Dad. The adventurer. The madman. The climber, the diver, the caver. Hated most modern sports equipment, jerry-rigged his way through life – and would never have let her go into the tunnel without something to pick up the pieces when the ‘overengineered modern shit’ pooped out. Thanks, Dad. She rested the calcium carbide and the lamp on top of the immersion suit and carried it all out to the car, put it in the boot, slammed the lid and got in, rain dripping off the Berghaus.
She pulled off the hood, got out her phone and scrolled through the numbers, pausing at Caffery’s name. Not a chance. There would be a lecture the size of a cow if she dared mention the subject of Sapperton tunnel. ‘Prody’ rolled past. She stopped, went back to it, considered it for a moment or two, thought, Oh, sod it, and dialled the number.
It went into answerphone. His voice was nice. Calming. It almost made her smile. He was at work, maybe in a meeting about the jacker. She moved her thumb to hang up, then remembered the number of times she’d diverted incoming calls to her voicemail because she was in a meeting and how it pissed her off later when she found people hadn’t left a message. ‘Hi, Paul. Look, you’re going to think I’m nuts, but I remembered what I was missing about the tunnel. There’s another air shaft – about a third of a mile from the eastern entrance.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’s six thirty now, and I’m going back for a look. I’ll go in the same way I went yesterday because I’m not an abseiler and those air shafts are more dangerous than the tunnel itself, whatever the trust says. Just for the record, I’m not doing it on the firm’s time – I’m off duty. I’ll call you at eleven tonight to tell you what happened. And, Paul . . .’ She looked through the rainy kitchen windows, where she’d left a light on inside. The warm yellow glow. She wasn’t going to be long. Not long at all. ‘Paul, you don’t need to call me about this. Really. I’m going to do it anyway.’
At eight o’clock Janice put Emily to bed in the new pyjamas she’d bought at Marks & Spencer. Her hair was still slightly damp from the bath and smelt of strawberry shampoo. She was clutching Jasper.
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘He’s working, poppet. He won’t be long.’
‘He’s always working.’
‘Hey, not that again. Come on, hop up here.’ Emily got into the double bed and Janice tucked her in, bent over to kiss her. ‘You’re such a good girl. I love you so, so, much. I’ll be back later, give you another hug.’
Emily curled up, Jasper tucked under her chin, thumb in her mouth, and closed her eyes. Janice stroked her hair gently, a halfsmile on her face. Her head was light with bubbles and she felt a little drunk. Now that the jacker had a name and a face, she was less scared of him. As if his name, Richard Moon, had diminished him.
When Emily’s breathing had changed to the regular, soft rhythm of sleep, Janice got up and tiptoed out, closing the door carefully. She found Prody standing in the hallway in the halflight, his arms folded.
‘In Mum’s bed? What’s the single one for?’
‘Her dad.’
‘Well, call me out of order, but I’d say he deserves it.’ He was standing with his back to the wall. He’d taken his jacket off and
she noticed for the first time how tall he was. Much taller than she was. And broad. Not fat, just wide in the places a man should be. He looked as if he worked out. Suddenly she put a hand to her mouth as if she might hiccup or giggle. ‘I’ve got a confession to make. I’m a bit drunk.’
‘Me too. A bit.’
‘
No!
’ She smiled. ‘That’s terrible! So irresponsible! How on earth are you going to get home?’
‘Who knows? I used to be a traffic cop so I know the danger spots – could get home if I really wanted to. But I expect I’ll do the right thing – sleep it off in the car. It won’t be the first time.’
‘That sofa in the living room is a pull-out and I got some bed linen this morning in John Lewis.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Beg your pardon?’
‘In the living room. Nothing incriminating about that, is there?’
‘Can’t say I’m mad about the back seat of the Peugeot.’
‘Well, then?’
He was about to answer when the doorbell rang. She sprang away from him as if they’d been kissing and went into the bathroom. She looked out of the window. ‘Cory.’
Prody straightened his tie. ‘I’ll let him in.’ He went down the stairs, plucking his jacket from the hook and pulling it on. Janice slung the empty prosecco bottle into the bin, put the glasses into the sink and cantered down the stairs after him. Prody took one last second to straighten his jacket, then put the chain on and opened the door.
Cory was standing on the step, his coat buttoned up and a scarf round his neck. When he saw Prody he stepped back and peered at the number above the door. ‘I’ve got the right place, haven’t I? They all look the same.’
