Waking Broken (30 page)

Saturday, 1.52am:

Harper parked the Rolls at the top of the slipway that ran down between the old tide mill and the wall of the timber yard opposite. Cash and Rebecca had both wanted to come with him. Harper had insisted, though, that they stay and guide the police to the woman: arguing that someone needed to make sure the emergency services took the call seriously and got her out.

‘Listen,’ he told them, anxious to be off. ‘If they turn up and no one’s here, they might not take it seriously. It’s Friday night. They probably get all sorts of hoax calls; they’ll just think it was another drunken wind-up.’

Rebecca was reluctant to let him go. ‘But shouldn’t you sort this out first? Wait and make sure help comes. Why do you have to go somewhere else?’

‘Because I need to see what’s there,’ Harper told her. ‘When this happened before, the police said the woman may have been alive when the concrete was poured on top of her. Van Hulle didn’t kill her; he just left her in a place where he knew she was going to die. What if he’s got someone else at this other place?’

Rebecca remained unconvinced but Harper was determined. Cash shrugged. The artist had not seemed bothered about Harper taking his car. ‘It’s insured,’ he said. ‘I can always say you stole it.’

Now, as he hurried across the slipway’s slick cobbles, Harper scanned the tide mill and its warehouses. He needed to find a way in fast.

He had not told the other two the full truth. The hope of finding another woman alive formed only part of the reason for his impatience. Equally important was a sense of not having much time left in which to operate. A tipping point approached: as proved by the dream that had taken him while he lay in wait for Van Hulle. Something told him the room in which he had woken was as real as this world. It was clearly not possible for him to be in two places at once and the pull from that other world was becoming stronger and stronger.

Harper realised he would simply have to do what he could in the time remaining. Anything else was down to hope and chance.

After following the side of the mill down to the river’s edge, Harper came to a dead end. There were windows in the building but none at ground level. The only way in was a huge cart entrance with great wooden doors that looked like they had not moved in decades. He tried pushing them anyway but the giant slabs of wood refused to budge. Frustrated, he turned around; he would have to try in the other direction.

Back at the top of the slipway, Harper jogged left into the lane that ran along the perimeter of the mill complex. For the first hundred yards or so there was nothing. Next came the gates into the main yard. Again, made out of wood and this time more than nine feet tall with a row of metal spikes along the top.

Harper started to move on. But as he did so, he noticed the lamppost next to the wall, a yard or two from the gates. He contemplated it for a moment and glanced around. There was no traffic. He was in a run-down commercial part of the city, across the river from any night-time action. There was nothing here to burgle, only old lock-ups and empty sheds. The chances of being spotted were slim.

He grabbed the metal pole and climbed onto its fattened base. After taking a firm grip with his hands, he began to walk up the wall, pulling himself higher as he went. It was almost as easy as it looked and in less than a minute he was perched on top of the wall. It was a reasonable drop into the yard inside but Harper let himself down without mishap. The yard was empty but several doors led into the interior and the streetlight next to the wall provided plenty of illumination.

The doors were all shut but one was an old plywood affair that gave way to little more than a hard push. Harper pulled the torch out of his jacket pocket and switched it on.

The interior of the buildings was a labyrinth. Harper walked quickly, not sure what he was looking for, making his way across great echoing halls full of dust and pigeon feathers. Between the empty spaces lay tiny corridors, twisting staircases and poky rooms that had once housed offices. It was a long time since any were last used. All lay bare: just grey wood, blank walls and grimy windows, many broken.

Harper’s feet reverberated across the dirty floorboards of storerooms, passageways and attics. He began to explore at a jog, scanning each room with the torch before moving to the next. He started by turning right, into the warehouses themselves. The further he went, however, the more his instincts began to draw him back the other way. He was not sure why. Part of him thought that having come so far, he should continue all the way to the end of the building. But finally, logic snapped. He turned and began to race back the way he had come, heading for the mill itself.

He ran: heedless of anything other than returning through the warehouses. But while jogging down a twisting flight of stairs, he stopped. And listened.

He was unsure. Maybe it was fear: that or an out of step echo. But he thought he had heard the beat of feet other than his own. Harper stood still, chest heaving, trying to breathe silently as he listened. Nothing. Only the wheezing of his tar-infested chest and the hammering of a heart unaccustomed to exercise.

He shook his head. Just imagining things.

Harper twisted, trying to stretch his sense of hearing once again. Still nothing.

He shrugged and continued down. A couple of minutes later and he ducked through a low doorway into the ground floor of the mill itself. Begun in the early seventeenth century and expanded over the following decades, the building was once one of the city’s most important industrial complexes. Built on a slight narrowing of the river, the mill used the tide’s unflagging cycles to turn a series of wheels that powered all kinds of machinery. At various stages, hammers pounded, grain was ground and lumber sawn here: all with the help of the tides.

But then industry turned to new sources of power and by the end of the 19
th
century the mill went into terminal decline. Too unattractive to interest visitors and too decayed to be a viable heritage proposition, the mill and associated buildings were left to rot. Only recently had the site’s real estate value been noticed. Too valuable to leave, the authorities planned on clearing away the crumbling industrial eyesore. In time, the name of the luxury flats planned for the site would be all that remained to remind people of its history.

But for now, while developers wrangled, a firm called Vigil Security held the contract for keeping an eye on the rambling old place.

Harper shone his torch around the huge barn of a room that took up most of the base of the building. He could hear water splashing nearby. The tide had turned and was on its way back upstream. But while the sea had begun to flow inland again, the river was still making last-ditch efforts to push against the incoming surge. The opposing currents created little waves and it was the sound of their breaking he could hear.

