Vanished

57

The patrolman was a guy called Stevie O’Keefe, and his Irish heritage appeared to begin and end at his name. He had dark, Mediterranean skin, even darker eyes and a jet-black Elvis quiff. At a guess I would have put him in his late forties or early fifties.

Healy had arranged with the Jubilee line’s general manager for O’Keefe to take us down after hours. It was an irregular request, one Transport for London would probably have been keen to avoid given the security precautions they’d put into place since 7/7, but Healy had used the badge as a way in, and then peppered what came after with regular mentions of the Snatcher. I remembered the worst bits of Healy well, all the anger, the aggression and the fight, but he could play the game with the best of them. If he needed to turn down the volume, adjust his tone, come in softly, he could do that too.

We moved through Westminster station in silence. None of the escalators were switched on at night, so we used them like staircases, and then emerged into the turbine hall, a vast cathedral of stone and stainless steel, full of criss-crossing pillars. Westminster was the Tube’s deepest ever excavation, and the journey to the Jubilee line saw you drop one hundred feet in a matter of seconds. Even then you weren’t done: the Jubilee platforms were built one on top of the other, the westbound the deeper, and by the time you got to the bottom, you were more than thirty metres under the earth. Down with the devil, I thought, recalling something an old colleague on the paper had once said. Back when they’d first carved the Tube out of the earth in the 1860s, people were scared it might wake Satan himself.

It was a weird feeling heading through the building’s spaces and not passing anyone, but more unsettling was the complete lack of sound: I’d read about people like O’Keefe, how they spent their lives walking through darkness and quiet, but I’d never appreciated silence, never fully understood it, until we got down to the line.

At the platform, O’Keefe hesitated briefly. Transparent screens had been erected all the way along, which – during the day – would slide back once the train was in the station. They were closed now and, beyond them, it was hard to make out the line without the help of a torch. ‘I found it there,’ he said quietly, pointing to the last of the screens.

‘On the platform, at the end?’ I asked.

O’Keefe just nodded.

‘Are you okay?’

He glanced at me. ‘Sure.’

His eyes flicked across my shoulder, along the platform towards the other end. I followed his gaze. The night lights were on but they barely seemed to make a difference. I turned back to O’Keefe, his eyes on the opposite tunnel. At the surface, when he’d first been introduced to us, he mentioned that he’d been a patrolman for twenty years, that he’d walked deep-level stations on the Northern and Central lines, and yet – as we stood on the platform – it was like this was his first time down here.

‘Stevie?’

He glanced at me.

‘You sure you’re okay?’

His eyes came to rest on the right-hand tunnel, close to where he’d found Drake’s phone. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, his voice more even now.

I glanced at Healy and gestured for him not to say anything. ‘Stevie, I need to know what’s going on.’

He ripped his eyes away from the tunnel. ‘Huh?’

‘Is something bothering you?’

‘No.’

‘What happened when you found the phone?’

He looked between us, then back to the tunnel. Healy rolled his eyes at me, out of sight of O’Keefe.

‘It was just …’

‘What?’

He glanced at me again. ‘Normally there’s work going on in most of the stations,’ he said, the torch at his side. ‘ “Engineering hours” and all that; when the trains aren’t in service. Between one and five in the morning, there’s staff all along the line, all through the night, people repairing, cleaning, making sure everything’s okay. They were down here all last week when I came through, but when I found that phone on Thursday night, there was no one. There was no scheduled work.’ He paused and looked at me, his face half lit by the lamps above us on the platform. ‘It was just so quiet, and kind of …’

He trailed off and turned back to face the tunnel.

‘Kind of what?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been doing this twenty years,’ O’Keefe said, his fingers tapping out a nervy rhythm on the flashlight, ‘but that night I found the phone, it felt different.’

‘Different?’

Healy’s eyes narrowed. Suddenly he was interested again.

‘We get tons of lost property down here,’ O’Keefe said. ‘People drop all sorts of things and don’t realize. But that phone … it was like it had been placed there.’

‘Like someone had put it there deliberately?’

He didn’t reply.

‘Stevie?’

‘Yeah, like someone had put it there.’

‘Where was it exactly?’

We moved towards the end of the platform, level with the last plastic screen on our left. On our right, attached to the wall, was a white bench. ‘It was on there,’ he said, pointing to the bench. ‘Just placed on top.’

‘Could have fallen out of someone’s pocket.’

‘Could have,’ O’Keefe said, but he didn’t sound convinced, and I could see why: the benches, dotted from one end of the platform to the other, were almost oval-shaped, built for leaning against. If a phone dropped out of someone’s pocket by accident, the angle of the bench wouldn’t stop its fall. It would bounce right off and hit the floor.

‘Did you see anyone else in here that night?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

I turned to Healy. ‘Are the Met checking CCTV?’

‘We’ve put in a request for the footage,’ he said, and then stepped towards O’Keefe. ‘Can we get down on to the line?’

O’Keefe jolted, like he’d suddenly been pulled from a dream, and brought a set of keys away from his belt. He selected the one he wanted, manually unlocked one of the screens and backed away. As if he doesn’t want to go first. Both of us noted it, Healy glancing at me, before we dropped through the space and down on to the line. O’Keefe followed, more hesitancy in his stride, and as soon as his feet landed on the blackened concrete of the line, he stood there frozen, just staring into the tunnel. Something in him had been knocked out of kilter. He was a brassy, confident kind of guy – I could read that in him, right from the off – but he was showing none of that now.

‘So what felt different about Thursday night?’ I asked again.

O’Keefe paused, as if unsure how to articulate himself. The only sound, the only movement, was his fingers on the torch. After a while he looked at me, his face framed by the light from the platform. ‘It was like you could feel something bad down here.’