The Tunnel Rats (16 page)

Wright opened his eyes. His face was drenched in sweat and he rubbed his forehead with his sleeve. He pointed the flashlight at the floor and stepped in between the rails. There was a damp, slightly bitter, smell to the air, a mix of stale urine and rotting vegetation, and Wright tried to block out the stench by breathing through his mouth. He stood with his feet together on an ancient wooden sleeper, like a high-diver preparing to jump. He took a step forward, concentrating on the rust-covered rails highlighted by the yellow beam of the flashlight. The light flickered. The batteries were old, Wright realised. He shook the flashlight and the beam grew stronger for a few seconds but then faded back to its original yellow glow.

Wright began walking, stepping from sleeper to sleeper. He wondered how long the batteries would last, and how he would THE TUNNEL RATS 111 react if the torch died while he was in the bowels of the tunnel. And he wondered why he was deliberately testing himself, pushing himself into a situation that was almost more than he could bear. It wasn't just that he hated tunnels. He hated all dark places. Dark places and confined spaces. He was thirty-two years old and he was scared of the dark, but today was the day that he was going to prove to himself that his fears were groundless.

Wright swung the beam from side to side. The walls of the tunnel were stained black, streaked with green moss and dotted with silvery cobwebs that glistened with moisture. Wright shivered. Last time he'd been in the tunnel he hadn't noticed how cold it was.

Suddenly he stopped. He'd heard something ahead of him. It wasn't the same sort of sound he'd heard outside the tunnel; this was a gravelly crunch, the sort of noise a foot might make if it slipped off a sleeper. A human foot. He crouched down and listened. All he could hear was the sound of his own breathing. He held his breath. There was nothing. He stared ahead but couldn't see anything outside the beam of his flashlight. He put his hand over the end of the flashlight so that the light glowed redly through the flesh. The darkness seemed to wrap itself tighter around Wright and he took his hand away. He crouched lower, instinctively trying to make himself a smaller target even though he didn't know what he was protecting himself from.

He listened, but the sound wasn't repeated. Something brushed against his cheek and he spun around, sweeping the flashlight beam around his head like a claymore, but he was alone. A large moth fluttered up to the roof of the tunnel where it dislodged flecks of soot that fell around him like black snow. Wright's panic gradually subsided and he stood up again. He looked over his shoulder. He'd only walked fifty feet or so into the tunnel. Through the opening he could see the lush green embankment and a strip of sky. Fifty feet. He could run that far in seconds, yet it felt a lifetime away. Part of him wanted to run back into the open, to get the hell out of the tunnel, but he knew that he had to fight his phobia; he had to break its hold on him before it gripped him even tighter.

Wright turned back. Someone was standing in front of him. Wright yelped in fright and dropped the flashlight. It crashed 112 STEPHEN LEATHER on to the rail and the light went out. Wright put his hands up to protect himself.

'Whoa, take it easy,' said the man. He had an American accent.

Wright tried to regain his composure. 'Who are you?' he asked, attempting to sound authoritative but all too well aware just how much his voice was shaking. The man was an inch or so shorter than Wright but his shoulders were wider and he stood confidently between the rails, his hands swinging freely at his sides. 'Who are you?' repeated Wright, with slightly more confidence this time.

'I was here first,' said the man. 'Maybe I should be asking you who you are.'

Wright wanted to pick up his flashlight but he was too close to the man to risk bending down. 'You're trespassing on Railtrack property,' he said. He could only make out the man's silhouette. He looked down at his hands, trying to see if he was carrying a weapon. There was something in his right hand, but Wright couldn't make out what it was. '

'I might say the same about you,' said the man. \

'I'm a policeman,' said Wright. \

Bright white light suddenly blinded Wright and he turned his head. The light went off. Wright blinked, trying to recover his night vision. He took a step back as he realised how defenceless he was.

'You don't look like a policeman,' said the man. He sounded amused, and although Wright couldn't make out his features, he knew he was grinning.

'Look, I'm a policeman and you're trespassing. I want you out of here. Now.' He shouted the last word and it echoed down the tunnel.

The man stood where he was. When he spoke, his voice was a hushed whisper. 'Suppose I said no. What would you do then? Do you think you could make me?' He chuckled. 'I don't think so.'

Wright took another step backwards, then swiftly bent down and retrieved the flashlight. He flicked the on-off switch but it had no effect. The bulb must have broken. He tapped the flashlight against the palm of his left hand. It wasn't much of a weapon but it was all he had.

