Drowned Lives

53

Every time a boat passes through a lock, thirty thousand gallons of water go with it, descending from the summit level, lock by lock, until they reach the end of the canal and flow into a river. The water in the summit pound is kept up to its level by a reservoir. Without that reservoir, the waterway would run dry with the continued passage of boats.

In my mind, that reservoir is a bit like the genetic memory that Great-Uncle Samuel thought he’d discovered. The water is released one surge at a time, flowing imperceptibly through the miles, just as a blood line passes from generation to generation of a family. But there’s no way to call on the whole reservoir at once. And there’s no way to grasp the entire thoughts and memories of your ancestors, to understand what drove them, what they desired or feared. The system hasn’t been designed that way.

I always said I’d never look back. But, in a way, my life had ceased to be a series of random, unconnected trivialities. I was starting to see myself as part of an unbroken strand, an individual segment of a coherent whole that stretched over the centuries and had its own unique significance. I’d begun to believe there was a meaning for everything, after all.

William and Josiah Buckley had both died close to that spot at Fosseway Wharf. Their lives had been cruelly taken from them, their place in the flow cut violently short. I’d seen in my nightmares the way they both met their deaths. I’d felt their fear, as real as if it were my own. The fate of my ancestors was inextricably linked to mine.

But I’d vowed to avenge their deaths, not to allow myself to die in the same way. I hadn’t come all this way to suffocate in three feet of mud. I was the last Buckley, the end of the line, and I carried the weight of expectation of all those generations who’d gone before me. When history’s boot is in your face, the only thing to do is fight back.

I can’t pretend all these thoughts went through my mind as I wallowed in the canal basin watching Andrew Hadfield manoeuvre the excavator bucket into a killing position. There was really no thinking involved. It was more like a great surge of defiance, a furious rejection of the prospect of death that sent new strength rushing through my body and pulled my limbs free from the clinging mud at last.

My foot found a fallen lump of brickwork. I kicked out against it, and suddenly I was free and moving. It felt as though unseen hands had reached out to pluck me from the morass and set me on my feet.

I didn’t waste any more time. With my muscles straining and my breath coming in painful gasps, I thrashed across the sea of mud, feeling fresh rain starting to fall on my sweat-soaked face and wash away the caked muck. I thought I heard a curse from the direction of the excavator cab, then a grinding of gears as the machine began to turn.

I plunged along below the wharf side, feeling the ground get firmer and firmer underfoot. I realised there was more and more fallen rubble in the bottom of the basin the further I went towards the end of the wharf. The brickwork was powdery and disintegrating, broken down and ruined by the passage of time. Looking over my shoulder, I saw my advantage of surprise was rapidly being lost as the excavator kept pace with me on the wharf above.

My burst of energy was already failing me when I saw a brick pier jutting out into the basin from the darkness. The top looked indistinguishable from the rest of the wharf, but from below I could see the brickwork was decayed so much it was on the point of collapse. The packed earth supporting the masonry was bursting through bulging walls. The pier looked as though it could fall at any moment, perhaps as soon as I touched it.

I staggered my way to the end of the pier, and finally the energy drained from me completely. I watched in desperate hope as Andrew stopped and twisted the wheel to send the excavator trundling towards me. The tracks of the machine got only halfway along the pier before the ground began to give way.

For a moment, Andrew didn’t seem to notice the danger. His attention was distracted by a running figure that came from the direction of the old warehouse and leaped onto the back of the excavator, shouting and gesticulating. I realised it was Simon Monks, arriving on the scene at last. Having pursued me into Andrew’s trap, he was now attempting to avert the disaster that he and I could see, but Andrew Hadfield couldn’t.

But Monks was too late. In the next moment, the walls of the pier disintegrated and the excavator tipped precariously. Earth showered into the basin, and I threw my hands over my head to protect myself against the cascade of broken bricks that followed. The giant machine sank with a jolt as the ground subsided beneath it. I could hear the engine whining and the tracks spinning uselessly until the excavator began to topple, the weight of the debris in its bucket throwing it sideways off the derelict pier.

I saw a single figure hurl itself clear before the machine lurched one last time and fell ten feet into the basin. The excavator rolled over onto the roof of its cab and landed in an explosion of metal and splintered brick.

For a few seconds the engine continued to churn and the tracks attempted to grip the shattered side of the pier, driving the excavator further into the mud as lethal fragments rained down on the basin.

Then the engine choked and stopped. And a strange silence fell on Fosseway Wharf.

I seemed to be making a habit of coming round to find myself in even worse situations than I escaped from. When I awoke, it was to find Simon Monks standing over me. He was staring at me with a calculating look, like a butcher trying to decide which knife to use to dispatch his victim.

I began to panic again, thrashing my arms and tossing my head from side to side to see where I was and what was holding me down. Bafflingly, I realised after a moment that I was surrounded by plain white walls and constrained only by bedclothes. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard a voice I knew.

‘It’s all right, sir. You’re quite safe.’

The face was too close for me to focus on it at first, then I recognised Detective Sergeant Graham. I grabbed at his arm and pointed wildly at Monks.

