Off the Rails

∨ Off the Rails ∧

31

Into the Tunnels

May was sceptical about the idea, but Bryant would not be dissuaded. The pair would personally search the tunnels for any sign that Matthew Hillingdon had been abducted.

This time Raymond Land had insisted they do everything by the book. Before photo passes could be issued along with their Personal Protection Equipment, the two detectives had been required to sign a liability register and read the Health & Safety regulations, which covered everything from the danger of discarded syringes to Weil’s disease in rats, and the risk of being bitten by the tube system’s unique breed of mosquito.

Now, dressed in lemon yellow reflective vests, goggles and steel-capped workboots, the pair waited at the bottom of the King’s Cross escalators for their guide. It was one A.M., and the tube lines were closed for the night. An army of maintenance personnel had moved in to replace tiles, remove fire hazards, renovate paintwork, fix water damage and rewire cable boxes. They had just four hours to get everything done: All adhesives, paints and cements had to be touch-dry before they left, all equipment repacked and stored away.

“I’m Larry, your Site Person for the evening,” said Larry Hale. He solemnly shook each of their hands in turn. Their guide was a barrel-chested black man in his late forties with pugnacious features and gold ear studs. “We’ve only got a couple of lads repairing some lights down here tonight, so you won’t be in anyone’s way. I say lads, but there’s more women than you’d expect.”

“How many workers are there on a team?” asked May as they walked toward the platform.

“Depends on the size of the job. We had nearly two hundred at Piccadilly Circus for the refit,” Hale told them. “When we add electronics, the new systems run in tandem with the old ones for two weeks, to iron out bugs.”

“And I’ve heard there are second sets of tunnels, too,” said Bryant, “built for emergencies on sensitive sections of the line.”

“Don’t know anything about that,” said Hale, and Bryant sensed he had stumbled upon an area of secure information. “There’s storage behind here, but that’s not ours.” He indicated a rampart of blue-painted plywood. “Licenced by the London Fire Brigade. There are other control and server rooms down here, as well as the giant vents. You’re looking for a place a lad could hide, yes?”

“Or somewhere he might have fallen,” said Bryant.

Hale nodded. “There are a lot of dead areas in the system,” he said. “Whenever platforms get rebuilt, the old layouts get left behind. The dead tunnels are capped but not filled in. The old City & South London Line’s still there, and parts of the Northern Line that fell out of use, plus there are all the connecting staircases. Many have got access doors but we keep them locked, so he wouldn’t have been able to get in. Mind you, even I don’t know where all the accesses are, and I’ve been down here seventeen years. My missus says I spend more time here than at home. You’ll have to keep your eyes peeled.”

“Does the air ever get to you?” asked Bryant.

“It’s no worse than what’s up on the surface,” Hale replied. “There’s a story going around that the air down here can cure anorexia, but I don’t believe that. There used to be plants pumping ozone into the system, but it didn’t seem to make much difference in the smell.”

Resculpted in scaffolding and blue plastic sheeting, the platform looked very different now. “What’s all the chicken wire for?” asked May, pointing to the metal meshes that ran along the platform roof.

“We can’t take all the panels off every night when we’re installing electrics, so some of these are ongoing repairs. Don’t worry, nobody could get behind them. Okay, the power’s off now. It’s safe to come down onto the tracks.” Hale dropped below the platform edge, then helped Bryant down. “Don’t panic if you hear what sounds like an approaching train. It’s just the wind in the tunnels.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Our biggest problems are caused by trespassers, idiots who’ve decided to do a bit of potholing, as if they’re exploring some kind of urban cave system. They try to get in from the so-called ‘ghost stations’ like Aldwych. There are a couple of dozen disused stations, and many more abandoned ones. Security’s a big issue these days, of course. Your lad, what was he doing down here?”

“Catching a train, so we thought,” said May.

“Well, he wasn’t a jumper. We’d have found his remains by now. I’ve seen a few fried on the third rail and it’s a sight you don’t forget. Keep your eyes on your feet – there are a few transverse cables here.”

They were moving out of the light now, into the gloom of the tunnel. The smell was different here, both sharp and musty, with a hint of electrical ozone.

“The section to the southeast of the main station was closed off when the old Thameslink terminal shut,” Hale told them over his shoulder, “but the disused platforms and the tunnel network can’t be bricked up because we still need drainage access.”