'Bet you wish they let you carry guns, huh?' said the man. 'Never understood that. Ninety-nine per cent of people will do as they're told if you ask them the right way, but what do you do when someone just says no? You have to use necessary force, right? But how do you decide what's necessary? And what if the guy you're up against isn't intimidated by force?'

Realisation dawned and Wright sighed with relief. 'You're the FBI agent?'

'Jim Bamber at your service,' said the man.

'Why the hell didn't you say so?' asked Wright angrily.

'Hey, you weren't exactly quick to identify yourself,' said Bamber. 'Anyone can say they're a cop.'

'Yeah? Well, anyone can say they're an FBI agent.'

Bamber took his wallet out of his jacket pocket and switched on his flashlight. Wright squinted at the credentials, FBI in large blue letters and a small photograph of an unsmiling man in his late twenties with a strong jaw and a prominent dimple. 'Of course, you probably wouldn't be able to tell if it's real or not,' said Bamber. 'Same as if you showed me yours. How would J know, right?' The flashlight went off.

'Do you think you could leave that on?' asked Wright.

'Sure,' said Bamber. He did as Wright asked, keeping the beam low, illuminating the rails.

'I'm Nick Wright,' said Wright, realising that he still hadn't identified himself. 'Our superintendent warned us you'd be coming.'

'Warned?'

'Maybe warned's the wrong word. He said the FBI was sending someone over to work on the case.'

'And here I am,' said Bamber. He held out his hand, shining the beam of his flashlight on to it, and Wright shook it. 'How come you're here, Nick?' asked Bamber.

'I just wanted another look at the crime scene,' said Wright. 'I had some crazy idea about getting a feel for the killer.'

'Not such a crazy idea,' said Bamber. 'That's what I was doing. The superintendent let me view the video and the stills, but that can't tell you everything. The smell, the sounds, the atmosphere, it's all part of it. You can feel what the victim felt, right up to 114 STEPHEN LEATHER the moment he was killed.' He looked around the tunnel. 'Not a good place to die, huh?'

'Is there a good place?' asked Wright.

'A five-star hotel room, in a king-size bed with busty blonde twins and a bottle of champagne,' suggested Bamber. He started walking deeper into the tunnel and Wright hurried after him. Bamber ran the flashlight beam along the bottom of the tunnel wall. A large brown rat scuttled along the floor, trying to escape from the light. 'They must have made a mess of the body,' said Bamber.

'Yeah. It was down here for a couple of days before it was found. Most of the lower parts of the legs had been eaten away.'

'According to the autopsy report, the body was already well mutilated.'

'Post mortem,' said Wright. 'We call them post mortems here.'

Bamber played the beam along the wall, back and forth. He picked out the rusty brown smears where the body had been and headed towards them. 'Must have taken some time,' Bamber continued. 'Do you reckon it was because they wanted information from him?'

'We're not sure,' said Wright. 'You said “they”, do you reckon there was more than one?'

'How else would they get him in here?' said Bamber. He nodded at the entrance to the tunnel, a squashed oval of light in the distance.

'He could have been carried in, unconscious.'

'Maybe,' said Bamber. He stepped closer to the wall and played the beam down the bloodstains. There were scrape marks where the forensic people had taken away samples. 'It was all the same blood group?' asked Bamber.

Wright nodded. 'Have you ever come across anything like it in the States?'

'Not personally,' said the FBI agent, 'but I've only worked on a dozen or so homicides. I'm running a check through our Behavioral Science Services Unit. They'll spot any patterns that match similar deaths. Have you considered a Satanic connection? Ritual sacrifice?'

'We spoke to a few experts, and they said that Satanic symbols would have been used, candles and the like. Eckhardt was also the wrong sort of victim. Sacrifice would normally involve children or young women.'

'Drugs?'

'He certainly wasn't a user, and he didn't appear to be the sort who'd have drug connections.'

'He was a news agency photographer, right? Could he have been photographing the wrong people?'

'Nothing controversial,' said Wright. 'At least, not in the UK.'

'We're looking at his New York background, but I've already got a negative from the DEA and he doesn't have a criminal record, other than a few speeding tickets. He's just a regular citizen.'

'That's what we figured,' said Wright. 'An innocent bystander. Wrong place, wrong time.'

Bamber straightened up. 'I want to switch the flashlight off. Are you okay with that?'

