The Unquiet Dead (5 page)

Jessie was beginning to envisage the view from her new office. A good sunset was like a religion to her. In fact it was a religion. She believed in the cosmos. In the structure of the world around her. In what she could see and feel. The sea. The air. The stars. The moon. The sun. And watching it set gave her a feeling of peace; she felt united with the vastness of their universe on one hand and infinitesimally small on the other. It was another remedy for a bad day in CID. Having the high office would mean that she’d no longer need to make detours to the elevated section of the Westway in order to get a look at a mammoth red sun drop below West London’s skyline. Now she would have it for her delectation and delight at the end of every day.

‘There is another boiler room,’ said a voice over the radio. ‘The original one, built in 1910. They stopped using it in 1953, but you can still get down there.’ Jessie snapped out of her reverie. It was the man with the moustache. The man with the bunch of keys. He must be the caretaker, thought Jessie, back from his sickbed for this sickly spectacle. ‘It’s one floor below. I don’t go down there unless I absolutely have to.’

‘Why not?’ Jessie heard Mark Ward ask, but she didn’t hear an answer. Everybody else had; they had all gone quiet. Jessie followed the camera out of the brightly lit boiler room and through a set of double doors. Suddenly the screen was plunged into darkness.

‘Hang on,’ said a voice. ‘We need the generator for this bit.’ For a few quiet, dark moments everybody waited. Then a hiss, and a faint glow that increased until a struggling light filled the gloom. The low-ceilinged corridor in which the men stood looked like a concrete trench. Their boots echoed like hammers as they proceeded along it. Jessie leant forward to get a better look. A small knot of anxiety had tightened in her stomach. At the end of the corridor was a set of steep concrete steps leading down to a rusty steel door that swung on its hinges. The man with the moustache tutted. ‘It’s supposed to be locked,’ he said. Unaware, Jessie had put her hand over her mouth. The camera shook as it went unsteadily down the steps. No one was talking now. Someone pushed the door
open. It was obviously heavy, because whoever was opening it was using two hands. The interior was pitch black.

‘Just a minute,’ said the disembodied voice of the caretaker. ‘The light switch is through here.’ Jessie heard the heavy sound of rattling chains and jangling keys. It was so deliberate that she wondered whether he was doing it for effect. If he was, it was working. Still no one spoke. There was no other sound except the familiar hiss of electricity.

A murky image appeared on the screen:
DO NOT ENTER.
The cameraman ignored the sign and went in. Jessie found herself transported to the bottom of the Atlantic. In the pale light the ancient redundant machinery reminded her of a documentary about the
Titanic
. She’d been inside the engine room via a submersible eye. She was inside it again. Placed between a grid of square wooden pillars that looked like the underside of a disused pier were four huge round boilers, each covered in a thick skin of rust. She could see the breath of the men, huddled in a pack at the edge of the room. It was cold down there. Something was making the policemen wrinkle their faces and grimace. Jessie hoped it was the musty odour of age, not death.

In front of each tank was a rill. The first two disappeared into black holes; the two furthest away from the door ended at what looked like a large manhole cover. Beyond them were brick archways that led to recesses in the back wall. Above them
was a series of steel girders held up by wooden beams. Rotten wooden beams.

‘Careful,’ said Jessie, but the men on the screen couldn’t hear her.

‘What are those?’ Mark asked. Jessie couldn’t see what he was pointing to.

‘Coal was used to fire ’em up.’ The caretaker patted the belly of the boiler affectionately. ‘Men would shovel it out of the coal stores to the bottom of the Archimedes screw. That way the fires were always stoked.’ Four steel posts rose up from the ground. ‘’Course, the screws have long gone. Nicked and picked at over the years, like everything else. Got no respect.’

‘Yes, but what are those?’

Jessie knew Mark was talking about the two open pits in the ground. It would have been the first place she would have looked, too. The man with the moustache hadn’t let go of the boiler, and it occurred to Jessie that he was hanging on to it.

‘The ash would fall out the bottom and be taken away by running water, along these narrow channels into the pits to cool.’ The camera pointed down into the pit.

‘Where do they go?’

‘Hell,’ said the caretaker.