‘Cory.’ Janice stood on tiptoe and spoke over Prody’s shoulder. ‘This is Paul. He’s with MCIU. Come in. Mum, Emily and I’ve eaten but I’ve kept some salmon for you.’
He came into the little hallway and began to take off his coat. He smelt of rain and cold and car exhaust. When he’d hung up the clothes, he turned, held out his hand to Prody. ‘Cory Costello.’
‘Good to meet you.’ They shook. ‘DC Prody, but you can call me Paul.’
Cory’s smile faded. His hand was still in Prody’s but he stopped moving it. His body got a little tighter across the shoulders. ‘Prody? That’s an unusual name.’
‘Is it? I don’t know. I’ve never done a family search.’
Cory regarded him coldly, his face an odd, ashen colour. ‘Are you married,
Paul
?’
‘Married?’
‘That’s what I said. Are you married?’
‘No. Not really. I mean . . .’ he glanced at Janice ‘. . . I
was
married. But that was then. I’m separated, almost divorced now. You know how it is.’
Cory turned stiffly to his wife. ‘Where’s Emily?’
‘Asleep. In the bedroom.’
‘Your mum?’
‘In her room. Reading, I think.’
‘I’d like a word, please.’
‘OK,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Come upstairs.’
Cory pushed roughly past them and went up the stairs. Janice gave Prody a look –
I’m sorry. I don’t know what this is about but, please, don’t go
– then hurried after her husband. In the flat he was walking down the corridor, pushing at doors, looking into rooms. He stopped when he found the kitchen with the two glasses in the sink and the plate of salmon covered with clingfilm.
‘What, Cory? What is it?’
‘How long has he been here?’ he hissed. ‘Did you let him in?’
‘Of course I did. He’s been here, I don’t know, a couple of hours maybe.’
‘Do you know who he is?’ Cory slammed his laptop bag on to the worktop. ‘Well? Do you?’
‘No.’
‘That’s Clare’s husband.’
Janice’s mouth fell open. For a moment she wanted to laugh. At the sheer ridiculousness of the whole thing. ‘
What?
’ she said,
her voice a little shrill. ‘Clare? From the group? The one you’re fucking, you mean?’
‘Don’t be stupid. Keep your mouth clean.’
‘Well, Cory, how else would you know he’s her husband? What? Has she shown you a picture? That’s cosy.’
‘The
name
, Janice.’ He sounded pitying. As if he felt sorry for her, having such a low mind. ‘Not many Paul Prodys around. Clare’s husband’s a cop too.’ He jabbed a finger at the hallway. ‘That’s him. And he’s a bastard, Janice. A full-blown, cardcarrying blot on the face of humanity. The things he did to his kids – to his wife!’
‘Oh, Christ, Cory – you
believe
her? Why? Don’t you know what women are like?’
‘What? What are women like?’
‘They’re
liars
, Cory. Women
lie
. We lie and we cheat and we flirt, and we play hurt and wounded and betrayed and wronged. We are
good actresses
. We are brilliant at it. And this year’s Oscar goes to the whole of womanhood.’
‘You include yourself in that?’
‘
Yes!
I mean, no – I mean . . . sometimes. Sometimes I lie. We all do.’
‘That explains it, then.’
‘Explains what?’
‘Explains what you were really saying when you said you’d love me more than anything. That forsaking all others you’d love me. You were lying.’
‘I’m not the one who cheated.’
‘You never went out and shagged anyone but you might as well have done.’
‘What the
hell
are you talking about?’
‘About the way the whole world stops when it comes to
her
. Doesn’t it, Janice? When it comes to her I might as well not exist.’
Janice stared at him, incredulous. ‘Are you talking about Emily? Are you actually talking about your daughter like that?’
‘Who else? Ever since she came along I’ve been second best. Deny it, Janice. Deny it.’
She shook her head. ‘Do you know what, Cory? The only thing I feel for you right now is sorry. I feel sorry for you that, gone forty – and looking every day of it, by the way – you’re still condemned to live in such a narrow, sad little place. It must be hell.’
‘I don’t want him here.’
‘Well, I do.’
Cory looked at the two glasses in the sink. ‘You’ve been drinking with him. What else have you done? Fucked him?’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘He’s
not
staying the night.’
