Now You See Me (23 page)

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Authors: Sharon Bolton

BOOK: Now You See Me
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‘See anything?' Joesbury yelled to me as the searchlights and powerful handheld torches from both police boats swept across the water.
I couldn't. It was too dark, the water too choppy. Then the dinghy appeared, upside-down in the water, two large hands clinging to the rope that ran around its rim. The other police launch surged forward.
‘There's another one,' said Joesbury, just as our searchlight picked out the second of the two men in the water, swimming towards the bank. For a few seconds he made progress and then the tide took hold of him and he began to drift upstream and back towards the centre of the river. We gave chase.
It took just a few seconds to catch up with him, but by the time we did, he was visibly tiring. I glanced back to see that the other police boat had reached the upturned dinghy. The other man was probably safe.
On our boat, Fred and one of his constables were on the starboard deck trying to reach the swimmer. Joesbury unclipped his line and moved round the front of the boat to join them, leaving me alone on the port side. I could hear Fred and his colleague calling to the man in the water, telling him to catch hold of their hands. I turned back and began scanning the river again. There was no sign of the girl and it really wasn't looking good for her.
Then I saw a white hand, not fifteen metres from the boat, moving quickly towards us. The tide had got her, would be taking her upstream, in just a second she'd be past us.
‘She's here!' I yelled. Her head surfaced and went down again. ‘I can see her!'
On the other side of the boat, I could hear cursing. Joesbury's voice. Then more shouted instructions. The boat went into reverse and then moved sideways, further from the girl.
‘Sir! Sergeant Wilson! I can see her!'
Up in the cockpit, the driver seemed to glance at me, but keeping close enough to the man in the water needed his full attention.
The girl appeared again. She was trying to swim but she'd be tiring already. She'd have been cold and wet even before she went in. By now, her core organs would be drawing blood away from her arms and legs, making it harder for her to keep moving; she'd be dangerously close to giving up.
There was nothing I could do but keep her in sight. And hope she stayed on the surface for a minute or two longer. She went under again. Her small hand seemed to clutch at the air before it disappeared.
She was small and thin. She probably hadn't eaten for a while. She'd be weak. And panic would make her too quick to suck in air. Even when her head was below the surface. One big gulp of river water and she'd go down.
There was nothing I could do. Even if I could bring myself to go into the river again, I'd never reach her and get her back to the boat.
Right next to where I'd been standing was a coiled metal wire, probably used for towing other craft or hauling heavy objects out of the water. On the loose end was a large steel clip. Without any real idea of what I was planning, I unclipped my lifeline from the boat rail and fastened it to the wire. Then I tugged the wire quickly so that around three metres of it was free. The rest should unravel.
Still with no plan whatsoever, I swung first one leg, then the other over the rail. A thin wooden ledge ran around the hull of the boat. Just wide enough for me to stand on.
The girl was level with me. I looked into eyes that seemed black as the water. I'd like to say I dived. To be honest, I think the boat swerved and I fell.
Got you
, whispered the water rushing past my ears. For a split second I felt panic reaching up for me, like a huge, barnacle-encrusted hand from the river-bed. Then I was on the surface again.
Don't think about the river, think about the girl. Where is she?
I'd fallen in ahead of her, she should have hit me full on by now. No sign. A small cry behind me. I kicked myself round. There she was, being carried by the tide, already in front of the boat. I probably had seconds before the wire anchoring me to the boat would reach its full length. I took a deep breath and started swimming.
Cracked ribs and swimming? Before I'd taken four strokes I knew I'd never keep it up for long, but I'm a good, strong swimmer and, when I want to be, I'm fast. Four more strokes, she was almost close enough to touch. Two more. Her hand grasped my arm and slipped away. One last, huge effort and she was clinging to me and, tiny though she was, her weight was pulling me down. Both hands were on my head, as though she was trying to push me under. My life-jacket had inflated seconds after I'd hit the water but I wasn't sure it was enough to keep us both afloat. Not with the almost demonical strength that people have when they're fighting for their lives.
I was going to have to do the same thing myself.
For long seconds the girl and I struggled in the river. Several times I went under. Each time I managed to kick up to the surface again, but I could feel myself getting weaker and colder. She, though, still had the strength to yell. She was making terrified, animal-like cries that rang in my ears every time my head broke the surface.
‘Lacey!'
A different sound, directly above me. I blinked away river water and realized I was a metre away from a dull, white hull striped with blue. We were at the boat. They'd tugged us back in using the wire. The girl had seen the boat too and her panic had shifted its focus to the men above her. I felt her foot kick hard against me and then she was lifted up and pulled over the side. She disappeared.