Wright felt his chest tighten and his breath caught in his throat. He forced himself to relax. 'Sure,' he said.

The light winked off. Wright immediately felt as if he was falling. He gasped and put out his hands, but there was nothing to hold on to. He twisted around and fixed his eyes on the entrance to the tunnel, focusing all his attention on the patch of light, but that only made his disorientation worse. Time seemed to crawl by, and with each passing second the darkness seemed to become more and more stifling, a creeping cloud that threatened to suffocate the life out of him. The flashlight came back on and Bamber walked over to stand next to Wright again.

'Gives you a feel for what it must have been like,' said the FBI agent. He looked across at Wright. 'Are you scared of the dark, Nick?'

'Why do you ask?' asked Wright, defensively.

'Because it's as cold as a witch's tit in here, and you're sweating.'

Wright wiped his hand across his forehead. It came away wet. 'I'm a bit claustrophobic, that's all.'

Bamber chuckled. 'Yeah? That's funny, isn't it? You being a transit cop and all.'

'It's transport, not transit,' said Wright. 'And I joined for the trains, not the tunnels.'

'I didn't think of that,' said the FBI agent. He stopped laughing. 'Hey, you really are uncomfortable, aren't you?' He handed Wright the flashlight. 'Come on, let's get out of here.'

The two men walked back along the track and out into the sunshine. Wright took the padlock from his pocket and relocked the gate.

'How did you get here?' Wright asked. 'I didn't see a car.'

'It's about half a mile away. I picked up a rental at the airport.'

They walked away from the tunnel. 'How long are you going to be in town, Jim?' asked Wright.

'As long as it takes. We don't take kindly to our citizens being murdered overseas.'

They climbed up the embankment. Bamber went first. He moved quickly and gracefully, with swift, sure steps that took him up the slope at twice Wright's speed, and whereas Wright was panting when he reached the top, Bamber wasn't affected at all. Bamber looked as if he worked out regularly; he wasn't over muscled, but he was lean and hard without a spare ounce of fat on his frame.

'Do you want to follow me back?' said Wright, figuring that Bamber would have difficulty finding his way across South London to the office.

'I thought I'd go and talk to Eckhardt's widow,' said Bamber.

Wright stiffened. 'Now's not a good time,' he said. 'The funeral was today.'

Bamber stood looking down at the tracks below. He wasn't wearing a coat and the wind was tugging at the lightweight material of his suit but he didn't appear to feel the cold. 'That's the best time,' he said. 'She'll be off balance.'

'She's not a suspect,' said Wright quickly. Too quickly, he realised.

Bamber turned to look at him. He didn't say anything for several seconds, then he slowly smiled. 'Pretty, is she?'

r*

'Don't be stupid,' Wright said brusquely. He could feel himself start to blush and he looked away.

'Stupid? I just meant that maybe she had a lover, maybe she wanted her husband out of the way.' He craned his neck forward, his head twisted to the side like a hawk eyeing up potential prey. 'What did you think I meant, Nick?'

'She's not a suspect,' Wright repeated. Bamber continued to look at him, smiling. 'It's not what you think,' said Wright.

'Yeah? What do I think?'

'You think I fancy her.'

'And do you?'

Bamber was still smiling. It was a good-natured, open smile, and Wright felt that the FBI agent wasn't being malicious. Wright grinned despite his embarrassment. 'Maybe,' he said. He shook his head. 'I don't know, it's weird. I keep thinking about her, you know? At night, when I'm driving, when I'm shaving. Pretty sick, huh? Her husband's only just been cremated and I want to get inside her pants.'

'Actually, it's understandable. She's vulnerable, she's hurting, it brings out the protective instinct in you. You want to take care of her. It's happened to me before, Nick.'

Wright rubbed his nose. 'Yeah. Maybe.'

'Okay, I'll follow you back to the office. I'll go get my car.' He walked away as Wright climbed into Reid's Honda. As he waited for Bamber to return, Wright thought over what he'd said about May Eckhardt. He wondered whether it had been a good idea to open up to the FBI agent, to a man he'd only just met. Bamber had been sympathetic, though, in a way that Reid would never have been. If Wright had told Reid how he felt about May Eckhardt, his partner would have reacted with guffaws and sarcasm. Wright massaged the back of his neck, kneading his fingers into the base of his skull in a vain attempt to ease the tension that was building there.