‘What?’ said Mark and Jessie in unison.

‘Smell,’ he said. ‘Then tell me where you think they go?’

‘Sewers,’ replied Jessie to the electronic image. That was why all the men were pulling faces.

‘Get the torches down there!’ shouted Mark.

‘Careful, the ground isn’t stable,’ said the caretaker.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You don’t know when the ground is going to give way and swallow you up.’

Jessie felt a chill up the back of her neck. This guy was freaking her out. She watched as four police officers pointed torches into the pupil of the pit. One of them beckoned for the boat hook and a few seconds later he fished out a shoe.

‘They should all have been covered,’ said the caretaker.

The old shoe was discarded. They moved on to the next pit, wading through filth. Once again the search was fruitless.

‘What about the other two?’

‘There’s nothing down there.’

‘Get those lids up,’ shouted Mark. His voice trembled as much as the caretaker’s, whether with excitement or fear, Jessie couldn’t tell.

The elderly man was still hanging on to the boiler when the crowbar arrived. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ he said.

Jessie didn’t want to know why not.

They prised open the first lid. The camera gave her a bird’s-eye view of a dry, lead-lined pit with a grate at the bottom. It was empty. One more to go.

‘Mind your heads, boys, the ceiling gets lower.’

Jessie was out of her seat and pacing. The
crowbar was inserted into the dusty ground. The men heaved with exertion. A corner came up.

She heard a voice. The caretaker’s voice: ‘We shouldn’t really be down here. They don’t like it when people come down here.’

The screen started to flicker like mad.

Jessie could make out Mark as he knelt down and stuck a torch into the gap.

The screen went fuzzy. And then nothing. Jessie hit the television screen. The radio clicked.

‘I can see someone!’ shouted Mark.

‘Alive?’

‘Can’t tell – they’re not moving!’

There was a terrible crack.

‘Move!’ shouted a voice over the rumble of falling masonry. The radio clicked again and Jessie lost contact with the boiler room.

For a few seconds Jessie continued to stare at the blank screen. Then she pulled on her leather jacket and ran down the stairs to the exit. Outside, the rain had stopped and the sun had come out. Her bike was parked in its normal place; it only took a minute before she was in her helmet and off the stand. It wouldn’t have taken long to walk to Marshall Street, but she didn’t want to waste any time. Something serious had happened in that boiler room. Why did she feel as if she had known it would?

Up ahead she saw the blue-and-white police tape spinning in the wind. The search crew were just beginning to spill out of the monolithic building as she pulled up. She dismounted, flashed her badge and joined the constable on guard.

‘What happened?’

‘Roof caved in. One man down. They’re bringing him out now.’

‘Came from nowhere,’ said a young man covered in dust.

‘I knew something was up with that place,’ said another. ‘You could just feel it.’

Jessie followed paramedics through the labyrinth that was the underbelly of the baths until she reached the cement corridor. The clattering wheels of the medics’ trolley stopped; they snapped up the undercarriage, lifted it and carried it down the flight of steeply cut steps. DCI Moore was standing at the bottom. She looked Jessie up and down but said nothing. Jessie’s high-heeled boots and trouser suit looked ridiculous now.

‘Is is Anna Maria?’

‘Too early to say,’ said the DCI. ‘A beam came down on the lid, sealing it shut. Now the fucking structural engineers won’t let anyone in until they’ve given us the all clear. Meanwhile, she may be down there, suffocating, and we’ve got an officer with serious concussion after being hit by a falling brick.’

‘Where’s Mark?’

‘They’re patching him up. He nearly had his arm sliced off by that lid.’

‘Four people and they still couldn’t lift it,’ said Jessie.

‘What’s your point?’

‘I don’t know. Pulling something like this off would have taken planning, people.’

‘Maybe all that was required was a victim.’ DCI Moore suddenly pushed herself away from the wall. ‘I can’t just wait around gossiping. I’m going
to talk to that bloody engineer again. Call me if anything happens.’