‘Give me your hand, Lacey.' I looked up to see Sergeant Wilson reaching down towards me and somehow managed to lift first one hand, then the other. A second later, I was dangling above the water and, no time after that, was back in the cabin wrapped in a silver, heat-retentive blanket. I was shaking like a jelly on a washing machine – and the inside of my mouth felt like I'd swallowed neat engine oil.
The two immigrants were across the cabin on another bench.
Neither gave any reaction to being handcuffed and cautioned. When it was over, the three of us resembled nothing more than oven-ready turkeys and I felt a ludicrous urge to laugh. The door to the cabin opened and Joesbury came in. He ignored the others, looked only at me. I discovered I could smile.
‘Now can we go to the steam room?' I said.
‘W
HAT'S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN TO you, Karen?'
This, thinks Karen Curtis, her eyes tightly closed. This is the worst thing that could happen to me.
‘Most people answer that question the same way, had you noticed,' says the voice that's tickling her neck. ‘Most people say the worst thing would be to lose someone they love. Would you agree?'
Karen doesn't reply. As a child, terrified of the dark, she'd keep her head beneath the bedclothes and her eyes tightly closed, as though what she couldn't see couldn't hurt her. She's doing the same thing now. Keeping her eyes closed.
‘Would you agree?' The voice has hardened now, grown a little impatient.
‘Yes,' Karen manages, although what she really thinks is that the worst thing that could happen to her right now is for the sharp object at her throat to be pressed closer.
‘You know, it's only polite to look at someone when they're talking to you,' says the voice. ‘I'd feel a lot better if I knew I had your full attention.'
Karen forces her eyes open. She sees the face above hers, the glossy black hair and pale skin and almost closes them again. Instead, she fixes her gaze on a spot of damp on the ceiling. She needs to get that looked at. If she focuses on the damp, on what she's going to have to do to get it sorted out, nothing can happen to
her. Nothing bad can happen to a woman who's planning home repairs.
‘Who do you love most, Karen?' she is being asked. The damp might be coming in through the loft. Probably a loose tile on the roof. She'll have to organize someone to go up there.
‘I asked you a question, Karen.'
‘My son,' Karen says, and in speaking feels her throat rise up a little closer to the knife. The ceiling may have to be re-plastered. It will be expensive.
‘Oh yes, Thomas. And does he love you? Would it be the worst thing to happen to him, if he lost you?'
Probably not, is the honest response. Karen barely sees Thomas any more. She doubts he gives his mother much thought from one day to the next. The tip of the knife is pressed into her and she can feel her skin break around it.
‘I suppose so,' she says, as hair brushes against her face. Her captor is leaning closer, getting ready to whisper in her ear again.
‘I lost someone I loved,' says the voice. ‘Did you know that?'
‘How could I know?' Karen whimpers. ‘I have no idea who you are.'
Karen hears a deep breath being sucked in and then slowly trickling out again. ‘I loved only one person my whole life and I lost her,' says the voice. ‘Do you like the zoo, Karen?'
This is insane. She is at the mercy of someone who is completely insane.
‘I like the zoo,' the voice says, as music begins to play softly, a tune so incongruous that Karen thinks, for a moment, it must be coming from outside. ‘I'm going very soon,' the voice continues. ‘And I think I might just be taking someone – or should I say, something – with me.'
Karen Curtis had never thought she would die to the sound of Julie Andrews.
W
E DIDN'T MAKE IT TO THE STEAM ROOM. WE TOOK THE three immigrants back to Wapping police station, from where, over the next couple of days, they'd get a crash course in the English legal system. I showered, changed into yet another orange boiler suit, drank several mugs of scalding hot tea and gave a statement. I also got a thorough ticking-off from Uncle Fred on the subject of stupid and irresponsible behaviour that put the lives of his officers at risk and was completely unacceptable on any boat he was master of. I told him he was absolutely right, I hadn't been thinking and I was terribly sorry. By the time he finished, I'd decided I rather liked Uncle Fred.
While all this was happening, Joesbury retrieved his car from Southwark and, when the Marine Unit were done with me, he was waiting to take me home. He still hadn't spoken to me and I had no idea what was going through his head. We drove in silence and it was after midnight when we arrived.
‘Can I tell Dana to expect you tomorrow?' he asked, when he pulled over outside my flat. He hadn't switched off the engine.
‘Of course,' I said, looking him directly in the eyes. I picked up my bag, realizing then that Joesbury had been alone with it for a couple of hours while I'd been in Wapping station. He might know exactly what was inside. As I turned away from him I caught sight of the clock on the dashboard. The early trains to Portsmouth would start in just over three hours.