It had grown surprisingly warm. May loosened his collar. “Are you all right, Arthur?” he called. He had noticed that his partner was lagging behind.

“Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I was just watching a family of mice trying to drag a fried chicken leg home.” Bryant caught up with them, his overcoat flapping in a sudden rogue breeze from the tunnel.

“We’re now entering the closed-off part,” Hale told them. “Not too many lights down here, I’m afraid. The power’s off, so it’s best to switch your flashlights on.”

May was carrying his Valiant, the old cinema flashlight he had used for years on investigations. The curving walls were crusted with necklaces of soot. Fibrous brown matter like carpet fluff coated the floor. “Skin flakes,” said May. “Dan would have a field day down here.”

They had passed beyond the territory of the cleaners. Hale led them between a set of flimsy red-and-white plastic barriers, into the connecting tunnel that linked the two stations.

“I haven’t been along here since the station was shut,” Hale admitted. “You can’t cover everything.”

“When you think about it,” said Bryant, “there’s a strong link between the LU network and civil defence facilities. Didn’t part of the Piccadilly Line become secure accommodation for the electricity board during the sixties?”

“That’s right. The old Brompton Road station was the Royal Artillery’s Anti-Aircraft Operations Room, and part of the Central Line was turned into a sterile production unit for aircraft during the war. Safe from the bombs, see. That’s why the National Gallery stored its paintings in the tube during the Blitz.”

The darkness was almost complete now, and oppressive. A smell of burnt dust filled the air. May was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Bryant seemed entirely in his element.

“Wait.” May’s flashlight illuminated Hale’s raised hand. “I heard something.” They came to a halt and listened. Beneath the faint susurrance of the tunnel wind they heard a snuffling, shuffling sound. “There.” Hale pointed. The detectives converged their light beams.

Ahead, at the point where the tunnel broadened out into the edge of the closed station, they saw a bundle of rags shift inside walls of dirty brown cardboard.

Hale moved in and knelt down. “Come on out,” he called firmly. “Let’s have a look at you.”

A tousled head appeared above the box. The boy was in his late teens, wrapped in a blue nylon hooded jacket several sizes too large for him. He peered blearily at the trio, waiting to be given grief.

“It’s okay, we’re not here to turn you out,” said Bryant.

“We bloody are,” insisted Hale.

“I just want to ask you a question,” Bryant said, ignoring him. “Did you see a young man down here on Tuesday night, shortly after midnight?”

“No.”

“You were here then?”

“Yes.”

“Think hard. Are you sure there was no-one else?”

“I don’t know, we hear a noise.” The boy had a strong Eastern European accent.

“How many of you are there down here?” asked Hale. “You know you’re not supposed to be in this part of the station.”

“What did you hear?” Bryant asked.

“I don’t know – somebody fall down. We hear him shout.”

“Can you tell us where?”

A second head appeared beside the boy, a girl who was equally sleepy. “Over there.” She pointed off into the dark.

“What’s down there?” asked Bryant.

“It’s a short service tunnel. We used to store cleaning equipment there until Health & Safety made us move it,” Hale explained. Turning back to the sleepers, he said, “I’m afraid you two can’t stay here.”

“We only stay one week, no more,” pleaded the boy. “We have job cleaning buildings in London, near – ” He consulted the other. “Where is it we must go?”

“Aberdeen,” said the girl hopefully.

“I’ll leave you to sort this out,” Bryant suggested. “John. Come with me.”

“Don’t go far,” Hale called after them. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

The detectives carefully made their way along the track. “Why would Hillingdon have come along here?” asked May, not happy about wandering off into the darkness.

“We’re still not far from the main Piccadilly Line platform,” Bryant answered. “I bet it’s not more than a few hundred yards. It just seems further because you’re dawdling.”

“This is a wild-goose chase, Arthur. If he’d suffered some kind of petit mal, or was simply in a state of intoxicated confusion, he’d have gone up, not down.”

“Not if he was physically too weak to climb the stairs. What’s that over there?” Bryant pointed ahead.

“You can barely see in daylight, I don’t know how you can spot anything down here,” May complained, but he went to look. The green plastic bin was the size of a man and missing its lid. It lay on its side between the tracks. As he approached, Bryant shone his torch inside.

It was hardly surprising that no-one had discovered the body. Matthew Hillingdon was curled up within, as if, in pain and desperation, he had sought the warmth and solace of an artificial womb.