The Tunnel Rats (3 page)

Wright nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

'How long's it been now? Three months?'

'Five.'

Newton traced his finger along the edge of his saucer. 'What about getting a place of your own?'

Wright pulled a face as if he was in pain. 'It's a question of money, sir. Things are a bit tight just now.'

'Your divorce came through, right?'

Wright nodded again. 'Yeah, but she's still after more money. There's the house payments, child support, she wanted double glazing put in.' Wright held his hands out as if warding off an attack. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't bring my problems into the office.'

'You've nothing to apologise for, Nick. Divorce is becoming the norm these days. Unfortunately.' He stared at the cup with its pattern of roses. 'Five months is a long time to be living with Tommy. He's one of our best detectives, but his personal life leaves a lot to be desired. You've got a lot of potential, Nick. I wouldn't want any of his - how shall I put it? - habits, rubbing off on you.'

'Understood, sir.'

Newton's telephone rang and he waved for Wright to go as he reached for the receiver.

The old woman muttered to herself as she threaded a plastic covered chain around the shopping trolley and padlocked it to the lamp-post. She checked that it was securely fastened before walking into the police station.

A uniformed sergeant looked up as she approached the counter. He smiled politely. 'Hello, Annie, how are you today?' he asked.

'I've seen Jesus,' said the old woman. 'On the cross.' 'That's nice,' said the sergeant. He was in his early fifties, with greying hair and a tired face from years of dealing with irate members of the public, but the smile he gave the old lady seemed genuine enough. 'How about a nice cup of tea? Two sugars, right?' The sergeant called over a WPC, a slim brunette, and asked her to fetch the old woman a cup of tea from the machine in the reception area. The sergeant reached into his pocket and gave the WPC a few coins. 'Milk, two sugars,' he said. The WPC gave the old woman a quizzical look. 'Annie Lees, she's a regular,' the sergeant explained. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'She's harmless.'

The old woman stood up straight and glared at him through the thick lenses of her spectacles. 'Young man, I am not harmless,' she said, her voice trembling with indignation.

The doctor unscrewed the cap off the tube of KY Jelly and smeared it over the rubbet^glove, making sure there was plenty over the first and second fingers.

His patient hitched his gown up around his waist and bent over the examination couch. 'I had hoped that by the time I became Vice President I'd be past the stage where I'd have to let people shove their hands up my backside,' he joked.

The doctor smiled thinly and puftfown the tube. He knew how concerned his patient was, but he also knew that there was nothing he could say to put him at ease. The examination was purely routine, and neither man was expecting a change in the prognosis. 'Okay, Glenn, you know the drill. Try to relax.'

The patient chuckled dryly and opened his legs wider. 'Relax, says the man. You know when I last relaxed?' He grunted as the doctor inserted two fingers into his rectum.

'Try to push down, Glenn. I know it hurts.'

'Pete, you have no idea.' The patient forced his backside down on to the probing fingers, biting down on his lower lip and closing his eyes. The doctor's fingers moved further in and a long, low groan escaped the patient's mouth. 'I can't believe that some men do this to themselves for pleasure,' he said.

'No accounting for folk,' agreed the doctor. He moved his fingers gently, feeling for the hard mass that the Vice President's prostate had become. The patient tensed and gripped the sides of the couch. The doctor continued to probe the mass for several seconds and then slipped out his fingers. He stripped off his gloves and dropped them into a bin before handing his patient a paper towel to wipe himself with.

'How've you been feeling, Glenn?'

The patient shrugged. 'As well as can be expected, considering I've got terminal cancer.' He forced a smile. 'Sorry, shouldn't THE TUNNEL RATS 19 let the bitterness creep in, right?' He finished cleaning himself and changed back into his clothes. 'It's the unfairness of it, you know?'

'Yeah, I know. There's nothing fair about prostate cancer, I'm afraid.'

'I can't believe the speed of it all. Six months ago, I was fine. Now . . .' He smiled ruefully. 'Now I'm not so fine, right?'

The doctor made some notes on a clipboard. 'It's bigger.'

'A lot bigger, right?'

The doctor nodded. 'It's just about doubled over the past month.'

'That's what's so unfair,' said the patient. 'Mitterand's cancer took years to kill him. Hell, he even stood for re-election knowing that he had it. But mine . . .'

