The Finisher

18

The terraced cottage was one of the eleven stone dwellings in De Montalt Place built in 1729 for the foreman and staff who had started serious quarrying in Combe Down. Originally they were the only dwellings. The entire village had grown up around them.

The man at the door couldn’t be as old as the cottage, but he was running it close. He must have cultivated the white beard since his youth.

He sounded confused. “You’re not the young lady I spoke to on the telephone a few minutes ago.”

Not a good start.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Diamond said. “That will have been Ingeborg, one of my team. I’m Peter Diamond.” Automatically he held out his hand and quickly drew it back. The old man needed both the walking sticks he was leaning on.

“Seymour Ramsay. Forgive me. She sounded so charming on the phone.”

“She is, most of the time.”

“You don’t mind dogs, I hope?”

On cue, there was a yap from inside.

“I’m used to them.”

“Come in, then, Mr. Diehard. We’ll talk in my living room.”

Seymour pushed open a door with one stick and revealed a room more like a museum than a living room. Where most people had ornaments, there were stonemasons’ tools and lamps. They were ranged along the mantelpiece and suspended from the beams. The walls were hung with geological maps and photos of groups of quarrymen. Picks, saws and crowbars filled the spaces above and below. Even the fire irons beside the slow-burning stove looked as if they would be more useful below ground.

Another yap — not enough to be called a bark — drew Diamond’s attention to a chair in the corner where a wire-haired fox terrier reclined on a plump cushion. Diamond went over and allowed the moist nose to inspect the back of his hand.

“He’s called Patch, for the obvious reason,” Seymour said. “He only moves when absolutely necessary because one of his forelegs is missing.”

Diamond winced.

“He moves better than I do,” Seymour added. “There’s a saying among vets: ‘Dogs have three legs and a spare.’ I understand you want some information about the quarries, Mr. Diehard.”

“Peter will do. In actual fact, the mines interest me more than the quarries.”

“Mines?” He sounded as if he’d never heard of them.

“The mines underneath us.”

“They’re all known as quarries here, above ground or below. Coffee or tea?”

It was hard to imagine how Seymour would manage a tray with hot drinks.

“Had one before I came, thanks. It’s about a missing person, a young woman from Bath who was in the half marathon on Saturday. She seems to have run off course and hasn’t been seen since.” All of which was true without going into suspicion of murder.

Seymour was still wanting to be hospitable. “Do sit down, Peter. Move Patch off the chair in the corner and bring it closer to where I sit by the fire.”

“He looks too comfortable.”

“He won’t mind. Put his cushion on the floor and he’ll know what to do.”

Tough, but it was this chair or squat on the floor. Fortunately, Patch seemed to have been through this indignity before. He hopped off, surprisingly sure-footed, waited for the cushion to be repositioned and settled on it without objection.

“Was the lady runner seen in Combe Down?” Seymour asked when Diamond was sitting facing him.

“Not to my knowledge. But it’s the obvious place to make for if she couldn’t face running through the old railway tunnel.”

“A panic attack?”

“Possibly.”

“But if she’d entered the race she must have known it included the tunnel.”

“She may have been put off by someone seen running with her, getting too familiar for comfort.”

“That sounds more likely. And you’re wondering if she is lost in one of the quarries. Is that it?”

“That’s exactly it. I know most of them were filled in some years ago.”

“There’s only one left in business.”

“Some abandoned workings outside the village weren’t given the treatment, isn’t that so?”

“They weren’t judged to be a danger to anybody’s property. I’ll show you on a map if you wish.” He pointed to one hanging on the wall. “Take it down and bring it over here.”

Diamond unhooked the framed map of Combe Down and handed it to Seymour. “I’m interested in any that lie to the southeast, above where the railway tunnel entrance is.”

“The obvious one would be Jackdaw.” His arthritic forefinger touched a point on the map. “The entrance was here, through an inclined shaft in Kingham Field. It was certainly one of the larger quarries because you can still see the grand arched portal opposite Lake Cottage, just off Summer Lane. The way in was blocked off years ago, before my time, with backfilled spoil, but it must have been a major source of stone. Some of it was used in the building of the railway tunnel.”

