Dead Man's Grip

111

It wasn’t until they reached the top of the ladder that Grace and Branson were able to get any radio or phone signal. Grace immediately called Trevor Barnes, the Silver Commander, who was at his desk in Sussex House.

The two detectives sprinted up the stone steps and out into the fresh wind and rain, sweating profusely, grateful for the cooling air. Above them they heard the clatter of the helicopter swooping low over the harbour basin, the dazzling bright pool of its searchlight illuminating a wide radius of the choppy water.

Moments later Barnes radioed back that he’d checked with the Harbour Master and the only vessel scheduled to leave the harbour, via the large lock, was the dredger the Arco Dee. It had already left its berth and was heading along the canal towards the lock.

‘I’ve been on that ship,’ Grace shouted at Branson, above the noise of the helicopter and the howling of the wind. ‘There’s any number of ways he could kill that kid on it.’ Then he radioed to the Silver Commander. ‘Trevor, get it boarded and searched while it’s in the lock.’

For some moments Grace stood still, following the beam of light as it crossed the massive superstructure of Shoreham Power Station. The building had a dog-leg construction, with the first section, which had a flat roof, about sixty feet high, and then the main section about 100 feet high. At the western end was the solitary chimney stack, rising 200 feet into the sky. Suddenly, as the beam traversed it, he thought he saw something move on the flat roof.

Instantly he radioed the Controller. ‘Patch me through to Hotel 900.’

Moments later, through a crackling connection, he was speaking to the helicopter spotter. ‘Go back round. Light up the power station roof again,’ he shouted.

Both detectives waited as the helicopter turned in a wide arc. The beam struck the chimney first and the ladder that went all the way up it. Then the flat roof of the first section. They could see a figure scurrying across it, then ducking down behind a vent.

‘Keep circling,’ he instructed. ‘There’s someone up there!’ He turned to Branson. ‘I know the quick way there!’

They ran over to the car and jumped in. Grace switched on the blues and twos and raced out into the road.

‘Call Silver,’ he said. ‘Get all available units to the power station.’

A quarter of a mile on he braked hard and swung left, in front of the Port Authority building, then sped down the slip road beside it, until they reached a barrier of tall steel spikes. The sign ahead of them, fixed to the spikes, read:

SHOREHAM PORT AUTHORITY

NO UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS

PUBLIC ROUTE ACROSS LOCKS

Abandoning the car, they ran along the walkway, which was bounded on each side by a high railing. Grace flashed his torch beam ahead of them. To their right now he could see, brightly illuminated by a bank of floodlights on a tower, the harbour’s two locks, a small one for fishing boats and yachts, the other, much larger, for tankers, dredgers and container ships.

A long quay separated the locks, in the middle of which was a substantial building housing the control room. On its wall, beneath the windows, was a vertical traffic light, with three red signals showing.

He briefly clocked a warning sign on the entrance gate to this quay, forbidding unauthorized people to enter. The gate had no lock on it, he observed, but his focus was to his left, to the massive superstructure of the power station, partially lit by the helicopter’s beam. He ran on, followed by a puffing Branson, stepping over metal slats and then past more red warning lights at the start of the curved walkway over the main lock gates. A sign cautioned against entering when the red lights were flashing and the siren was sounding.

When he reached the join in the middle, between the two halves of the ancient, massive wooden lock gates, he turned and looked at the power station again. What the hell was he doing up there, if it was the suspect? For sure it would be a terrific vantage point, but for what? Did he have the boy up there with him?

They ran on, around the curve of the other half of the lock gates and on to the quay, then sprinted towards the power station. Ahead Grace saw a stack of pallets against the tall spikes of the power station’s perimeter fence.

‘Wait here,’ he said to Branson, then scrambled up the pallets.

Having clambered over the top of the spikes, he dropped down ten feet or so to the other side. He landed with a painful jolt and allowed himself to fall forward, trying to roll to break his fall, but instead hit the ground chest first and lay there winded.

Above, the helicopter clattered, the beam passing momentarily over him, illuminating the steel ladder up the side of the power station superstructure.

He ran to it and began to clamber up, as fast as he could, the wind pulling at him as he climbed higher and higher. This is sodding crazy, he thought. But he climbed on, gripping each rung tightly, clinging to it, the rain lashing him while the wind pulled at him harder and harder, as if it was on a mission to dislodge him. Suddenly he heard a terrible, pitiful crying sound, like a woman in distress, and a huge black shape swooped out of the darkness at him.