'There's no predictable pattern, Glenn. I told you that.'

'I know, I know.' The patient adjusted his tie and checked his appearance in the mirror above the washbasin. 'So what do you think?' he said, his voice matter-of-fact but his eyes fixed on the doctor's reflection. 'How long?'

There was no hesitation on the doctor's part. The two men had known each other for many years and had developed a mutual respect that the doctor knew merited complete honesty. 'Months rather than weeks,' he said. 'Nine, possibly.'

'Nine productive months?'

'That would be optimistic. Four would be more realistic'

The patient nodded. He turned around. 'Enough time to get my affairs in order,' he said. 'Ensure a smooth transition and all that.'

'How's Elaine taking it?'

A sudden sadness flashed across the Vice President's face. 'She's only just gotten over her father,' he said. 'I intend to spend as much time with her as possible before . . .' He left the sentence hanging and gave a small shrug. 'I'll see you next week, then, Pete.' He headed for the door. 'Give my love to Margaret.'

Two Secret Service agents in dark suits were waiting for the Vice President in the reception area. They escorted him to the elevator, one of them whispering into a concealed microphone as they walked.

Tommy Reid carried two plastic cups of coffee over to his desk and sat down heavily. His desk was pushed up against Wright's and they shared three telephones between them. Reid looked over his shoulder and reached into the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out a quarter bottle oi'vodka and winked at Wright as he poured a slug into his cup. He held up the bottle, offering Wright a shot, but Wright shook his head. Wright was trying to arrange a photofit artist but no one was available. A bored secretary had put him on hold and for the past six minutes he'd been listening to a computerised rendition of something that a child could play with two fingers. He watched Reid sip his feced coffee.

Reid put down his coffee. 'What?' he said.

'What do you mean?' asked Wright.

'You were staring at me like I had something in my teeth.'

'Nah, I was just thinking.'

Reid passed over Wright's cup of coffee. 'Yeah, well, you don't want to be doing too much of that.'

Wright slammed down the receiver. 'It's a plot by British Telecom, that's what it is.'

'What is?'

'The music they play to keep you hanging on. In the old days they'd say that they'd call you back. Now they put you on hold for hours. Who profits, huh? British sodding Telecom, that's who.'

Reid grinned. 'The old days,' he said. 'How old are you, Nick?'

'Old enough.' The middle of their three telephones rang. Wright raised an eyebrow. 'I suppose you want me to get that?' he said.

'Wrong, Wright,' said Reid. He picked up the receiver as he took another sip at his coffee.

Wright began pecking away at his computer keyboard. He was working on a report of the morning's undercover operation and had come to the section where he had to explain what had happened in the tunnel.

Reid replaced the receiver. 'That can wait, Nick. We've got a body on the line.'

Wright stopped typing. 'Jesus. Another? That's three so far this month and we haven't even had a full moon yet.' He picked up his notebook. 'All the pool cars are taken. Can we take your car?'

'Sure. I could do with the mileage.' The detectives were supposed to use pool cars when available, but if they had to use their own vehicles they were paid a substantial mileage allowance.

They went down together to the car park. Reid's car was a four-year-old Honda Civic with forty-three thousand miles on the clock and a back-seat littered with empty fast-food containers.

They drove out on to Tavistock Place, headed south to the River Thames and turned right along the Embankment. It began to rain and Reid switched on the wipers. They smeared greasily across the glass.

Wright flicked open an A to Z. 'Where are we going exactly?'

'Nine Elms, not far from New Covent Garden Market. Nearest road is Haines Street, off Nine Elms Lane. I thought I'd swing across Vauxhall Bridge and double back, the traffic'll be lighter.'

Wright tossed the street map on to the back seat. 'I don't know why you bother having an A to Z,' he said. 'You know every bloody road there is.'

'Just one of my many talents, Nick. You hungry?' Wright shook his head. 'Thought we might stop off at a pub or something.'

'Maybe afterwards,' said Wright.

Reid snorted contemptuously. 'What, want to see it on an empty stomach, do you?'

Wright said nothing. It wasn't his stomach he was thinking about: he was more concerned about his partner turning up on a job smelling of drink.