“Really?” Diamond leaned forward for a closer look.

“But the full extent of the Jackdaw workings is unknown. They must have been extensive. Back in the 1980s when some foundations were being laid near Monkton Combe Junior School, the workmen broke through to a tunnel believed to be part of the Jackdaw complex.”

“How far from the entrance is that?”

“More than a furlong.”

Diamond didn’t think in furlongs.

“About two hundred metres.”

He didn’t think in metres either, but he let that pass. “It also looks close to the disused railway. That’s the route the runners took.”

“Down in the valley. If your missing lady found her way into the Jackdaw workings she had some uphill running to do first.” There were no blind spots in Seymour’s thinking. He was visualising this.

“Agreed, but we found her running vest this morning in a field near Summer Lane. An underground quarry on that scale must have had some ventilation shafts.”

“Very likely.”

“Do you know of any uncovered ones?”

“For Jackdaw? No.” It was a negative, but there was some reserve in the old man’s tone.

Diamond waited.

“Most of them have been identified and covered or filled in, but there could be others. A shaft was discovered by accident only three years ago. It’s a bit of a mystery which quarry it belongs to. Possibly a previously undiscovered one.”

“Where’s this?”

“In the woods near Kingham Field. There was a quarry opened there in 1810 by William Smith, the father of English geology, but that one was short-lived and to the best of my knowledge was not below ground.”

“You said ‘discovered by accident’?”

“Literally so — and the accident was to an individual not a million miles from here. If Patch could talk, he’d give you his first-hand account.”

Hearing his name, the fox terrier lifted his head from the cushion and stared in their direction.

“He’s only here by adoption, you see,” Seymour said. “He belonged to a local lady, Miss Wayland, and in those days he had four legs and was taken for regular walks off the lead. He’d wait if he needed to cross a road. He’s very obedient. One afternoon in the woods above Tucking Mill, he caught sight of a fox and did what fox terriers are bred to do, chased it until it went to earth somewhere. In his excitement he’d left Joyce Wayland far behind. She was in her sixties and not all that agile, but she did all she could to find him, calling his name until her voice ran out, unfortunately with no result. He’d vanished.”

Patch still had his ears pricked as if he knew his story was being told.

“She returned home, expecting him to find his own way back. He didn’t. She spent a sleepless night worrying about him. Next morning she was dreading what she might discover, but she retraced her steps and still couldn’t find him. In the afternoon, others volunteered to help and eventually someone heard a faint whimpering from below ground. Patch had fallen through a small hole obscured by thick fronds of bracken and was unable to get out.”

“He’d found the quarry?”

“Yes. He was nine metres down and was helpless on the stone floor. He’d broken a foreleg, hadn’t you, poor old fellow?” Seymour turned to look at Patch and got some vigorous wags of the tail in response.

“How did they get him up?”

“A young lad from the village offered to go down on a rope ladder. He’s well-known to be sympathetic to animals. He has more time for dogs than he has for people. He managed to get Patch into a sling and they hoisted up the cause of all the fuss, distressed and dehydrated, yet overjoyed, of course. Sadly, the leg was so badly fractured that it needed to be amputated. Dogs are very adaptable, as I was saying, and he was able to cope.”

“Was it a ventilation shaft he’d fallen through?”

“It was. And none of the mining engineers who have inspected it since can say for certain whether the tunnel was joined to an existing quarry, like Jackdaw, or was another one altogether. The locals have no such problem. They call it Patch Quarry and I think the name will stick. It was quoted in an article about Combe Down in the Bath Geological Society journal, so he’s earned himself a place in the history books.”

“A celebrity.”

“Don’t praise him too much, or he’ll demand a better home.”

“And how did you come to adopt him?”

“That’s the saddest part of the story. The stress of the whole incident seemed to have been too much for Joyce Wayland. Three weeks after, she suffered a sudden heart attack and died. She was a great loss to the village, active in all sorts of ways.”

“So Patch was homeless?”