Jessie felt the insult keenly, but did not respond. She sat on the bottom step and waited, her bad mood deepening with every minute she sat there. How could she have been so stupid as to bet on something as unpredictable as other people’s lives? The paramedics returned with their trolley. The injured officer’s head and neck were encased in a thick padded yellow brace. He was fastened to the stretcher. What they couldn’t strap down were his eyes, which were rolling in his head like a mad mare’s. He was singing nursery rhymes. When he passed Jessie, his eyes fixed on her for a long moment that left her feeling as if she’d just seen something she shouldn’t.

‘Go away,’ he said. Then his eyes started rolling again.

The medic made a sign and the trolley was again lifted into the air and Jessie was alone once more. Soon the damp had seeped through her trousers, leaving her skin cold and itchy. Men with measuring instruments came and went; she took no notice of them. The cold air chilled her to the bone, but she did not leave. The voice behind her made her jump.

‘I was thinking Reading – lots of petty crime that creates an avalanche of paperwork and no results,’ he said, walking heavy-footed down the steps towards her. ‘Or maybe Birmingham, where
the men really know how to treat a woman.’ In the poorest areas of Birmingham rates of domestic violence were extremely high. ‘And don’t get on your high horse, Driver. You know they often ask for it.’

The black mist turned red. Jessie felt the fury whip through her like the wind as she turned on Mark. ‘Did you ask for it when your mother abused you?’ she said in a mean whisper.

‘You bitch,’ spat Mark.

Jessie stood. ‘And when you said, “No, don’t lock me in this cupboard,” you really meant, “Yes, leave me here in the dark for hours.”’

Mark didn’t respond immediately. Finally he said, ‘I’ve been waiting, wondering how long it would take you to throw that back at me. All that bullshit about how I could trust you – what a load of shit. Mum had no choice and you know it.’

‘Trust! You don’t know the meaning of the word. Moore has been here two seconds and you turn on me in an instant. And as far as choice is concerned, there is always a choice.’

He flew down the stairs towards her. ‘Sanctimonious cunt.’

It was reflex. A spasmodic response to his ugly words. To his descending mass. A bent elbow, fast and hard, into the solar plexus. Mark fell forward, letting out a high-pitched wheeze, landing on his knees on the hard floor. Jessie reeled from the shock of the words, from the shock of her own actions. Mark coughed. Jessie stood motionless.

‘You all right, Mark?’ asked Moore from the top of the stairs.

‘It’s the damp,’ he croaked.

Jessie bent down to his level. ‘Don’t ever speak to me like that again,’ she whispered.

He turned to face her, a look of real hatred in his eyes. ‘I’m going to see to it that you end up in fucking Dundee.’

Jessie stayed low, talking low. ‘Don’t count on it, Mark. That lid hasn’t been moved for years. You’ve just stumbled across some old skeleton, that’s all.’

‘What are you two whispering about?’ They both ignored Moore.

‘I saw hair. I saw flesh. I saw clothes. You’re wrong, and that’s something you can’t stand. Go away,’ he seethed, echoing the words of another delirious man.

Jessie backed off, but only because she was so frightened of her own feelings. She had already hit him, but still she wanted to grind her nails into his face and pull the flesh off. She wanted to hurt him, destroy him.

‘We’ve been given clearance,’ said Moore as she passed. Jessie didn’t care. She wanted to get out. She ran up the steps, back along the corridor, through more doors and up more steps until eventually she found herself bursting out on to the street. A dozen cameras flashed. The news was already out. Behind the barrier, men and women jabbed microphones and shouted questions. Jessie took
gulps of air as the name Anna Maria filled the cul-de-sac. The dead end. There were only two ways to go. Through the pack on the street or back into Marshall Street Baths. For the first time ever, she preferred the press pack to her fellow police officers. Nothing would induce her to return to that place. She may have been at loggerheads with Mark on many previous occasions, but nothing like that had ever happened. She had been taught unarmed combat in order to be able to disarm a person, defend herself, break up a fight. She never thought she’d use the skill to start one. A small corner of her brain had to applaud Mark for not hitting her back. He must have wanted to, but he didn’t. She’d lost control. He hadn’t. Now she’d have to apologise to him. Violence was never the answer. Wasn’t that what she was always telling the schoolkids, the young men banged up time and time again?