Deep Shelter (40 page)

Belsey returned to Hotel President. At one point he started packing. Eventually the removal boxes settled in. Sometimes he’d sit at night, listening to the pipes, looking at the picture of the crowd on Walbrook and remember what it felt like, walking beneath London. He had moments, stumbling back along Chancery Lane from the Blue Anchor, turning onto New Oxford Street and glimpsing Centre Point, when it felt like a curtain hadn’t been fully drawn. He was back in that other London. And it felt bittersweet, like passing places associated with a love affair. No one else could see it, or no one else cared, so what kind of knowledge was that? He let the city revert to its cover story. Then, as summer released its grip, he read about the opening of a memorial at Site 3.

PILTBURY WAS QUITE PLEASANT
without the threat of death stalking its lanes. Early October felt crisp. He walked, enjoying being out of the city. He had not really noticed autumn until now. Past the Quarry House, past Hill View and a
For Sale
sign by the road. He peered inside but the cottage was no longer occupied.

A new path led up from the village, through a small gate to the field that had been chosen for purposes of commemoration. Belsey climbed the hill but didn’t join the crowd, choosing to watch from the high ground. A cold, bright wind ruffled proceedings. The memorial stone wasn’t so different from the one in Ebsey Cemetery, except this one was currently adorned with poppy wreaths and wooden crosses. Belsey recognised Malcolm and John among the inner circle of attendees, with forty or so other relatives of the dead. Belsey wondered what they’d been brought by all this, whether they felt different. He scanned the crowd. No blonde Sergeant. No Craik. It had been a long shot.

The Home Secretary gave a speech, surrounded by senior members of the civil service. There were a lot of military uniforms, a few police. Finally there were the men in Barbour jackets and brogues, watching from a polite distance, hands joined in front of them like umpires. It wasn’t clear if they needed their own closure or if they were still spying, and Belsey wondered if they knew.

It was 1 p.m. This wasn’t for him. There was the whole afternoon ahead. He could walk back to Chippenham, over Box Hill. Get a train from there. Time for a rural drink before London. He turned to leave and saw a figure watching him from the gate. She wore jeans and boots, hands thrust into the pockets of a red raincoat.

“I wondered if you’d be here,” she said.

“It’s a nice day for it.”

Craik considered this. The wind blew her hair. Belsey walked over.

“I heard about the suspension,” Craik said. “I’m sorry. I tried to put in a word.”

“It would have taken a lot of words, words not yet invented. It’s good to see you.”

“Good.”

“Let’s get a drink.”

“A drink?”

“We deserve one. And dinner.”

Craik checked her watch. “My train’s in a couple of hours, Nick.”

“I know a cottage, an old farmhouse. It’s for sale.”

“You want us to buy a cottage?”

“I’m saying it’s one option, if you miss the train back.” He savoured her distrustful eyes.

“It’s been quiet not having you around,” she said. “Policing has seemed straightforward again.”

“Have dinner with me, Kirsty. Keep me company.”

She glanced away, towards the ceremony. Ashes from Site 3 were being carried from three military vans, thirty-seven individual boxes each draped in a Union Jack. Beyond this procession, the Avon Valley looked cold and unconcerned: farms, muddy streams, the pale right-angles of military buildings. But robbed of its secret. One fewer of those in the world, Belsey thought. Or maybe there was a constant number and they evaporated only to rain down somewhere else. Craik took his arm. A man in billowing white robes read out the names of the dead. Belsey listened until he got to Michael Forrester.

Waking up on Hampstead Heath not far from a crashed squad car, Detective Nick Belsey wants out—out of London and out of the endless complications of his life. When Alexei Devereux, a wealthy hermit, vanishes, leaving behind a suicide note and his Porsche, Belsey discovers an opportunity—a new identity and a fortune—waiting for the taking.

Unfortunately, there are others who share the detective’s interest in Devereux, including Scotland Yard. A dead rich man with suspicious financial holdings is bound to have some dangerous ties and a few ruthless enemies. Now, Belsey and his clever plan are about to be overshadowed by far more ambitious players with their own brilliant—and deadly—scheme.