“When nobody came forward to take on a three-legged dog, I offered, knowing he was unlikely to want long walks, and we could hobble along as two old cripples together. The arrangement has worked up to now, although I’ve got slower as he has speeded up. I think I benefit the most. Use it or lose it, they say, don’t they? He gets me out of here twice a day. Just as important, I needed company.”

“He looks contented, too. Tell me about the tunnel he fell into. Has anyone been down since?”

“If they have, I’d be surprised. It’s considered dangerous and a cover has been placed over the shaft. It was probably abandoned before 1850. Most of them were.”

“Did the boy who rescued Patch say anything about the state of it?”

“We didn’t get much from him. You know what teenagers are like.”

“There must be a proper entrance like the one you were talking about.”

“Jackdaw? Not necessarily. Some of the smaller mines were only accessible by ladder down a shaft.”

“How did they get the stone up?”

“With horse-operated cranes.”

“Bigger than a ventilation shaft, then?”

“Certainly, but it will have been filled in, or covered, for safety reasons.”

“May I have a look?”

Seymour handed the framed map across.

Diamond studied the relative positions of the railway tunnel entrance, the field where Belinda’s shirt had been found and the copse where Patch had fallen down the shaft. The placing was close enough to bear out his theory. “I must see this for myself. Do you know of anyone who’ll take me down?”

“Into the tunnel?”

“I’ll wear a hard hat.”

“You’d need more than that.”

“Whatever, I’m serious.”

“What would be the point? The young lady won’t have fallen down the same shaft as Patch did. I told you, it’s been capped.”

“If the workings are any size, there must be other shafts, even though no one has found them above ground. The obvious way to locate them is to look from inside the tunnels.”

“There’s some logic in that. When would you hope to do this?”

“Today, if someone can escort me. What happened to the boy who rescued Patch? Is he still around?”

“He’s a young man getting on for eighteen now, works as a farmhand. Comes here sometimes and takes Patch out.”

“How do I contact him?”

“If there isn’t an animal in trouble down there, he won’t be interested.”

“Could be a woman in trouble.”

“That won’t impress him.”

“Will a twenty-pound note?”

“That’s another matter. I’ll see if I can find his phone number.”

In the large town of Reading, Spiro felt more confident and safer. He’d spent the first night sleeping rough under a bridge and become cold and depressed and loathed the place, but during the next day he sold the bike for fifty pounds to a teenager and his young brother, all done with sign language. He bought fresh, dry clothes from a charity shop and treated himself to fish and chips and suddenly Reading was the next thing to heaven.

Later in the day, he sat in a window seat in a coffee shop in Broad Street watching a bearded guy across the street who was lying propped against the door of an empty shop with a blanket over his legs. On the pavement, where passers-by would notice, was an open guitar case and occasionally some sympathetic shopper would drop a coin into it. No other bedding was visible in the doorway, no cardboard, and no guitar, for that matter. The usual thing for any street person who possessed a guitar was to earn some cash by busking. Had the instrument been stolen, Spiro wondered, or was the case only ever used for begging? Of more immediate interest, did the guy know of a place to doss down at night?

Late in the afternoon, Spiro returned and the doorway was still occupied by no-guitar man. As dusk approached and the streets emptied, the guy got up, stretched, pocketed his takings, zipped up his collection box, slung it over his shoulder and walked up Broad Street at a surprisingly brisk rate, as if he was going somewhere. Spiro had to trot to keep up, hopeful that he might be led to a food van of the sort he and Murat had found essential to survival in Bath.

No-guitar man turned a corner, reached a roundabout, used the crossing and started up another street. The shops gave way to messy industrial units, tool-hire places and scrap yards. Here on the fringe of town there was no sign of a food van.

Abruptly the man dodged the traffic, crossed the street and walked into a pub. Disappointing. He’d be spending his day’s takings in there, Spiro decided. This wasn’t what he’d hoped for. But something struck him as unusual. Typical of other pubs he’d seen, this one had the hanging sign of a coat of arms where it could be seen as you came along the street, but the building wasn’t covered in boards advertising the treats inside, only some big lettering that he supposed was the name of the place. A stark, white exterior. No boxes of geraniums or hanging baskets. Then he noticed an A-board near the front door.

