You Are Dead

102

Sunday 21 December

The exterior of the freezer was just a shell. All the baskets had been removed, and there was just a sheet of rusty tin covering the base. Roy Grace leaned over into the freezer and eased his fingers under one edge of the rusty tin, then prised it up, instantly feeling a blast of dank, cold air.

It rose from a deep shaft the freezer was concealing.

He switched on his torch and pointed the beam down; but all it revealed, flaring into the darkness, was the raw earth shaft and metal rungs disappearing into the void of darkness. He couldn’t see the bottom, or guess how deep it was.

He stood back to enable Glenn Branson and Guy Batchelor to take a look, warning them to be careful. They both stepped forward.

‘Bloody hell!’ Batchelor said. ‘Bloody hell! The man’s a total lunatic.’

‘Unfortunately a very clever one,’ Grace replied.

‘What is it?’ Branson said.

‘Crisp’s escape route. No surprise the Surveillance Team missed him.’

‘We’ll go down and check it, sir,’ the LST inspector said.

Grace shook his head and, swallowing his fear of heights, said, ‘I’m going first, this is personal.’ He gripped his torch between his teeth, climbed into the freezer and lowered his right foot to the first rung.

‘Keep three limbs on the rungs at all times, sir,’ the inspector cautioned. ‘We’ll follow you.’

Grace began to descend, followed by an LST officer, Gregory Martis, then Glenn Branson. The others remained at the top, waiting for instructions. He descended as fast as he dared, doing what the inspector advised — which was what he had learned himself some years ago on a training course in working at heights. He kept on going for what seemed an eternity, his arms getting increasingly tired.

‘Any sign of the bottom, boss?’ Guy Batchelor called down.

‘Not yet.’

‘Ever see that movie, Journey to the Centre of the Earth?’ shouted Glenn Branson.

‘I think we’re going to come out in sodding Australia!’ Grace retorted. As he did so his right foot touched something solid. The bottom. He lowered his left foot, checking, warily, with the torch. He was standing on a concrete floor in a confined space. He turned, shining the beam around, and saw that directly behind him was a tunnel, with primitive timber supports the size and thickness of railway sleepers, lower than the one that ran from the wine cellar in Crisp’s house to where the three limbless men had been kept. But instead of hessian matting, the floor of this one was concrete.

Grace called up to the others at the top. ‘We’re on the bottom and entering a small tunnel.’

He knelt and began crawling along it, followed by the other two. After several moments he saw faint streaks of light ahead. They grew slightly brighter the further along he went. He looked dubiously at the railway sleeper struts supporting the tunnel. One on the left had a big split, and another on the right was a good six inches shorter. Some of the cross-beams looked like several wooden planks nailed together. These beams, every few yards, were all that was holding up the roof. The whole damned tunnel, like the last one, did not look professionally made, and it very definitely did not inspire confidence.

This was crazy, he should not be down here, he knew. And he should not have let anyone follow him. But if there was a chance of finding Crisp down here, however remote, that was all he cared about at this moment.

A short distance along the tunnel, he came to a trapdoor in the floor, with light shining faintly around the edges. Perspiring heavily, he turned and signalled the two officers to be quiet. Then he began raising the wooden trapdoor, inch by inch, peering down.

And felt an adrenaline rush.

Just below him, at the bottom of a free-standing steel ladder, was a small, well-lit room, hollowed out of the earth. It looked cosily furnished with cushions, a television, fridge, microwave oven and a sink. Reclining on the cushions, with a glass tumbler in his hand, dressed in a shirt, cardigan, jeans and loafers, and wearing a set of large headphones, was Dr Edward Crisp. He was nodding cheerfully, waving his free hand as if conducting the orchestra, and looking oblivious to all else. He was clearly not expecting visitors.

Grace’s nerves were jangling. He could scarcely believe his eyes, or his luck. Got you! he thought. Got you, you bastard, you murdering little shit. He lowered the door silently, with shaking hands. Was this Crisp’s cunning plan, to make them believe he had escaped, but meanwhile to lie doggo, waiting until the heat was over, before quietly slipping away?