‘It’s him!’ I shouted. ‘Him! Keep him away from me!’

‘Now, calm down, sir,’ said DS Graham. ‘You’re getting a bit hysterical. You’ve had an unpleasant experience.’

‘Unpleasant? He and his friends tried to kill me!’

‘I don’t think you quite know what you’re saying, sir.’

Graham looked worried, embarrassed and puzzled. Monks continued to stare at me contemptuously, a sneer lingering around the corners of his mouth. I couldn’t understand what he was doing in my hospital room after what had happened at Fosseway Wharf.

‘Why isn’t he under arrest? He’s the man who killed Godfrey Wheeldon. He tried to kill me, too. I can give you all the evidence you need.’

Finally, Monks had heard enough. He spoke to the bemused Graham.

‘See that Mr Buckley understands the situation, sergeant.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I gaped at Monks as he leaned closer to me.

‘Just one thing,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I gather Caroline told you she was the one who pulled the funding for your internet business.’

‘Yes, the dot-com start-up.’

‘Well, it wasn’t her. It was Samuel himself.’

I would have shaken my head if it didn’t hurt so much. What he was saying didn’t make sense.

‘Why would she lie to me?’

‘Because,’ said Monks, ‘Caroline didn’t want you to think badly of him. What you think of her, she doesn’t mind. But she felt protective about her father, and of his reputation. It meant a lot to her what memory people took away of him, so she told you that untruth.’ His rugged face softened for the first time. ‘That’s what she’s like, you see.’

Not for the first time since I’d met Monks, I didn’t believe a thing he was saying. The word ‘liar’ was creeping towards my lips, but I couldn’t articulate it. Instead, I croaked something incoherent. He smiled as if I’d complimented him.

To my relief, I watched him go out of the door. Then I looked at Graham for an explanation. He laughed out loud when he saw my face.

‘You seem to have been upsetting Inspector Monks,’ he said. ‘Now, that’s not a good idea.’

Graham’s explanation left me with more questions than it did answers. He referred to ‘information’ the police had been given by a witness to the hit and run that killed Samuel Longden. The investigation that followed included surveillance of a possible suspect, by the name of Andrew Hadfield. The police had been preparing to move in and make an arrest, but when he slipped out of his house one night, they lost him. They’d been watching for his distinctive Jaguar XJS, but had only discovered it much later in the car park at The Friary. They hadn’t been expecting him to be travelling in my old Escort.

But then there had been a phone call from a person Graham referred to as ‘the lady who is your neighbour’, who’d asked for him by name and informed him that I’d gone to Fosseway with Hadfield, and that she believed I was in danger.

‘She was quite right,’ said DS Graham. ‘Obviously.’

‘It sounds as though everybody was right, except me.’

Graham grinned, a small, conspiratorial grin. ‘Did you really suspect that Detective Inspector Monks was the man who killed Samuel Longden?’

‘Yes. And Godfrey Wheeldon too. And that it was him who tried to kill me in the boat fire.’

‘All those were Hadfield. He’d been keeping a pretty close eye on what you were up to, and decided you were becoming too much of a threat. On the other hand, Mr Monks was the man who saved your life at Fosseway tonight.’

I frowned, cudgelling my brain to remember the details of the night. Some of them I didn’t want to remember. But it seemed to me that it was Andrew Hadfield’s life that Monks had been trying to save, not mine — and that I had, in fact, saved my own life.

‘But how did Rachel know to phone you?’

‘You’ve got Frank Chaplin to thank for that,’ said another voice.

I lifted my head and saw Rachel standing in the doorway, clutching a ridiculous bunch of daffodils and a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray. What on earth had made her imagine I liked flowers and chocolates? I thought of making a caustic remark, then swallowed it for fear that she might go away. At that moment, I didn’t want her to leave.

‘I’ll let you two be alone for a bit,’ said Graham. ‘We’ll have to talk to you again later, Mr Buckley, when you’re feeling up to it.’

He slipped away discreetly, as if we were two lovers, and Rachel came to sit on the side of my bed. She took my hand, and a curious tingle went through my fingers. ‘Hello, number six.’

‘Morning, number four.’

‘My God, you were a mess when they pulled you out of that wharf, Chris. Nobody could have recognised you under all the mud.’

‘Perhaps that would be an improvement,’ I said.

‘I don’t think so.’

I looked at Rachel for a moment, trying to remember all the things I wanted to say to her. But only one thought came into my mind.

‘Hang on,’ I said, ‘you mentioned Frank Chaplin. Where does Frank come into all this?’

‘Frank told me where you’d gone. He was very worried, because he thought you were making a bad mistake.’

‘Don’t tell me that Frank had it all figured out before I did, too.’

Rachel nodded. ‘He said he tried to tell you it was Andrew Hadfield he’d recognised at Fosseway, not Leo Parker. It was Hadfield who went looking for him at the bowls club. But Frank realised from the way you spoke about Hadfield that you’d got it all wrong. He didn’t know what else to do, so he came next door and told me where you’d gone. I phoned Detective Sergeant Graham, and he seemed to know exactly what I was talking about. The police reacted pretty quickly.’