Combining dark humor, dazzling twists, and a sharp narrative style,
The Hollow Man
is a tour de force of suspense.

HAMPSTEAD
’
S WEALTH LAY UNCONSCIOUS ALONG
the edge of the Heath, Mercedes and SUVs frosted beneath plane trees, Victorian terraces unlit. A Starbucks glowed, but otherwise the streets were dark. The first solitary commuter cars whispered down East Heath Road to South End Green. Detective Constable Nick Belsey listened to them, faint in the distance. He could still hear individual cars, which meant it was before 7 a.m. The earth was cold beneath his body. His mouth had soil in it and there was a smell of blood and rotten bark.

Belsey lay on a small mound within Hampstead Heath. The mound was crowded with pine trees, surrounded by gorse and partitioned from the rest of the world by a low iron fence. So it wasn’t such an absurd place to seek shelter, Belsey thought, if that had been his intention. His coat covered the ground where he had slept. A throbbing pain travelled his upper torso, too general to locate one source. His neck was involved; his right shoulder. The detective stood up slowly. His breath steamed. He shook his coat, put it on and climbed over the fence into wet grass.

From the hilltop he could see London, stretched towards the hills of Kent and Surrey. The sky was beginning to pale at the edges. The city itself looked numb as a rough sleeper; Camden and then the West End, the Square Mile. His watch was missing. He searched his pockets, found a bloodstained napkin and a promotional leaflet for a spiritual retreat, but no keys or phone or police badge.

Belsey stumbled down a wooded slope to the sports ground, crossed the playing field and continued along the path to the ponds. His shoes were flooded and cold liquid seeped between his toes. On the bridge beside the mixed bathing pond he stopped and looked for early swimmers. None yet. He knelt on the concrete of the bridge, bent to the water and splashed his face. Blood dripped from his shaking hands. He leaned over to see his reflection but could make out only an oily confusion of light and darkness. Two swans watched him. “Good morning,” Belsey said. He waited for them to turn and glide a distance away, then plunged his head beneath the surface.

A SQUAD CAR REMAINED IN THE EAST HEATH
parking lot with the windscreen smashed, driver’s door open. Blood led across the gravel towards the Heath itself: smear rather than spatter, maybe three hours old. Faint footprints ran in parallel to the blood. Belsey measured his foot against them. The metal barrier of the parking lot lay twisted on the ground. The only impact had been with the barrier, it seemed. There was no evidence of collision with another car, no paint flecks or side dents. The windscreen had spilled outwards across the hood. He stepped along the edge of the broken glass to a wheel lock lying on the ground and picked it up. It must have come straight through the front when he stopped. He was lucky it hadn’t brained him. He put the lock down, collected a handful of wet leaves and wiped the steering wheel, gearstick and door handles.

He left the parking lot, onto the hushed curve of road leading from Downshire Hill to South End Green. He walked slowly, keeping the Heath to his left and the multimillion-pound houses to his right. Everything was perfectly still. There is a golden hour to every day, Belsey thought, just as there is in a murder investigation: a window of opportunity before the city got its story straight. He tried the handles of a few vehicles until the door of a Vauxhall Astra creaked towards him. He checked the street, climbed in, flicked the glove compartment and found three pounds in small change. He took the money and stepped out of the car, shutting the door gently.

He bought a toothbrush, a bottle of water and some cotton balls from an all-night store near the hospital. It was run by two Somali brothers.

“Morning, Inspector. What happened?”

“I’ve just been swimming. It feels wonderful.”

“OK, Inspector.” They gave shy grins and rang up his purchases.

“Still haven’t made inspector, though.”

“That’s right, boss.” The owners didn’t look him in the eye. If the damage to his face worried them, they didn’t seem inclined to inquire further. Belsey collected his change, took a deep breath and walked up Pond Street to the police station.

Most London police operated out of modernist concrete blocks. Not Hampstead. The red, Victorian bricks of the station glowed with civic pride on Rosslyn Hill. Above the station lay the heritage plumpness of the village and, down the hill, the dirty sprawl of Camden Town began. Belsey sat at a bus stop across the road watching the late turn trickling out of the station, nocturnal and subdued. At 8 a.m. the earlies filed in for morning start of shift meeting. He gave them five minutes, then crossed the road.