I said goodnight and heard him drive away as I was going down the steps. Inside the flat I turned the electric heater up to maximum and thought about running a bath. I decided against it. My body was perfectly warm.The cold was in my head. Besides, a bath would make me sluggish, even sleepy, and I needed to stay awake.
I'd already planned my escape route. I knew I couldn't leave by the front door, there would be somebody in the street watching me. From the conservatory, though, I could sidle along the back of the house, turn the corner and creep very close to the alley wall. Joesbury's cameras wouldn't spot me. I could climb the wall, cross the park and make my way to the main road. The Tubes had long since stopped but Waterloo Station wasn't too far away. I could walk. The trick would be in the timing. Go too soon, and I'd run a greater risk of being spotted by a camera. Leave it too late and I'd be missed before I had chance to board a ferry.
I changed into warmer clothes, found what food I could and walked out into the garden. The night air would keep me awake. Anyone watching would just assume I was having trouble sleeping after the events of the evening. I looked at my watch. Fifty minutes before I had to leave. Stay awake, keep your nerve.
Then, as I closed the door of the conservatory behind me, music started playing. It was coming from somewhere very close, possibly even the garden itself. I stood there, listening to the clear notes of the violins, waiting for the moment when Julie Andrews would sing the first line.
She didn't. I heard the click of a button being pressed and then the music stopped. In its place was the heavy silence of someone listening. Then, loud enough for me alone to hear, that same someone said my name.
W
AS THIS IT THEN? WAS IT ALL GOING TO END HERE AND now? So many years since I'd heard that voice. It hadn't changed.
On the other side of the alley wall, something scraped against the stone. It was a sound so soft it could almost have been a cat, even a rodent. I knew it was neither. I opened my mouth, tried to form the name on my tongue, but nothing came out.
From the main road came the sound of a police siren. On the other side of the wall, that of footsteps moving away.
‘No, wait. It wasn't me. I didn't call anyone.'
I had no idea whether I'd been heard. The footsteps had gone. It took me seconds to pull back the heavy-duty bolts on the gate and get into the alley. It was empty. Instinct told me not to run towards the street so I went the other way. Thirty metres and I'd arrived at a pathway that circled the park. Still no one in sight.
We were taught in training that it's human instinct to turn left rather than right and that, with no other motivation, people will head to their left. That's the way I went. The gateway to the park was open and I stopped to get my breath back. I could hear the music again. The tinkling tune, light as air bubbles, was trilling away from somewhere inside the park.
Careful now. The shrubs around the perimeter were tall and dense. Plenty of hiding places. On the other side of the park were recreation fields, several football pitches that became cricket pitches
in summer. Every step now took me further away from people. I'd brought no radio with me, no phone, no weapon of any kind. I'd acted without thinking, running out here. I'd have been spotted leaving the garden but it would take time for back-up to arrive. In the meantime, my police-officer status would be no protection. I was just a woman, alone at night.
The park was long and narrow. Clumps of shrubs and ornamental trees prevented me from seeing the full length, but I knew it well enough. To my right was the young children's play area. There were swings, a roundabout, a large treehouse complex with slides and stepping stones. Lots more hiding places. The eastern side of the park was aimed at older children and teenagers. There was a skateboard ramp and a BMX track.
Ahead of me was a circular structure of sheltered seating. In the darkest corner, I thought I could see movement among the shadows.
After the rain of earlier, the night was now dull, damp and mild, with no stars or moon that I could see. Just a thick covering of cloud. Not much wind either, and yet all around me the leaves that hadn't yet been claimed by the autumn were shivering. I was shivering too. So much it was starting to hurt.
Then everything fell silent. Even the distant noise of traffic seemed to retreat and I had a sense of a defining moment approaching. I realized I'd stopped breathing and I began to wonder how long it had been exactly since I'd checked behind me.
I didn't move.
‘I'm waiting,' I said and could almost feel the hand reach out to touch my shoulder.
Then the silence broke, as though someone had waved a wand and brought the city back to life. I could hear traffic on the Wandsworth Road, leaves rustling like crisp packets, a car door being slammed.
And another police siren, one that – instinctively I knew – was heading this way. We were out of time.
I walked out of the park and back to my flat. As I left the alley I could hear footsteps running down the front steps and then someone banging on the door. I crossed my bedroom, picked up my rucksack and put it back on the wardrobe. I wouldn't be going anywhere tonight.
I had things to do.

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