something like that. A nesting habitat.
Tunnels. Phil sat up straight. The word hit him with an almost physical power. Tunnels.
Why? What did that mean?
He didn’t know. But he thought he should find out. He stood up, brushing dirt from his jeans, looked around. Tunnels.
Being guided by the word and his own instincts, he started to walk upstream.
The natural footpath beside the river began to narrow and eventually petered out. Thorned brambles and branches barred the way forward. Phil peered through. He could see that the hotel’s land continued, the boundary in the distance. Pulling his jacket over his face, he plunged into the trees.
The thorns pulled at his clothing and, where they could, his exposed skin. He felt the barbs dig in, rip flesh as he tried to pull away. Like being shot repeatedly with an air rifle. Branches slapped him, stung where they hit. But he kept going, driven by the thought – the memory – in his head that remained just out of reach.
The forest became denser. Branches and leaves overhead blotting out the sunlight. To his right, the river seemed further away than previously, the bank more built-up, a steeper drop down to the water. He turned, moved towards it.
As he did so, he checked the ground. There were indentations in the earth, the leaves. He knelt down, examined them. Footprints. Someone had taken the same route. And not so long ago, he reckoned.
Phil looked upwards, around him. Examined his surroundings in closer detail. Branches showed signs of having been bent back and broken, some snapped off altogether. He looked at the tracks, the broken foliage. Followed the trail.
It brought him to the river’s edge. He looked round. Listened. No sign of anything, no sound except the movement of the water. The hotel, the murder scene, seemed far away.
He reached the edge of the bank. There was a drop down to the river, probably higher than he was tall. He looked down at the footprints. They went to the edge and stopped. Phil knelt down. There was scuffing on the ground, as though someone had climbed over the edge, taken some of the earth with them. He looked down. Saw only the river.
He thought. A boat? Was that how they had got out of here? So why hadn’t the uniforms looked for signs? Had they just given up at the end of the footpath? He closed his eyes. Tried to think, imagine himself in the killer’s position.
Come up the river by boat… moor it… climb up the bank, through the trees, down to the hotel… slip inside… up to the room… and out again the same way…
Phil focused. Examined his theory further.
The killer must have known the layout of the hotel. Known a way in, found the room and out again without being seen. Been confident enough of not being tracked into the forest. Sure enough of himself to get a boat away from the scene without being spotted.
Something nagged at him.
Tunnels…
He knelt down again, looked over the edge of the bank. The noise of the water increased, mingled with the sound of rushing blood in his head as he leaned further over. He edged forward, scoping the bank side.
Grabbing on to a protruding root, he swung himself over the edge, began to climb down. Jumped the last little bit of the way, got his feet wet in the shallow siding of the river. There was a tunnel right before him. Or at least a cave-like entrance. Dark, overgrown with the tendrils of weeds, roots sticking out at the entrance.
He looked inside. Felt his heart miss a beat.
A shadow detached itself from the dark. Became larger.
Someone was coming towards him.
Fast.
55
Phil braced himself, wanting to turn, run, escape. But knowing he couldn’t do that. Knowing that his training – his job – should leave him ready to handle whoever it was coming towards him.
Out of the cave mouth flew a bundle of rags. It took Phil a few seconds, but he recognised it as Paul. The tramp he had interviewed the day before.
‘Wait,’ Phil shouted. ‘I just want to talk… ’ He ran backwards, twisted and fell. The water splashed up around him, cold penetrating to his skin straight away like icy underwear. He looked round for something – anything – that he could use to defend himself. Pulled at a root that was sticking out of the face of the bank, but it wouldn’t budge.
Paul didn’t stop.
Phil managed to get to his feet again, felt the weight of the cold water in his sodden clothes dragging him down. If the tramp hit him, forced him into the water, he might not be in a position to fight back.
‘Please, I just want to talk… Please… ’ He held his hands up, showing he had no weapon. ‘Please, Paul, please… ’
The figure paused.
Phil pressed home the advantage. ‘I’m not armed, I’m just here by myself. There’s no one else with me. Come on, Paul. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk to you.’
He hoped that would be enough.
He looked at the tramp standing before him. Blinking in the sunlight, confused by Phil’s presence.
‘Why… are you here?’
‘I’m… ’ Phil ran his hand through his hair, decided how to approach this. The truth. Try that. ‘Well, Paul, I’m here at the hotel.’ He gestured. ‘Back there. There’s been a murder. And I’m investigating it.’
Paul looked at him, frowning. Phil couldn’t tell under the filth and hair, but there seemed to be some conflicting emotions moving across his features.
‘Murder… ’
‘That’s right. A murder.’
Paul began to nod. ‘Yes… ’
‘Let’s… ’ keeping his eyes on him all the time he was speaking, ‘let’s sit down, Paul. Get comfortable.’
Not wanting to get his clothes any dirtier or wetter than they already were, Phil found a tree root to sit on. Brushed it before he sat. Paul settled on the ground.
‘So, Paul… twice in two days. What are you doing here? Long way out for you.’
Paul looked round, brow furrowed as if listening, waiting for the trees to give him answers. ‘I… Heaven.’
Phil nodded. Here we go again. ‘Heaven. How d’you mean?’
Paul spread his arms out. ‘Here. Heaven. Can relax.’
‘Right. And how did you get here?’
Paul looked at the river. ‘I was brought here. On the water.’
‘You mean you travelled on the river, yes? In a boat?’
Paul looked at Phil then. Right in the eye, unblinking. ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’ His voice calm, controlled.
The directness of the question threw Phil off balance. ‘Well, I… ’
Paul shook his head. ‘You don’t have to answer. I know you do. They all do.
Phil ignored the gathering cold in his clothes, leaned forward. ‘What d’you mean?’
Paul looked round once more. ‘Heaven. This place. Heaven. Or it was. Until… ’
‘Until what, Paul?’
Paul snapped his attention back to Phil. ‘I told you. Yesterday.’ He turned away once more.
Phil thought. What had Paul said? It had all sounded so rambling at the time. Allegorical, even. ‘You said that,’ said Phil. ‘But that’s all you said. Heaven until the bad men came.’