The corridors were empty. Belsey went to the lockers. He found the first-aid box and took aspirin, a roll of bandage and antiseptic. He removed a broken umbrella from the bin and prised his locker open: one spare tie, a torn copy of
The Golden Bough
, but no spare shoes or shirt. Belsey returned to the corridor and froze. His boss, Detective Inspector Tim Gower, stepped into the canteen a few yards ahead of him. Belsey counted to five, then padded past, up the stairs to the empty Criminal Investigation Department office, and sat down.

He kept the lights off, blinds closed, grabbed the night’s crime sheet and checked he wasn’t on it. A fight in a kebab shop, two break-ins, a missing person. No Belsey. He searched the desk drawers for his badge and ID card and they were there. So this was what was left of him.

He ran a check on the totalled squad car and it came up as belonging to Kentish Town police station. Belsey called.

“This is Nick Belsey, Hampstead CID. One of your cars is in the East Heath parking lot . . . No, it’s still there . . . I don’t know . . . Thanks.”

Belsey locked himself in the toilet and stripped to the waist. He studied his face. A line of dried blood ran from his left nostril across his lips to his chin. He ran a finger along the blood and judged it superficial, apart from a torn lip, which he could live with. His right ear was badly grazed and his right cheekbone hurt to touch but wasn’t broken. Dark, complex bruises had begun to bloom across his chest and right shoulder. He cleaned the wounds and spat the remaining fragments of broken tooth out of his mouth. He looked wired, both older and younger than his thirty-eight years. His flat detective eyes were regaining light. Belsey removed his trousers, dampened the bottoms and rinsed his suit jacket so the worst of the Heath was off. He hung his coat up to dry, put his trousers back on, then returned to the office. He looked under his colleagues’ desks for a pair of dry shoes but couldn’t see any.

The call room had sent up a list of messages for him—calls received over the past few hours. They had come from several individuals he had not spoken to for years, and some distant relatives and an old colleague.
You tried to get hold of me last night . . .
He didn’t remember calling anyone. A vague dread pressed at the edges of his consciousness.

He opened the blind in front of the small window beside his desk. The night had evaporated, the air turned hard, with thin clouds like scum on water. It was an extraordinary day, Belsey sensed. A midwinter sun hung pale in the sky and there was a clarity to it all. A man in shirtsleeves opened up a drugstore; a street cleaner shuffled, sweeping, towards Belsize Park tube station. City workers hurried past. Out of habit Belsey wondered if he should cancel his credit cards, but the cards had cancelled themselves a few days ago. His old life was beyond rescue. It felt as if without the cards he had no debt, and without the debt he was free to run.

The important thing was to stay calm.

Belsey smoothed the sheet of jobs on his desk: one fight, two break-ins, a missing person. His plan formed. The control room had put an alert note by the missing person half an hour ago. It meant they thought someone should take a look, although adult disappearances weren’t police business, and it was probably just the address that caught their eye: The Bishops Avenue. The Bishops Avenue was the most expensive street in the division, and therefore one of the most expensive in the world. No one pretended the rich going missing was the same as the poor.

He stuck a message on the sergeant’s desk—
On MisPer—
and signed out keys for an unmarked CID car. Then he went downstairs, checked there was enough gas in the tank and reversed onto Downshire Hill.

THANKS TO:

Subterranea Britannica for invaluable resources. Any acts of imagination or elaboration are my own.

Also: Silent UK, 28 Days Later, Secret Bases, Cryptome, Nettleden.

OTHER WORKS CONSULTED:

Richard Trench and Ellis Hillman,
London Under London
; Andrew Emmerson and Tony Beard,
London’s Secret Tubes
; Antony Clayton,
Subterranean City
; Duncan Campbell,
War Plan UK
; Peter Laurie,
Beneath the City Streets
; Stephen Smith,
Underground London
; Peter Hennessy,
The Secret State
.

ARTICLES:

Richard Moore, “A JIGSAW Puzzle for Operational Researchers: British Global War Studies, 1954–62,”
Journal of Strategic Studies
, vol. 20, issue 2 (1997)