The man had obviously already tried to get the cuffs off by other means; his wrists were raw and red and there was a gash across the back of his hand where he had tried to get something under a cuff to force it open. Ben felt his eyes glowering at him as he worked. Deep-set eyes, dark brows and black hair. And he was clearly used to making other people do what he wanted. Judging by the blood on his wrists he could put up with a fair degree of discomfort too.
Ben sawed on. The handle of the saw was biting into his hands, but he didn’t dare stop. The blade became hot, but finally it had cut through the link.
The Spaniard pulled his wrists apart savagely, grabbed the hacksaw from Ben and threw it out into the dark shop. Ben was suddenly terrified by the new look of purpose in his eyes. What was he going to do now?
The man grabbed Ben’s arm and twisted it up again. As before, the pain in Ben’s shoulder told him to go with it or risk breaking something.
This time he found himself forced down to his knees. But that seemed to be what the man wanted because the pressure eased immediately.
Then he pulled open the door under the stairs and twisted Ben’s arm again. Again the pain. Ben guessed he was meant to go through the door. He was reduced to the level of an automaton, his arm like a lever — press for go, press for stop. He stumbled forwards and grabbed for the wall as he saw a flight of steps going down in front of him. He must be in a cellar.
Then the door was slammed and a key turned. Ben was locked in. And it was pitch-black.
He put his ear to the door and heard things tumbling from shelves as the man moved back through the studio. Either he was very clumsy or he was helping himself to the tools on the workbench. After a moment he heard the front door slam shut.
Then there was silence, except for the sound of the radio, softly playing its reassuring messages.
‘There is no need for panic. The police are still in control. Law and order has not broken down.’
Like hell, thought Ben. His body started to shiver violently, like it was in the grip of a fit. He realized how frightened he had been. He’d literally come out in a cold sweat.
Suddenly he heard something that made him go even colder. Somewhere down the cellar steps in the darkness there was a splash.
There was water down there.
And something moving.
Chapter Twenty
Outside, Francisco Gomez shrugged his shoulders, easing the movement back into his arms. A rucksack hung from his hand, filled with screwdrivers, a Stanley knife and other useful items from the sculptor’s studio. He’d also found a warm navy blue jacket so at least he could keep warm. Best of all, he’d picked up a tattered A — Z that was lying on the floor. It was soggy with rain.
When he floated away from the police station on the park bench, he’d drifted through the streets of Chelsea for quite a way. He was at the mercy of the water because of his handcuffs, so had to pick his moment to jump off. Eventually the bench got caught against some iron railings outside one of the grand town houses. He didn’t know where he was so he waded for quite some way to make sure he was well out of the district and to get clear of the flood water before trying to get rid of the handcuffs. Now he was a free man. Thank goodness for the British weather.
That A — Z was a useful find. He looked at it, got the information he needed, then tossed it in a bin. It had even been open on the page he needed: Charing Cross Station. That was where he was heading for. There were things he had to collect there. Things he had put away in case he had to flee Britain suddenly. And things his partner would need too — if he was free as well by now. They were professionals; they always had a plan and a course of action to follow whatever happened, and he knew José would stick to it just as he was. If everything went as he hoped, they would rendezvous shortly and then make their escape …
‘The Paddington branch of the Grand Union Canal has flooded and there are barges stranded on the railway line.’
Meena Chohan never thought she’d be back in the air so quickly. When the soldiers printed out her pictures, they had shown useful detail not available in the satellite pictures — but there weren’t enough of them. So here she was up in the cockpit of a Puma helicopter, talking through a headset to an army cartographer in the seat behind, who was working on a battery-operated laptop. Using her detailed knowledge of London, they were creating a map of the disaster zone, marking areas with flooding so that they could co-ordinate evacuation services. They also needed to mark significant vehicle wreckage and traffic congestion which would result in rescue vehicles not being able to gain access.
It was like doing the usual daily traffic report, but bizarrely different. The transformation of the city was stunning. The river was at least ten times as wide as normal, its distinctive kinks completely gone. She had mixed feelings about it. One part of her was impatient to get her pictures to a newsroom before someone else pipped her to the post. Another part was already imagining how she would write up this trip as a much better, much bigger story.
The water was full of debris. Once again she was astounded by the sight of the wreckage. Cars, buses and lorries turned on their sides, on their backs, piled up against the walls of buildings.
The cartographer, whose name was Phil, was keying in the information. There was a grinding sound as he saved the file to disk, then he tapped the pilot on the shoulder and gave him the thumbs-up. ‘Nearly done. I’ve just got to process it now. Fly around in a circle for a bit while I see if there are any gaps.’
The pilot had his name — Dorek — handpainted on the back of his helmet; he twitched the control stick between his knees and swung round in a loop. Down below, Meena could see rows of army vehicles and big canvas tents pitched on Hampstead Heath. It looked like a giant khaki circus. The incessant rain pooled in the roofs of the tents like lakes, reflecting the Puma as it passed overhead.
Another helicopter, a Sea King, had obviously just landed there. Soldiers were helping civilians out, hurrying them towards the tents. Everyone looked soaking wet.
‘What’s going on there?’ said Meena.
‘That’s where they’re taking evacuees from the flooded area,’ said Dorek.
They circled back to the flood zone, flying over a series of low flat-roofed buildings at the water’s edge. On one roof a soldier was dragging along something that looked like a man, leaving heel marks in the gravel surface. As Meena watched, he propped him up at the edge of the roof and buttoned his jacket round the railings to keep him there. Another soldier was tying a red marker to the TV aerial.
‘I’ll mark that one,’ said Phil.
A cold feeling crept all the way up Meena’s back. ‘What are they doing?’ she asked.
‘We can’t move all the bodies yet,’ said Dorek. ‘So we’re putting them in easily accessible places to pick up later.’
‘Why are they being tied to the railings?’
‘In case there’s another surge. Now we’ve got them in one place we don’t want them floating away somewhere by themselves. It’s just to keep them out of everyone’s way really.’
Meena looked out of the other window and spotted what she thought were more bodies below. ‘Oh, there’s another lot,’ she said.
Phil followed her gaze. ‘No, no. It’s the Chelsea Pensioners. See if they need a hand.’