Flash Flood

Chapter Twenty-eight

Francisco reached Trafalgar Square. He entered at the top, by the columns of the National Gallery. The water lapped along the tarmac at the bottom edge. Nelson looked out sadly over the flood.

He walked past St Martin-in-the-Fields and saw the station on the other side of the road: Charing Cross.

But then he saw that the station was surrounded by water.

Still, water or not, he had to get in. At least that might mean he’d have the place to himself.

He crossed the road and got as close to the station as he could to assess the situation. The forecourt had an in-and-out drive, bounded by a set of iron railings. They would do.

He launched himself into the water. The current swept him along with surprising power, but Francisco had calculated well. He grabbed the railings. The current tried to pull him away and the tyre iron clipped to his belt dragged him down, but he clung on.

Without letting go, he put his feet down. The water was nearly up to his waist. Holding onto the railings, he began to work his way along. Each step he took, he felt with his feet first. He knew there could be dangers lurking in the water. He felt the smooth pavement under his feet change to the cobbles of the forecourt. He reached the end of the railings, where the exit to the forecourt was.

The station entrance was opposite him now, a series of arches about twenty metres away. It would be good if he could let go and the current could swoosh him through one of those arches like a football into a goal. But judging by the wrappers and rubbish swirling past him, it was running out into Trafalgar Square. If he tried to wade or swim, he would be swept away too.

However, at the end of the forecourt he spotted some cars smashed up against a row of shops, piled up as if in a junkyard. He could use those as handholds.

Francisco reached out for a car on its back like an upturned beetle. His hands caught the filthy underside of its exhaust. It took his weight and he swung onto it, like Tarzan. The exhaust pipe ran up the entire underside of the car and he pulled himself along to the front bumper.

Next was a taxi, which had managed to remain upright. He used its wing mirror to reach the handle-bars of a Suzuki motorbike. Then he moved onto a police car: its open window provided a generous handhold. And then he was in the goalmouth.

It was also under water, but he felt smooth, level tiles under his feet. Within the station the current wasn’t so bad and Francisco stopped to get his breath back.

From that vantage point he took stock. First he checked to make sure there was no one else around. It had become a habit, from long years of doing things and trying to avoid being seen. Right now, though, it would have been good to see his partner José but there was no sign of him. He might as well get on.

Francisco waded over to the red metal left luggage lockers. They’d chosen one on the third rack — at the time this was because it was the least visible to CCTV cameras, but now — luckily it also meant that the contents wouldn’t be ruined.

Francisco’s keys had been confiscated by the police when he was arrested. But it didn’t matter; the tyre iron would do fine. He unhooked it from his belt and edged it into the gap beside the lock. It fitted perfectly.

He levered open the door and started to look through the contents. There was a rucksack and a couple of warm jackets. He threw off his Michelin top and let it float away while he put on one of the jackets from the locker. They were reversible: wear them one way round and they showed distinctive motor racing logos; the other side was a plain colour. That way, if they were spotted, the most likely thing that would be reported was the logo. All they had to do then was switch to the other side and they were incognito again.

The locker also contained a collection of Ordnance Survey maps. Francisco pulled out the ones for Berkshire and Oxfordshire and left the rest. Their best bet was to follow the Thames upstream and disappear into the countryside. He slipped the maps into plastic cases to protect them from the rain.

Next he found the first aid kit and a bottle of Evian water. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth, drank some, then pushed up the sleeves of his jacket and poured a little onto the wounds on his wrists where the handcuffs had been. They had been soaking in that filthy river water for ages and he didn’t want them to go septic. Scabs had begun to form, so he picked them off. It was painful but bleeding was the most natural way to get all the rubbish out of the wounds. He sluiced water over them again, took some antibiotic cream out of the first aid kit and smeared it on. Then he fastened the first aid kit again and put that in the rucksack.

There were other things to pack too. Francisco found the bars of Kendal mint cake, pulled the wrapper off one and ate it there and then. A couple of torches with spare batteries. Bolt cutters; two compasses. A sheath knife; a serrated knife. A Second World War knuckleduster knife — an unexpected find while shopping in an army surplus store in north London. It had a vicious steel blade about sixteen centimetres long, and a brass handle in the shape of a knuckleduster; it was a fearsome-looking weapon. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Now he was getting to the bottom of the locker and pulled out a small attaché case. The case itself was shielded with metal so that if the contents of the locker were x-rayed they wouldn’t show up. Francisco set the combination to the correct position and the lock sprang open. Inside was £1, 000 in cash in a waterproof zip bag, along with some credit cards and fake passports — and a Beretta 7.6mm pistol. The pistol had been bought with cash from a friend of a friend. Francisco lifted it out of its casing and snapped the ammunition clip into the grip with the heel of his hand.

‘Spare some change, guv’nor?’

Francisco whirled round, his heart thumping. A bedraggled-looking man with the corned-beef complexion of a down-and-out was standing looking at him, wearing the jacket he had discarded. He was also looking at the open locker with the gun case and the cash in the see-through bag.

You’ve seen too much, thought Francisco. He pulled the trigger And the shot echoed around the walls. Pigeons fluttered in the rafters.

The tramp collapsed immediately, face down in the water. He drifted towards Francisco, who nudged him away with his leg. Blood spread out in a cloud from under the white jacket.

Yes, the gun worked fine.