It took them a little under twenty minutes to reach Nine Elms. They saw two police vans and a white saloon parked at the roadside, and Reid pulled in behind them. Wright climbed out of the Honda and peered down an embankment overgrown with nettles. A beaten-down pathway through the vegetation showed where the occupants of the vans had gone down to the tracks.

The sky was a dull grey and a fine drizzle gave the scene the feel of a washed-out watercolour painting.

'I thought you said this was a body on the line?' said Wright.

'That's right,' said Reid, opening the boot and taking out a pair of mud-covered Wellington boots. 'What's wrong?'

'See for yourself,' said Wright.'

Reid took off his shoes, pulled on the Wellingtons and joined Wright at the edge of the embankment. The two lines down below were crusted with rust and-dirt. 'Ghost train?' said Reid. He popped a mint in his mouth and started down the slope. Wright followed him, his shoes slipping on the muddy path.

At the bottom they looked up and down the tracks, unsure which way to go. To the south, they could see several hundred yards before the lines were swallowed up in the drizzle; to the north, they curved to the left. Wright looked dewn at his feet. A trail of muddy footprints led north. He nodded in their direction.

Reid grinned amiably. 'You ought to be a detective,' he said.

They followed the trail. Moisture flecked Wright's suit and he put his hands in his pockets and shivered. Reid was wearing a brown raincoat which fluttered around his boots, and from somewhere he'd produced a battered tweed hat. He looked like a farmer setting out to market.

As they walked around the bend they saw a young uniformed policeman in a fluorescent yellow waterproof jacket standing at the entrance to a tunnel. The tunnel entrance was of weathered stone crisscrossed with veins of moss and overgrown with ivy and brambles. The policeman tensed as the two men approached.

'British Transport Police,' said Reid, taking out his warrant card and showing it to the constable. 'Tommy Reid. This is Nick Wright.'

'Reid and Wright?' The constable rubbed his hands together. 'Sounds like a comedy act.'

'Yeah, yeah, yeah, we've heard all the jokes,' said Reid wearily.

'Our guys are already inside,' said the constable.

'Then they're wasting their time, it's a BTP case,' said Wright.

'There hasn't been a train along here for ten years,' said the constable.

Wright shrugged. 'Makes no odds. It's Railtrack property, so it's ours.' He put his head on one side and listened to a rumbling noise from inside the tunnel. 'What's that?' he asked.

'Generator,' said the constable. 'The SOCO boys brought it with them to run the lights.'

Reid stepped into the tunnel. Wright stayed where he was. 'Nick?' said Reid.

Wright swallowed. 'Yeah, coming.' He followed Reid into the tunnel mouth. He shivered involuntarily. Ahead of them they could see white, ghostly figures moving around, and beyond them, a bright wall of light. Wright stopped. He could feel his heart pounding.

'Nick, are you okay?'

Wright took a deep breath. 'Yeah.' He shook his head and started walking briskly down the line, towards the lights. As they got closer, they saw that the ghostly figures were Scene of Crime Officers in white overalls and boots, gathering evidence. Two dark silhouettes carrying flashlights walked towards Reid and Wright, tall men with their hands in the pockets of their raincoats. Wright recognised them immediately and his heart sank. The slightly shorter of the two, Inspector Gerry Hunter of the Metropolitan Police CID, was a good-looking man in his mid-thirties with black curly hair and tanned skin. His sidekick was Detective Sergeant Clive Edmunds, slightly older with receding hair and a thickening waistline.

'What brings you on to our turf, lads?' asked Reid goodnaturedly.

'A uniform found the body and called it in,' said Hunter. He nodded at Wright. 'Thought we'd have a look-see.'

'What was the uniform doing down here?' asked Wright. 'Having a kip?'

Hunter smiled coldly and ignored Wright's sarcasm. 'A downandout name of Annie Lees was sheltering from the rain a couple of days back.'

Edmunds lit a cigarette. 'She's a bit crazy. She kept talking about finding Jesus.' He offered the pack of cigarettes to Reid and Wright but both men shook their heads.

'Jesus?' repeated Reid.

'You'll understand when you've seen the body,' said Hunter. 'No one took her seriously at first.'

'Where is she now?' asked Reid.

'We've got her back at the factory. We'll keep her for you.'

Reid nodded. 'Cause of death?'