Years back, when he had been a probationary uniformed constable before joining the CID, he attended break-ins frequently. He learned it was a common ploy of burglars, who had fled from premises they had just targeted, to then stroll nonchalantly back towards them, thinking that the police would be looking for someone running in the opposite direction. Was that why Crisp was still here, he wondered, thinking the police would never suspect, having searched the properties thoroughly, that he was holed up beneath their very noses?

Was there an entrance to another tunnel he might try to escape along the moment they descended the ladder? Let him try, he thought, he wouldn’t have a hope in hell against his trained team.

Talking urgently, as quietly as he could, he informed Glenn Branson and Gregory Martis what he had seen.

‘I’ll go down first, sir,’ Martis said.

Grace shook his head. ‘No, I want that pleasure.’

‘I’ve got body armour — he may be armed.’

‘Didn’t look like it,’ Grace said. ‘I’ll go first, you two stay up here.’

Reluctantly, Martis agreed and asked, ‘Do you have any gloves, sir?’

‘Only forensic ones.’

Martis handed him his own pair of leather gloves. ‘Put these on, you don’t want to burn your hands sliding down the ladder.’

‘Won’t you need them?’

‘My hands are like leather.’

Gratefully, Grace donned them. Then looked at each of his colleagues in turn, taking a couple of deep breaths. ‘Rock and roll?’

They both nodded.

He hesitated, took another deep breath and flung back the hatch.

Then as his feet touched the first rung Crisp’s voice rang out.

‘Detective Superintendent Grace, what a very pleasant surprise. Pleasant for me, indeed!’

‘Sir!’ Martis yelled in warning.

Roy Grace looked down and saw both barrels of an under-and-over shotgun aimed straight at him. A chill ripped through him. Shit, shit, shit — where the hell had—?

Suddenly, he felt himself being jerked sharply and painfully upwards, by his armpits. He heard two deafening explosions in quick succession that made his ears pop, and felt an instant, searing pain in his right leg.

As he fell face down on the floor, earth thudded down on top of him.

‘Fucking bastard!’ he heard Martis shout out.

‘Roy, you OK, man? Roy?’ Glenn Branson was kneeling beside him.

He nodded, his leg in agony, then heard a splintering crack. He saw the LST officer pulling one of the railways sleepers supporting a beam over the hatch. He realized what the man was doing, he was trying to stop Crisp coming up through the hatch with his gun.

Almost in slow motion the dislodged beam fell down the shaft, accompanied by a shower of earth and, an instant later, by the massive railway sleeper.

Grace heard a cry of disbelief below, followed by a scream of pain.

There was a shower of earth on his face and he had to close his eyes against it. Then he heard another shout — that was more a scream of terror — from Crisp.

‘Get me out of here! Please! Get me out of here! Help me! I can’t move!’

Grace crawled to the opening and very cautiously looked down. He felt more earth thudding against the back of his head. His right leg felt like it had been stung by a thousand wasps, but he ignored the pain. Below him he saw Crisp flat on his back, pinned to the bed of cushions by the falling debris.

‘Help me! I can’t move! Help me!’

A solid chunk of earth struck the back of Grace’s head, painfully.

‘Sir!’ Martis’s voice sounded anxious. ‘Can you hear that rumbling? We need to get out of here.’

Earth was raining down on them now.

‘Help me!’ Crisp screamed, his face a mask of abject terror as more earth tumbled down onto him.

Someone was tugging at Grace’s arm. Martis. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘We have to get out of here.’

‘We can’t leave him,’ Grace said.

‘We don’t have a choice, sir. We need to leave NOW!’

He shone the torch up and could see that the entire roof was moving, the remaining timbers vibrating, perilously, more earth falling down.

‘Everybody out, back down the tunnel!’ Grace ordered.

‘Go ahead, sir,’ Martis said.

‘I’m going last. Go!’

‘Please help me, I can’t move!’ screamed Crisp. ‘Don’t leave me — please help me, HELP ME, HELP ME!’

Grace peered one last time into the opening. As he looked, a huge object plummeted past him, another railway sleeper, missing Crisp’s head by inches then thudding on the floor below.

Suddenly he felt himself being jerked away. He turned to see Glenn Branson pulling him by his good leg.

‘Hey!’ he shouted.

