearest cue, turning to flee for the dubious sanctuary of her office. There was a clatter as the cue, unexpectedly heavy in her weakened hand, caught the edge of the table disturbing the eight-ball that lurked, unnoticed by the centre pocket. As she dashed for the back door she heard the ball fall, running noisily down the central channel before hitting the rest of the set with a loud thud.

Bloody hell, she thought as she struggled with the fire door, why not announce your presence with a brass band? The door from reception banged open and she squeaked through and ran into her room, slamming the door and hauling the heaviest chair in front of it. Whoever it was certainly knew where she was now so she grabbed the phone, dialling as fast as her shaking fingers would allow. The handle rattled and twisted at her door and the intruder pushed, trying to force their way in.

‘Police please, emergency!’ she gabbled as the operator answered and began her scripted introduction.

‘I’m in the probation offices at Highpoint,’ she yelled, cutting across the smooth, calm voice. ‘There’s an intruder – they’re trying to break down my door right now! Get someone out here – for God’s sake hurry!’

The chair, wedged under the handle, moved a few inches and Alex dropped the phone on the desk and threw her weight against it. Whoever was outside gave a grunt as the door slammed shut again, then pushed back, twisting the handle furiously. As the two of them wrestled with the door the person outside hammered on the woodwork, beating a tattoo that echoed around the small office. Alex screwed up her face, holding on to the arms of the chair as she braced her feet against the desk, ready for another assault but suddenly all was still. In the unexpected silence she could hear the voice of the emergency operator, an incomprehensible squawking that issued from the phone, now out of reach on the far side of the desk. Too afraid to move she yelled towards the receiver.

‘I’m holding the door closed! They’re outside my room – I can’t reach the phone without moving – just send someone, will you?’

There was a rather peevish sounding squawk in reply to this and then the line fell silent. Alex waited – let the ‘phone off’ tone come on, please let the ‘phone off’ tone come on she thought. Nothing. The line was completely dead. Either the intruder had disconnected it from the office, in which case they were no longer outside the door and she could try to make a dash for safety, or they’d cut the line outside her room – in which case they were still out there and she was trapped in here, hoping the police got the message, hoping someone was coming. With no phone she couldn’t call anyone else. She was on her own.

Leaning her ear against the door she listened, ready to brace herself against the desk again at the first sound, but all was silence. Had they gone? She was trembling, more from shock than fear, and her legs felt as if they had turned to rubber. Tempting as it was, she doubted she could outrun the
intruder at the moment, which left her exactly where she was, stuck in the office with only her hopes of rescue to hang on to. As the minutes dragged on, she felt a mixture of hope – maybe they really had gone – and despair – where the hell were the police? Still she waited, the silence and the darkness all around causing her to doubt her own senses. Her eyes seemed to see flickers of movement outside the office’s small, barred window, her ears were filled with faint sounds that were probably the result of the blood pounding in her head but just might be the stealthy footsteps of the stalker
returning
to the barred door. She risked leaving the chair for a moment to put the phone back on, lifting it again in the hope of hearing the dialling tone, but it was completely dead. Replacing the receiver with something close to despair, she hefted the pool cue, relishing the weight in the handle. It was too long for her to wield comfortably and for a moment she considered breaking off the end before remembering the cues unscrewed in the middle. That would have really endeared her to Garry, she thought with a wry smile. Armed with the heavy end of the cue she returned to her post by the door. Nothing stirred outside and when she finally got up the nerve to open the door a fraction all was still in the corridor. Clutching her make-shift weapon she slipped out into the hallway, creeping one agonizing step at a time towards the closed door that led to the main room.

As she reached out to push it open she saw the exit into reception open slowly and the outline of a figure look round the door. The face was in shadow and she could only see the shape of a head turning towards her as she turned and bolted for the office once more. She could hear footsteps behind her, coming closer as she stumbled in the dark, tripping over her own feet and just making it to the door as a hand grabbed at her shoulder. Tearing herself free, she swung blindly with the weighted pool cue. There was a grunt of pain and then her assailant tore it from her hand.

‘Now then, careful Miss Hastings. You could hurt someone with that,’ said a familiar voice. The lights in the corridor
came on and as she blinked against the unexpected glare Alex found herself staring into the welcome face of Sergeant Willis. To her shame and embarrassment she burst into tears as the policeman guided her gently back down the hallway, through the day centre and out in to the reception area. Here there were uniformed officers hurrying back and forth, securing the area whilst waiting for the photographer and crime scene team.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked, bewildered by the activity after the eerie quiet of the last half hour. ‘Did you catch them?’

Sergeant Willis nodded, his face grim.

‘Oh yes, Miss. We got him alright. He’s out in the van now, all covered up again. Don’t you worry.’

Alex frowned at him. ‘What do you mean – all covered up?’

Sergeant Willis dropped his gaze, squinting out through the front door to the police car parked outside. He cleared his throat before speaking.

‘Well, when we got here he was … he’d, er …’

Just then a young constable hurried over holding out a pile of clothes.

‘Should I put these in the car with him or are they evidence, Sarge?’ he asked.

Alex stared at the bundle for a moment.

‘I recognize that jacket,’ she said. ‘And that shirt. Those are Garry’s clothes.’

The next morning officers and staff arrived at work to find it was a crime scene. Gordon was already in attendance when Lauren rolled up in her adapted car and hurried to intervene when she tore into the police who were parked in her disabled space.

‘Just ’cos they’s coppers they think they can do what they like,’ she grumbled as an apologetic Gordon hustled her inside and upstairs to the common room. In the yard, several constables looked at one another in frank disbelief at her fluent and inventive language.

‘Reckon he’s got his work cut out there,’ said one, shaking his head. In response to his colleague’s puzzled look he explained. ‘Dave Brown – you know, the smart fast-track one, working with the Saggers at the moment over that thing on the Levels. Well,
that
,’ he pointed to Lauren’s car, parked at an angle near the door where she’d left it, ‘is his girl-friend.’

‘Bloody hell,’ muttered his colleague.

Lauren settled herself in her chair and waited, still fuming. Pauline and Gordon had their heads together over in a corner, she noted. Lots of muttering and occasional anxious glances towards the door as each new member of the team made their entrance.

When Alex, looking very pale and tired, arrived Gordon hurried over, taking her arm and leading her to a chair away from the rest of the group. Sue followed her in and Lauren beckoned her over, judging that she might know what was going on. From the look of her drawn face, Sue had a pretty good idea of the night’s events but she was reluctant to share them.