White Corridor

45

Arthur Bryant could see the faint impression of the double railway track indented through fallen snow; no train had been able to pass here since the blizzard began, but now the gale had blown the top layers clear, and with the thaw setting in it appeared that the line might become passable.

The black tracks wound over the hill towards the dark mouth of a tunnel. The cut was still inundated beyond this, so the rescue train would have to back up the line after collecting stranded travellers.

As he forced himself to concentrate on the fading footmarks in the white expanse of the hill, he could not help but wonder if his own tracks would disappear like snow prints from London’s history.

I’ve dedicated my life to something that now seems less tangible and more pointless than wood-carving, he thought, the resolution of criminal mysteries that pass entirely unnoticed by the general public. It was hardly surprising that the Home Office no longer wished to fund such a division when they gained no benefit to themselves. The PCU acted as a magnet for embarrassing publicity, and Bryant knew that his own irascibility made matters worse.

In a world where so few people are willing to become involved, we have to set an example, he thought. And so we will pass the way of censorship bodies and experimental science labs, in the same manner that Bletchley Park, the Propaganda Unit and the Mass Observation Society were no longer needed after the war. And May and I will pass, too, becoming just another quirky footnote to the capital’s strange history, along with other abandoned ideas like the GLC’s Regent Street Monorail and the 1796 plan to straighten out the Thames, and therefore perhaps that is how it should be. But for now, and until we are all ejected from our premises in Mornington Crescent, I still have a public duty to perform.

Any further musing on the past was stopped when he saw the boy.

Why is he standing there? Bryant wondered, before spotting the red handkerchief that tied his wrist to the briars of a hawthorn bush covered in icicles like cracked prisms. He lowered himself beside Ryan, whose tear-streaked cheeks were already starting to freeze. His jacket had been pulled down over his shoulders to impede his movement. “What happened?” Bryant asked, shielding him from the bitter wind as he tried to unscramble the knot with numb fingers.

“He came for us and took my mum away,” said the boy tonelessly. “He’s going to kill her on the railway line because he hates ladies.”

“Well, we’re certainly not going to let that happen.” The knot was too small and tight, and Bryant could not tear the cloth. “Can you slip your hand out for me?”

“He wants to hurt ladies,” said Ryan again, as if trying to remember something he had seen or heard elsewhere. He struggled against the material but could not pull free. His efforts seemed halfhearted, as though he had given up any thought of escape.

He’s in shock, thought Bryant. He’s not reacting normally. “‘Wait,” he said, “let me see if I have something that can help.” He produced a bunch of keys, selected the sharpest-looking one and began sawing at the handkerchief. “In which direction did they go?”

“Over there, into the tunnel,” said Ryan, pointing with his free hand at the black hole cut into the side of the hill.

Bryant’s heart sank. The subzero temperature had already slowed his mind and body. The thought of entering the hillside to look for Madeline and her captor cruelly exposed his defencelessness. If I stay here with Ryan she may die, he thought. But if I leave the boy…

He dug out his mobile and tried May once more. This time it rang and John answered. “I’m up at the railway line. He’s headed into the tunnel with the mother,” Bryant told his partner. “I don’t want to go in there alone. It feels like some kind of a setup. She said he only kills when he’s in a shaft of light, where God can witness his defiance.”

“So he’s the third of Maggie’s four white corridors.”

“Apparently so, but if he’s hidden in the darkness of the tunnel she’ll be safe, surely? It’s a contradiction.”

“Arthur, I’m on my way. You’re right, it’s a trap. There is no-‘

A shrill scream, distortingly high like the shriek of an excited child, sounded from the shadowy entrance of the tunnel. Without thinking, Bryant snapped the phone shut and headed off into its mouth as Ryan shouted behind him.

After all these years, it’s too late not to stay involved Bryant thought, stumbling over the bared brown railway sleepers. / can’t stand on the sidelines any longer, even if it means taking my own life in my hands.