More earth fell on him.

‘He’s not worth it, mate. Leave him or we’re all going to die!’

Branson pulled him further and further away.

There was a sharp crack above them, followed by a shower of earth. ‘Go!’ he yelled at Branson. ‘Go! Go! Go!’

He heard Crisp scream for help again.

Should he go back for him?

More earth fell on him. He inhaled some of the dust and coughed violently. He thought of Cleo and Noah. Thought of never seeing them again. To try to save a monster? He made his decision and, following his colleagues, he scrambled on his hands and knees, the pain in his leg worsening with every movement and continued, on, on, on. Then his face smacked into the heels of Glenn Branson’s shoes. ‘Keep going, Glenn, for Chrissake, go!’ he shouted.

He shone the torch behind him and saw a wall of dust racing down the tunnel towards them. Gripped with panic, he yelled, ‘Go! Go! Go!’

There was a deep rumbling sound behind him.

The message seemed to have got through. Glenn was pulling away from him now. Grace crawled after him as fast as he could, but his right leg was becoming useless. Dank, earthy dust was swirling around him, choking him, filling his lungs. Within moments all he could see was a dark brown fog.

Panic gripped him. He was going to die down here. He would never see Cleo or Noah again. Never live in the new house with them. Never—

Have to think clearly, he told himself. Panic was what killed people. Disaster survivors were the ones who stayed calm, kept their nerve. The shaft was ahead. If he could reach it he would be safe.

He scrambled on. He dropped the torch, but did not stop to look for it, he just carried on. On. On.

Then his face smashed, painfully, into something hard, metallic.

The bottom rung of the shaft.

Relief surged through him.

A torch beam suddenly dazzled him. He blinked, and heard Glenn Branson’s voice. ‘I’m here, mate, I’m not going up without you, so sodding get on with it! Follow me up.’

He raised his hands, felt the rung above, and hauled himself up. He was spluttering, his mouth arid. Someone was coughing above him, then he coughed again hard himself, a searing pain in his lungs, and almost lost his grip.

Three limbs, he remembered.

But his right leg would barely move.

The rung he was holding was shaking. As if it was about to pull free of the shaft. He moved his right arm up to the next one, hurriedly.

The rumble behind him had turned into a roar, like a volcano. Everything beneath him was collapsing. He had to keep clambering up. Had to. Had to.

Three limbs at all times.

The rung both his feet were standing on suddenly fell away, and he swung out, hanging from one hand, grimly holding on, but feeling his fingers slipping.

Noah. Cleo. God, I love you so much.

Somehow in the choking darkness he managed to get his other hand onto the rung, then felt it giving way as well. He hauled himself up, just as the rung beneath his feet detached from the side of the shaft and clattered into the swirling brown hell below him, and grabbed the next one. He gripped the rung with both hands, but he could barely hold on.

The roar deepened, deafening now like an earthquake, as both his wrists were seized in a grip like a vice. Feeling like his arms were about to rip out of his body, he was hauled slowly upwards. He looked up to see Branson and Martis’s faces.

‘It’s all right, mate, we’ve got you, you heavy bastard!’

An instant later he slammed down hard, over the lip of the freezer, his face striking the concrete floor of the garage, panting with exertion.

‘All right, Roy? Sorry if I hurt you.’

He turned, looking at Branson. ‘I’ll get over it,’ he gasped. ‘Thanks, mate.’

‘Bloke like you, at your age, you need one of them Stannah Stairlifts.’

‘Up yours!’

Somewhere in the distance he heard the wail of an emergency siren. Then the burning pain in his right leg worsened. ‘Shit!’ he cried out.

‘Can’t take the pace any more?’ Glenn Branson chided.

Grace shook his head. ‘Nah, it’s not that. It’s your humour. Nothing personal, but every time I hear one of your tired old gags, I lose the will to live.’ He grinned, then he turned towards him and hugged him. ‘I don’t know why, but I do sodding love you.’

‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ Branson replied. ‘For an old git.’ Then he knelt, looking anxiously at Grace’s right leg, and saw the colour draining from his face. ‘Shit, Roy, this looks serious.’ He turned to Martis. ‘We need an ambulance, fast.’