He turned his head instinctively and saw the lights of the harbour, and the city beyond, miles beneath him. The wind ripped at him even harder. The black creature was swooping, flapping, crying again. The peregrine falcons, he suddenly remembered, that were in a nesting box on the power station wall – some damned ecological deal that had been made when the place was built.

The bird swooped again.

Great! I’ve survived twenty years as a copper and now I’m going to be killed by a sodding protected bird.

He clung to the rung, vertigo suddenly hitting him.

Don’t let go. Hang on. Hang on. Remember rule one of ladders. Always keep three limbs on and you can’t fall off.

With his fourth limb, his right arm, he swiped at the air, not caring at this moment how much damage he did to a protected bird of prey. Then he climbed on, the wind stronger still.

The bird seemed to have taken the hint and vanished back into the night.

Finally, he was at the top. He hauled himself over, on to the asphalt roof, and crawled forward on his knees until he was safely away from the edge. He then stopped and crouched down, trying to get his breath back. His heart felt like it was about to explode as he looked around in the darkness. Moments later he heard the sound of the helicopter and the beam momentarily turned the entire roof, and the wall of the next stage of the superstructure, into daylight.

Then he saw the camera.

It was directly in front of him, on a squat metal tripod, the telephoto lens aimed down.

He looked beyond it, for a brief instant, for the figure he had seen earlier, but there was no sign of the man. As the helicopter beam moved away, he ran to the camera, a complex-looking affair, found the viewfinder and squinted through it.

Oh shit. Oh no. Oh no.

In eerie green night vision, in a tight close-up, he could see Tyler Chase. The boy was suspended across the middle of the lock gates, several feet below the top, his feet inches above the surface of the water. His arms were outstretched, his hands strapped to the left and right gates. A tiny flashing light indicated the camera was running in recording or transmitting mode.

And now to his horror he realized what that tide chart had been all about.

He tried to raise Glenn on his radio but the channel was busy. Frustrated, he tried again. At the third attempt, with the helicopter right overhead, he heard his colleague’s voice.

‘Glenn!’ he shouted. ‘Stop the lock gates from opening! For Christ’s sake stop them! They’re going to kill the boy! They’re going to tear him in half!’

The din of the helicopter and wind and the rain, which was now pelting down, was deafening.

‘Say that again?’ Branson said. ‘Can’t hear you, boss.’

‘STOP THE FUCKING LOCK GATES FROM OPENING!’ Grace screamed.

Then a blow on the back of his head sent him crashing to the ground.

He dimly heard a crackle, then a voice from his radio saying, ‘Did you say stop the lock gates?’

He tried to stand up, and fell over, sideways. He lay there, feeling like he was going to throw up. Ahead, he saw a figure scramble over the lip of the roof and disappear. In the light beam of the helicopter hovering overhead again, he stared at the camera. In fury he rolled over towards it, into the base of the tripod, and sent it crashing over. He tried to stand again, but his legs gave way. In desperation he hauled himself on to his hands and knees, looking around for his radio, but it had vanished.

He tried to stand again, but this time the wind blew him over. No, no, no. He got up again, virtually oblivious to the splitting pain in his head, and staggered across the roof. He grabbed the top rung of the ladder, then made the mistake of looking down.

The whole world spun 360 degrees.

He had to do it. Had to. Had to. Gripping the top ladder posts, he swung his legs over the roof. The wind tried to push him over, backwards.

Don’t look down.

He thought for an instant of Cleo. Of their unborn child. Of their life ahead. And of how, in the next few moments, he might plunge to his death. Was this worth it?

Then he thought of the image of the boy, suspended by his arms from the lock gates. Anything that might save his life was worth it.

Half climbing, half sliding, he descended as fast as he could. Looking ahead all the time, never down. He still had his gloves on, he realized, and they protected his hands for a few seconds until the ladder cut through them, burning into his hands as he slid.

Then his feet hit the bottom and he tumbled over on to his back. He scrambled to his feet. Over to his right he could see the light on the bow of the Arco Dee dredger slipping steadily past the end of the power station. He saw red lights on the lock ahead, starting to flash.

No. No. No.

He ran to the steel fence and realized, to his frustration, that he was trapped in here. It had been OK coming in, over the pallets, but it wasn’t so easy to get back again. There was nothing to give him a leg-up now.