‘I’ve got news for you, Cory. He
is
staying the night. He’s going to sleep on the pull-out bed in the living room. The carjacker is still out there somewhere and – newsflash, Cory – I don’t feel safe with you. In fact, if I’m honest, I’d just as soon you pissed off to Clare’s, or wherever it is you go, and left us to it.’
There had been two rainfalls that day and the canal was deeper than it had been yesterday. The air smelt heavier and greener, and the constant plink-plink-plink of water filtering through the rock and falling into the tunnel wasn’t as musical as it had been. Tonight it was loud, insistent, like standing in a shower. Flea had to wade through the silt in her leaded boots with her head down, the water bouncing off her helmet and trickling down the back of her neck. It took her almost an hour to get back to the rockfall she and Wellard had burrowed through. The hole they’d made was still there, and by the time she’d squeezed through the gap and come down the other side she was wet and filthy. Mud clung to every inch of the immersion suit, there was grit in her mouth and nose, and she was cold from the water. Very cold. Her teeth were chattering.
She pulled her dive light out of the rucksack and shone it at the far end of the section, to where the back of the barge was visible, wedged under the next rockfall. Maybe the missing air shaft was on the other side, in a hidden section of the tunnel. She waded to the bottom of the fall and clicked off her head torch and the dive light. The canal fell into blackness so quickly she had to put her hand out to steady herself in the dizzying darkness. Why the hell hadn’t she thought to switch off the torch yesterday? Because there
was
light – from about ten feet above the ground. A faint blue glow. Moonlight. Coming through the loose earth at the top of the scree. This was it, then. The nineteenth air shaft on the other side of the rockfall.
She tightened the rucksack on her back and clambered up in the dark. The marker line unreeled behind her, slapping against the backs of her legs. She didn’t need a torch: the blue chink of moonlight was enough for her to see what she was doing. At the top she used her hands as spades and fashioned a ledge in the clay for her knees. She dug a second ledge for the rucksack. Then she knelt and pushed her face into the gap.
Moonlight. And she could smell what was on the other side, a sweet scent: the mixed odours of vegetation, rust and accumulated rain. The smell of the shaft. She could hear the echoey, dripping space. She pulled back and rummaged in the rucksack until she found the chisel her father used to use for cave digging.
The fuller’s earth at the top wasn’t packed but friable – quite dry. The chisel went through the loose stones quickly – she scrabbled them away in handfuls, hearing them clunk down the scree behind her and splash into the water. She’d cleared a gap about a foot from the ceiling and could see the moonlight lying blue ahead of her when she hit rock. A boulder. She slammed the chisel into it once. Twice. It bounced away. A spark flew off. It was too big to move. She sat back, breathing hard.
Fuck it.
She licked her lips, examined the hole. Not big, but it might just be wide enough to get through. No harm trying. She took off her helmet, rested it alongside the chisel, and inched her right arm through the gap. It moved forward a foot. Two feet until it was stretched out as far as it would go. Her head now. She turned slightly to the left, eyes screwed shut, and pushed her face in, bracing with her knees, pulling herself along with her fingertips until her hand was through and she could feel the cool air on it. The sharp chips of stone in the clay scratched her cheeks. She imagined her hand at the top of the rockfall – disembodied, clenching and unclenching in the moonlight. She wondered if it was being watched. And stopped wondering straight away. That sort of thinking could paralyse you in a second.
Clay fell from the ceiling and down the back of her neck, granules running into her ears and settling on her eyelashes. She
braced her knees and levered herself further. There was no room to pull her left arm through – it had to stay trapped at her side. Her leg muscles tightened, but with one more push of her aching calves her right arm and head popped out into the light.
She coughed, spat, rubbed the muck out of her eyes and mouth, shook it off her hand.
She was looking down at another section of canal, which was dominated by a column of moonlight streaming from the massive air shaft above. Strange humps lay in the water where fuller’s earth had tumbled into the canal and half dissolved. The rockfall she lay on wasn’t that wide: six feet below her, the front end of the barge poked out, lifted up in the water by the weight of the rocks on its mid-section, the deck slightly buckled under a rusting windlass. About fifty yards ahead, just visible in the darkness, were the footings of yet another wall of rock and earth. Maybe
that
was the westerly end of the long rockfall she and Wellard had been looking for. So this new section was also enclosed, like the one she’d crawled in from, which meant the only access to this area was via the shaft.