dirt track, on to the grass. Looked round.
There weren’t many vans. And each of them was in darkness. He stood still, listening. He could hear distant movement from his team in Hillfield, but there was no movement from the site. He shone the torch round again, settling on the caravan tucked in behind the gate nearest the wall. It was the one he had looked at on the way down. Filthy, old, rusted and mildewed. The others didn’t look like anything special, but this one was completely uninviting.
Phil stepped nearer to it. And tripped over something.
He dropped the torch, beam shining back at him, bent down to pick it up. As he did so, he tried to see what had caused him to trip. He ran the beam along the ground, found a raised edge that he traced back to the brick wall. He knelt down, examining it. It was the remains of another wall, knocked down but not completely.
He turned in the other direction, followed the raised line with the torch. It led to the middle of the site, turned left. He walked along it, following. There were raised areas all the way up the field. Like the grass had grown over foundations of houses that were once there.
Phil thought. Something about owning houses… He remembered. Laurence Croft had owned a row of houses that had been knocked down and the land turned into the caravan site. It figured, he thought. Judging from Croft’s DIY legacy in the house, he would have expected a job like this.
He turned back to the mildewed caravan. Something wasn’t right about it. The others had their Calor Gas bottles hooked up outside; this one didn’t. The others had their curtains open; this one had them closed. And he really couldn’t imagine anyone coming to stay in it. So why was it there?
He moved in closer, shone the torch over it. He bent down to look at the step beneath the door. There were tracks in the grass, muddy tracks, like someone had been dragging something. Or someone. The tracks led up the step and into the caravan. Heart thumping, Phil turned the handle. It opened.
He pulled the door open slowly, kept his head back, his body out of the way, not knowing what might jump out at him. He shone the torch in. Held himself ready to fight.
Nothing. He swung the torch round. Dirt everywhere, seating with rotting covers, work surfaces with chipped and peeling Formica, a table with a broken leg, filthy curtains. But nothing else. No one else. The caravan was empty.
Phil stepped inside. It wasn’t just the dirt, it was the smell. Like something that had been closed up too long. A tomb. He looked round, swinging the torch, taking it in. It definitely wasn’t a holiday home. But it had some purpose, he was sure of that. He just had to find out what it was.
He shone the torch round the cupboards, under the table, on the chairs, on the floor. And found it.
The muddy track marks led to a square in the centre of the floor. It was of matching carpet to the rest of the van, but had been cut out. Phil knelt down, rolled it back. A square had been cut out of the floor, hinged, then replaced. A trapdoor.
He knew what he should do. Call the others. Get a team over here, get that trapdoor open. See what was in there. But he couldn’t leave it to them. He had made a promise to Marina. If she was here, then it didn’t matter. He would have found her, one way or the other.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the trapdoor.
It wasn’t what he had been expecting. It wasn’t a crawl space or a shallow grave. It was a tunnel leading downwards. A wooden ladder was clamped to the side, a thick black cable fastened to the opposite side of the shaft. Electricity, Phil thought. Whatever – whoever – was down there, they had rigged up power.
He shone his torch along the floor, found a ridge in the carpet where the cable snaked in. Must be a hidden generator somewhere, he thought.
He looked down the hole again. It was dark down there, pitch black.
He should call the others over, let them lead the way.
He looked down again.
And swung his legs over, began climbing down.
84
‘Shut up! Fuckin’ shut up! If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a whingein’ bitch!’
Marina’s kidnapper was standing over her, anger blazing in his eyes. He had walked towards her, exuding an almost primal energy, bent down and smacked her across the face.
It stopped her crying immediately. It also hurt like hell. The blow had been so fierce she had felt like her head was coming off.
She had no doubt that he was more than capable of killing her. And she realised that, even with everything that had happened to her – Martin Fletcher, finding Tony on the floor of their house – until now she had never truly experienced fear.
He bent down again. She tried to get to her feet, but couldn’t. Still sitting, she scuttled away from him.
He reached her quickly. She pushed herself back into the wall. He stood over her, bearing down. She began to whimper.
Then remembered the screwdriver, held it out in front of her with both hands, point towards him. Hoped he wouldn’t notice how much her hands were shaking.
‘Don’t… don’t…’ Her voice was failing her.
He looked down at her. ‘You gonna use that? Eh?’
She kept pointing the screwdriver at him, her hands still shaking.
‘You gonna use that on me?’ He laughed. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘You’d better. You do that again, pick up somethin’ and point it at me, you’d better be ready to use it. ’Cause baby or no baby, I’ll stop you.’
He moved in towards her, his hand outstretched again.
Marina started to cry once more.
Then the lights went out.
‘Bastard…’
The darkness was all-enveloping. Phil was trying to use the torch as he went down, hoping to see how far he had to go, but he was finding it difficult to hold on to it and the ladder at the same time. He missed his footing and the torch fell from his grasp. The light bounced and swung as it dropped down to the bottom of the shaft.
He put his arm out, tried to grab it, and lost his balance, almost following it. Desperately he cast around for something to grip on to and found the black cable attached to the other side of the shaft. He grabbed at it, hoping it would steady him, but when he pulled, transferring all his body weight to it, it came away in his hand.
He flailed around in the dark, trying not to fall. Luckily, his other hand managed to get a grip on the ladder once more. He clung to it, steadying himself. Took a few deep breaths, continued his descent.
As he neared the bottom, he noticed a dim light shining upwards. His torch. Thank God it was still working, because he was sure he had pulled out the power cable. He stepped off the ladder, picked up the torch. Looked round.
He quickly worked out that he was in the cellar of the house that had once stood above him. A quick examination of the walls bore that out. Bare brick with overhead rafters and a hard-packed dirt floor. He swung the torch’s light into every corner. No sign of Marina.
He looked round again, saw a door set into the wall. Heavy and old, made of solid timber. He almost ran to it, trying the handle. Locked. He tried pulling it. Too thick to budge.
‘Shit…’
Then something caught his eye. Against one wall was an alcove. He assumed it must have been a fireplace at one time, with a chimney leading up to the rest of the building. Someone had customised it. Bricks were piled at one side of the opening and it looked as if a tunnel had been hollowed out through the fireplace.
He examined the hole with his torch, making mental measurements. There was no other opening in the room, no door in or out, so this must be the only way through. Phil hated confined spaces. Tried to avoid lifts, even, whenever possible.
But he got down on his hands and knees, the torch clenched in his teeth. He really should go back, tell the others, get them down here. Send them into the tunnel. He tried to look along it, see if there was any light, hear if