‘Glenn!’ he screamed, having no idea where his friend might be at this moment. ‘Glenn!’

‘I’m here, boss!’ he shouted back, from – to Grace’s immense relief – the other side of the fence.

‘Give me a hand out of here!’

Moments later, Glenn was leaning over the top of the fence. Grace grabbed his strong hand and was hoisted up. He scrambled over the top and on to the tarpaulin over the first pallet. As he jumped down on the ground, the front of the dredger was drawing level with them.

‘Is anyone at the lock gate?’ Grace yelled.

Branson shook his head.

‘We have to stop it opening!’

Grace broke into a sprint, with Branson alongside him. As they ran, Grace could hear a cacophony of police sirens approaching. They raced down the quay and reached the entrance to the gate. Red lights were flashing and a klaxon was sounding loudly. As Grace stepped on to the lock walkway, he felt it vibrating. He continued running, the gate juddering harder and harder beneath him. Then he reached the join.

Suddenly the vibration stopped. The gates had paused. He looked down and saw the boy beneath him. The helicopter was right overhead, Tyler clearly illuminated like some grotesque crucifixion figurine, water swirling wildly beneath him. He was about to be torn in half at any second.

‘Stop the fucking gates!’ Grace screamed at Branson, as he clambered over the top of the gate. He could see one end of the rope, tied around a wooden peg just below the top and frantically pulled at it.

A wild froth of water was building up beneath him. The gates juddered, the gap widening, inch by inch.

Branson ran on, over to the far side, the gate juddering more and more. He threw himself over the metal plates, pushed open the unlocked gate and then ran towards the control room. As he did so, he suddenly felt something wrap around his legs and he hurtled, face down, to the ground.

Roy Grace tugged again at the rope, which was getting tighter by the second. He could hear, above the roar of the helicopter and the wind and the rain and the klaxon, a muffled crying sound. Suddenly, an instant before the gates opened wider, the rope fell free.

The boy dropped down into the water and disappeared with a splash, as the gates parted, one of them swinging steadily away, out of sight to the left.

Grace dived into the mad, thrashing cold water. Bubbles exploded all around him. It was ten times colder than he had imagined. He burst back up to the surface, gulping air. In front of him, towering above him like a skyscraper, he saw the bow of the dredger, less than a couple of hundred yards away. He tried to swim, but the undertow dragged him back down. When he surfaced again, he was choking on vile oily water. He spat it out, then, despite the weight of his clothes, he swam with all his strength across the width of the lock, to the far side, where he saw a rope hanging straight down into the water from the gate.

He grabbed it and pulled, pulled as hard as he could, and after a few moments a deadweight surfaced. He cradled the boy’s head in his arms, trying with his wet, slippery hands to pull the tape free from his mouth.

They both went under, then came back up again, Grace coughing and spluttering.

‘You’re OK! You’re OK!’ he tried to reassure Tyler.

Then they went under again.

They surfaced again. The dredger seemed to have stopped. They were bathed in a pool of light from the helicopter. The boy was thrashing, in wild panic. Grace struggled, kicking with his feet, trying to get a purchase on the weeds and at the same time hold the boy. He was shivering. He gripped a handful of weed and it held. The boy’s head went under. He brought it back up again, then he clung on to the boy and the weed as hard as he could, his hand almost numb with cold.

Glenn Branson rolled over and saw a small man running towards the door of the control room. He scrambled to his feet, lunged after him and grabbed him just at he was pulling the door open.

The man turned and punched him in the face, then ran off down the dock.

The wrong way, Branson realized, dazed, but not so badly he couldn’t think straight. He stumbled after him, then blocked his path as the man tried to zigzag back past him, forcing him close to the edge of the quay. The man tried a feint, to dodge round him, but Branson grabbed him. The man aimed a punch at his face. Branson, who had trained in self-defence in his former life as a nightclub bouncer, dodged the blow and swung his leg round in a classic kick-boxing manoeuvre, deadening the man’s right leg. As he fell, Branson slammed a punch into the man’s left kidney. He hadn’t realized they were so close to the edge of the dock. The man plunged backwards, over the edge, and vanished under the surface of the maelstrom of water.

The helicopter beam momentarily swept over them. The man had disappeared.

Then he heard a voice shouting, ‘Hey! Someone! Glenn! Where the hell are you? Someone get us out of here! Come on! It’s sodding freezing!’