‘He says come out,’ the comms officer repeated tonelessly. ‘Now. Says if this goes on he’s going to get Inspector—’
‘Thank you.’ She put her face close to the box and spoke clearly. ‘I heard. Tell Mr Caffery that one officer is coming out. He’ll bring the boat with him. And meanwhile,’ she hooked the little throat mic out of the zip pocket on the dry suit and attached it round her neck, ‘I’m switching to VOX. OK? Might not have line of sight with the comms box.’
‘What the fuck is going on in your head?’ Caffery shouted.
She hummed to herself, blocking his voice out. When she’d crawled into the rockfall, double-checked it really was the other end and not just a smaller fall, and when she’d maybe found something that led them closer to Martha, then he’d shut up. Might even thank her.
‘Nah,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Say thank you? Now you’re in Fairy-tale Land.’
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just trying to open the throat mic.’
He didn’t answer. She knew what he’d be doing. He’d be shaking his head regretfully, as if to say, I’m a reasonable man, so what is it about me that makes me a magnet for all the nutjobs in the world?
Wellard was loading the boat, a sick look on his face. She didn’t try to catch his eyes as she pulled her trenching tool out of the elasticated loop she’d stored it in. She had a feeling they’d never talk about this moment again. She turned, carrying the spade and her other equipment, and waded to the fall. She began to scale it, the fuller’s earth crumbling under her weight, sinking with every step. She had to throw the equipment ahead of her, hoping it would stay where it fell. It took three minutes to half crawl, half scramble, up the scree to the ceiling and by the time she got to the top she was panting. But she didn’t stop. She started to dig, pulling at the heavy earth with the spade, hearing it roll down behind her and splash into the canal.
She’d been working for about five minutes when Wellard appeared next to her. ‘You’re supposed to be halfway back by now.’ She twisted and glanced back at the Zodiac, which was still sitting in the black water. ‘What’re you doing?’
‘What does it look like?’ he said.
‘You’re not coming with me.’
‘No. But I can dig. You don’t have to do that part on your own.’
She let him take the spade and sat back, watching him work for a few minutes. She thought of what he’d said: I’ve got a wife and kids. You’ve got no right, no right . . . She felt tired. So tired.
‘OK.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘You can stop now. Stop.’
They sat back and looked at the hole he’d made.
‘It’s not very big,’ Wellard said.
‘It’s big enough.’
She snapped the little Maglite out of the holster in her dry suit, crawled a short way into the hole on her belly and pushed the torch out in front.
‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered, as she made sense of what she was seeing. ‘That’s good. Very good indeed.’
‘What?’
She let out a low whistle. ‘I was right.’ She pulled back out of the hole. ‘There’s another chamber in there.’ She reholstered the torch and unstrapped her hard hat, her head lamp, the gas meter.
Wellard watched her. ‘You taught us we never take these things off.’
‘Well, I’m unteaching you now. I can’t get through with them on.’ She grappled with the Dräger rebreather.
‘Not that too. I can’t let you do this.’
She put the emergency set into his hands. ‘Can’t you? I haven’t got a wife and kids. If something happens to me no one’s going to cry.’
‘That’s not true. It’s just not—’
‘Sssh, Wellard. Zip it and take this.’
He rested the rebreather on a flat part of the scree without a word.
‘Here. Hook me up.’ She handed him the semi-static climbing rope and waited for him to attach it into the back of her harness. He put his knee on the small of her back and gave the harness an experimental tug.
‘OK.’ His voice was dull. ‘You’re secure.’
She hoisted herself forward, pushed her head and shoulders into the dark gap. Tree roots trailed out of the ceiling, tickling her neck and back like fingers. She elbowed her way a few feet in.
‘Give me a push.’
There was a pause. Then she felt him grip her feet and shove her as hard as he could. For a moment nothing happened. He tried again and this time, with a loud sucking noise, she plopped out on the other side, like a cork, covered with mud. She half commando-crawled, half rolled down the slope, tumbling the last few feet to land in the canal on the far side.
‘Jesus.’ She sat up, spitting and coughing. Around her the thick, stagnant water rocked lazily with the shock of her landing. Something fell down behind her from the top of the mound. She heard it bounce, leap and land at the bottom. A clink, not a splash, so it was shy of the water. She leaned over and felt in the muck. Her head lamp. ‘Top man,’ she shouted to Wellard. ‘Top man.’
‘I can only just hear you, Sarge.’
‘You deaf bastard.’
‘That’s more like it.’
She clicked on the lamp and pulled herself to her feet, the stagnant water running off her. She shone the light around. It picked out the brick walls, the great scars in the ceiling where the strata had collapsed, the lines of other faults that looked precarious enough to come down at any time, the water, still moving – and up ahead, only about thirty feet away, another rockfall.
‘See anything?’
She didn’t answer. The place was empty, except for an old coal barge at the far end, just its stern visible, half covered by the next pile of earth. The water was so shallow that a child – or a child’s body – would be visible even if it was lying in the canal. Flea waded to the barge and bent over, shining the light into it. It was full of sludge, with bits of timber floating on the surface. Nothing there.
She straightened and propped her elbows on the deck, her face in her hands. She’d come as far down the tunnel as it was possible to come. The place was empty. She’d been wrong. A total waste of time and energy. She wanted, frankly, to sit down and cry.
‘Sarge? You OK in there?’
‘No, Wellard,’ she said tonelessly. ‘I’m not. I’m coming out. There’s nothing here.’
23
Caffery had borrowed some waders from the Underwater Search van. They were several sizes too big and the tops cut into his groin as he waded out into the daylight. In the short time he’d been in the tunnel the area outside had become even more crowded. Not just with the media and the hangers-on, but half of MCIU too: they were standing together about forty yards away, staring into the tunnel. Everyone had heard about the search he’d ordered and they’d all piled out to watch.
He ignored them, ignored the reporters craning over the ornate parapet, some resting cameras in the decorative alcoves. He got to the towpath, sat down on the freezing earth and tugged off the waders. He kept his face down – didn’t want anyone getting a photo of how pissed off he was.
He pulled on his shoes, did up the laces. At the tunnel entrance Flea Marley and her officer appeared streaked with black mud and blinking in the daylight. Caffery got up and went along the towpath until he was directly above her. ‘I am so, so fucking pissed off with you at this point,’ he hissed.
She looked up at him coldly. She had faint blue bulges under her eyes as if she was very tired. ‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘Why didn’t you come out when I told you to?’
She didn’t answer. Without taking her eyes off him she began to pull off the great chunks of wet clay that clung to her body harnesses. She handed her gas meter and the emergency rebreather to a team member to hose down. Caffery leaned closer so that the reporters wouldn’t hear what he said. ‘You’ve wasted four hours of everyone’s day for what?’
‘I thought I heard something. There was a gap in the rockfalls. I was right about that, at least, wasn’t I? She could have been there.’