‘It almost wasn’t quick enough,’ I said petulantly.

‘You didn’t come out of it too badly. Hadfield has two crushed legs.’

‘But why did he do all this?’

‘He’s not saying anything, apparently. But Inspector Monks and Sergeant Graham will work it all out, I dare say. One thing they did tell me is that Hadfield is Leo Parker’s nephew, the son of his sister Eleanor.’

‘I’ve seen her,’ I said.

‘Well, it seems she’s going to marry Lindley Simpson, the MP.’

‘Jesus, this is making my head hurt.’

‘The Parkers did very well for themselves, didn’t they? But you were threatening to bring it all down. You and your blessed Great-Uncle Samuel. So Hadfield set about finishing the Buckleys off completely.’

‘I never trusted him anyway, not really.’

Rachel laughed. ‘I know you didn’t. But you men — you don’t listen to what your hearts are telling you.’

And then I had to ask her the thing I needed to know most. ‘What about Laura?’

She smiled, and her fingertips moved in my palm. ‘I’ll let her talk to you for herself. She’s here, waiting to see you. She has something to explain.’

I groaned. ‘Not more explanations. I can’t stand it.’

And then she came in, the woman calling herself Laura Jenner. She carried no flowers and no chocolates, not even a bunch of grapes. And she spared no time beating about the bush.

‘My name isn’t Laura Jenner, of course,’ she said.

‘I know. You’re a Parker.’

She laughed bitterly. ‘Not at all. I’m Karen Mills.’

In my woozy state, the name didn’t click at first. I knew I’d heard it before, but couldn’t place it.

‘I was Samuel Longden’s secretary,’ she said. ‘His personal assistant.’

Karen Mills? Who had mentioned that name first? Frank Chaplin? Or had it been Leo Parker? Then I remembered how it fitted.

‘You were in the car with Alison when she was killed.’

She nodded. ‘I was driving, in fact. Alison was going shopping in Birmingham, spending Samuel’s money, but she didn’t like taking the train. She used me as a chauffeur sometimes. I didn’t enjoy that very much, but Samuel was always pleased when we were together, and he was paying me well. So I was driving her car that morning, a sporty Toyota that Samuel bought her. Ridiculous, really — she was fifty years old by then, you know. But Samuel still thought of her as his young bride.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, Alison was a bit frightened of the car, and wanted me to drive her. We were on the A38, the dual carriageway stretch between the A5 roundabout and Moneymore. I suppose I might have been going too fast, but it was the lorry veering across the central reservation that caused the crash. The car turned over when we hit it. Alison was killed instantly. But it took them about two hours to cut me out of the wreckage.’

‘At least you survived.’

‘Oh, I survived. With two broken arms and broken ribs and lacerations on my body from the shattered glass. And this.’ She flicked back her black hair to show the scar on her forehead. ‘But there were also internal injuries.’

‘So why did you stay in Lichfield?’

She shrugged. ‘I was still working for Samuel. He took me back on after I recovered. But he began to use me more as a researcher than a secretary. I had less and less to do with his business affairs, and I got more and more involved with his other interests. You can guess what I was researching for him, I suppose.’

‘The Buckley family.’

‘The Buckleys and the Parkers, yes. As well as the family history, Samuel particularly wanted to keep an eye on Leo Parker. But he also kept track of what you were doing, Chris. I was the one who found out about the dot-com venture, by talking to Dan Hyde when we identified him as your friend.’

‘Some friend.’ I was gradually focusing on what she was telling me. Was she the one person who could give me the answer to a question that had been perplexing me? ‘Samuel must have been tormented by the accident that killed Alison. He got a strange idea in his mind, from what I hear.’

‘What idea was that?’ she said.

‘He told Leo Parker that Alison was pregnant when she died. That she was carrying his son. But, as you said, she was fifty years old.’

Karen Mills shook her head and looked away. ‘No, you’ve got it wrong.’

‘But that’s what he told Frank, too.’

‘Frank Chaplin misunderstood. Of course Alison wasn’t pregnant.’ She paused. ‘But I was.’

‘You?’

Her manner was cooler and more distant now. I couldn’t see how I’d ever found her attractive. She told me the facts without passion, as if they referred to somebody else entirely.

‘Yes, I was six months gone at the time of the crash. There were no air bags on Alison’s car, and thanks to the impact of the steering wheel I wasn’t pregnant any more by the time they got me to hospital.’

‘The internal injuries.’

‘Exactly. A ruptured uterus, among other things. My unborn baby died in that car.’

There seemed to be little to say that would sound sympathetic. Not that she gave the impression of wanting sympathy.

‘But I still don’t understand,’ I said. ‘I might have got that part wrong. But Samuel specifically claimed it was his son who died in that crash on the A38.’

She nodded, her lips held in a tight line, and she began to gather herself ready to leave. I watched her movements, willing her to answer the final question that I didn’t want to ask. Samuel had been an old man already at the time of the crash, while Karen Mills had been no more than twenty-one.

‘As I told you,’ she said. ‘He was paying me very well.’