Attracted by the noise, he headed towards it and came to the edge of the race that fed the tide mill. The channel was about eight feet across and ran the length of the building. Harper crouched next to the thick metal grille that lay across the top of the race. Shining his torch through, he could see water swirling below. At the moment it was a good twelve-foot drop to the surface. But with the tide starting to come in again, the level was already beginning to rise.

Harper turned the beam against the stone walls of the channel. From their coating of wet slime, it was clear that come high tide the water would rise to within about four feet of the top.

He shone his torch in both directions along the race but spotted nothing out of place. Standing, he turned left towards the skeleton of the main mill wheel. Still in position above the water, the massive iron hoops and bars were now almost all that remained of the construction. The top of the wheel held a few rotting slabs of wood, mostly green with algae and ferns.

With his attention on the upper part of the wheel, Harper did not see the woman for a while. He only glanced back down into the millrace as he came closer.

Then he blanched and the torch in his hand wobbled. It looked like the woman had been there for a while. She still wore the remains of a dress but it was coated with mud.

As he drew nearer, Harper gagged and looked away before steeling himself. He walked onto the end section of grille, which stopped about six feet from the wheel; a baulk of wood and a row of corroded metal stumps showed where a railing had once provided a barrier around the end of the race. Now, though, as he kneeled at the edge of the grille, there was nothing between him and the water below.

Not really wanting to look but feeling he had to bear witness, Harper shone the torch beam into the race. He closed his eyes for a few seconds before swallowing and reopening them.

It looked as if the woman’s wrists had been chained to one of the wheel’s metal bars. She hung by her arms, legs dangling free. At the moment, her toes were a little above water level. But the top of her head was at least eighteen inches below the mark on the walls left by the high tide. Harper was thankful her skull was tilted forwards and he could not see her face. But he knew who she was: days of being immersed in filthy water had not completely dulled the mass of red hair.

He looked for a while, breathing slowly. He knew what to do; it was just a case of summoning the courage to face the task. Eventually, he pulled out his mobile and dialled the number.

It took a while for the phone to be answered but when it came the voice on the other end was alert despite the hour. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s Danny Harper.’

‘Mr Harper.’ The tone was cautious but neutral. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m sorry…’

There was a cold pause. ‘Sorry?’

‘It’s… I think I’ve found your sister.’

‘You’ve…’ Despite the warning already given, a note of optimism entered the voice but was swiftly snuffed out. ‘Where?’

‘I’m at the old Pine Mi…’

Harper’s words were cut off as a foot smashed into the hand holding the phone and the side of his head. The mobile sailed through the air. It smacked against the damp stones just below the top of the millrace and fell into the water. Harper sprawled sideways, landing across the metal grille and the decaying timber where the safety railing once stood: his head and one shoulder hanging over the water.

Harper still had hold of the torch and turned it towards his assailant.

Van Hulle stared down with impassive calm. The batteries in the torch were starting to fail and the developer looked into the beam without blinking. His expression was blank rather than threatening but the lack of aggression was somehow more chilling.

He shook his head. ‘You are becoming a nuisance, Mr Harper. You interfere in things you do not understand.’

Still lying on his back, aware of the drop behind him, Harper looked at his opponent. Van Hulle loomed over him. He was not much taller but carried considerably extra bulk. Judging from the kick, he had the muscles to match. Plus he had a distinct advantage in that he was not the one lying prone.

Harper could also see the darkness gathering around the edges of his vision. Time was getting short. He swallowed. ‘How did you know I’d come here?’

Van Hulle gave a brief snort. ‘You were hard to miss, Mr Harper. Driving that car? It would have been hard to have lost you.’

The Dutchman’s lip curled fractionally as he considered the figure beneath him. ‘It is regrettable, Mr Harper. I have no sympathy for your kind. You have the opportunity to print the truth but invariably you only write to titillate and stir up the most primitive emotions. But I never had any intention to involve you in this.’ He looked almost sorrowful for a moment. ‘I would not wish harm on anyone but I cannot allow interference with my work.’

Harper’s eyes widened. His body had flattened itself against the cold metal beneath his back. His head tilted for a moment towards the body hanging from the remains of the mill wheel. ‘Your work?’

Van Hulle closed his eyes again. For a moment, Harper contemplated movement: an attack, trying to roll out of danger, anything to change the balance of power. But his chance passed and Van Hulle’s dead eyes bore down on him once more. ‘You would not understand, Mr Harper.’

‘How do you know?’ He threw the question straight back, wanting to keep Van Hulle talking. ‘What wouldn’t I understand?’

A sad smile crossed Van Hulle’s face. ‘Believe me, Mr Harper. You would not understand.’ He paused for a moment, considering. ‘I know your type. Your life is based on questions, not faith. Without faith, you will not understand. And without faith there is no belief.’

‘And this…’ Harper gestured with his head… ‘is your work?’

Again the eyes closed for a moment. ‘It is.’

‘But who do you work for?’

A dreamy expression crossed Van Hulle’s face and he smiled. ‘I work for…’

This time Harper was ready. He pushed himself sideways and rolled over, away from the edge of the channel. Scrambling to his feet, he moved in an arc and turned. Van Hulle had already spun round and stepped forward to intercept him. But now it was the Dutchman who was closest to the water and, rather than avoiding his attacker, Harper rushed straight at him, driving all his weight and momentum at Van Hulle.

The look of anger on Van Hulle’s face was transformed to one of surprise and then fear as he felt himself falling back towards the void.