He went over — and of course couldn’t understand what was written on it.

He was about to move on when a young woman came out of the pub, treated him to a warm smile and spoke to him. She was inviting him inside.

Spiro spread his hands and shrugged and managed to let her know he didn’t speak English.

She took that as a done deal and opened the door for him, so he went in and was even more mystified. The bar had no pumps for serving beer and there wasn’t a single bottle on the shelves behind.

His new friend said, “Tea or coffee?” and even with his limited English Spiro understood and chose tea. Behind him, at tables, customers were drinking from mugs, not glasses. No-guitar man was eating a sandwich.

She didn’t want payment for the tea, which was the usual coarse brew the English served everywhere. Spiro was used to Albanian mountain tea, known as ironwort, velvety on the throat and subtle in flavour, taken without milk, but he appreciated the kindness. He took his to an empty table and watched what was going on and by degrees decided this must be an alcohol-free pub that catered for homeless people. Even more remarkable, he could overhear Albanian being spoken at another table.

The dialect was Gheg, making them northerners. Spiro was a Tosk speaker, but it didn’t matter. He tuned in and knew what was being said by the man and woman, both about his own age. Mostly the woman did the talking and she was on about food, some meal she’d enjoyed the night before, and how she’d slept like a baby afterwards. Places were mentioned and Spiro hoped he would remember them because it seemed churches were open where Christian people served meals and supplied beds for the night to unfortunates like himself. His good opinion of Reading was being confirmed.

Tempting as it was to go over and speak to the Albanians in his own language, he resisted. There were sure to be questions. He remained terrified of word getting back to the Finisher. Instead, he swallowed the rest of his tea and went back to the hostess or whatever she called herself and spoke the name of one of the churches he’d heard was a good night shelter. She understood at once and produced a town map to show him where the church was.

Revived (the tea had its merits if you could stomach it) and confident, he left the pub and strolled back in the direction of Broad Street. Plenty of the evening remained before he needed to claim his bed for the night, but as he would be a first-timer, he resolved to get there early and make himself known.

He was vaguely aware of a few people on the corner across the street and didn’t take much interest who they were until one of them called out to him, not by name, but in a tone that left no doubt he was being addressed. What a friendly town this was.

Or was it? He started to walk on.

A second shout came, less friendly. Spiro glanced over his shoulder and recognised the teenager who had bought the Claud Butler bike. Strange. The kid had got a bargain. What had he got to complain about? But the shout hadn’t come from the kid. An older guy, around forty, in leather and jeans, was creating this scene and he looked as if he wanted a fight and was big enough to win one. He had a phone in his hand and was speaking into it. He broke away from the kid and his mate and started running towards Spiro. Maybe he was the kid’s father, angry that his son had been involved in receiving stolen goods. Or he could be a mugger who thought the fifty pounds hadn’t been spent yet.

Spiro didn’t wait to find out. He started running, too, sprinting flat out up the street, then around a side turning towards Broad Street, where he would feel safer if only because it was a main thoroughfare, sure to be equipped with CCTV. His legs ached and his backpack was bouncing against his spine, but he kept going at the best speed he could manage, hoping his pursuer would give up. He glanced over his shoulder and he was definitely putting distance between himself and the guy.

Most of Broad Street is pedestrianised. Reach the redbrick section, Spiro told himself, and you should be safe. He was going to make it and he reckoned he had fifty metres in hand over the mugger. He took another look over his shoulder and saw no sign of him.

Nasty. He’d made the mistake of thinking everything here would go his way. Never let your guard down when you’re living rough or some evil-minded schmuck will try it on. He slowed to a walk, like other people around him, and gave his legs and lungs a chance to recover.

He was spent, so exhausted he didn’t react to the police patrol car moving straight up the walkway with siren blaring and lights flashing. Didn’t show much interest when it screeched to a stop and two officers jumped out. Had no thought that they’d come to arrest him. Only when he was wrestled to the ground, had his face pressed to the bricks and felt himself being handcuffed did he understand he’d been nicked.