Spanish teenagers, a smiling old man carrying a cocker spaniel, a couple just standing there in the busiest section of the tunnel, bewildered and lost. Mac looked around, trying to sort through the oncoming faces. Some part of him had known all along that Mr Fox was a killer. Mr Fox knew that Mac knew, and perhaps nobody else at all knew because the man pushing through the ticket barrier toward him had taken care of them all.
He was coming up behind Mac on the descending escalator.
Now he stopped and was standing on the right, in no hurry, looking straight ahead. When Mac looked back, Mr Fox failed to catch his eye. There was nothing to guarantee it was the same person, but Mac was surer than he’d ever been in his life, just as he knew that Mr Fox would somehow manage to kill him in public view and get away with it.
At the bottom of the escalator he swung right and headed to another, lower, escalator. At the base he stepped beneath a cream-tiled arch that opened out onto the platform. A train was in, and the crowds were pushing forward to board it. He skirted the passengers and continued along the platform, turning off and running up the stairs toward the Piccadilly Line.
Mac’s stomach was an acid bath. He glanced back and saw Mr Fox closing in, and felt sure he was being forced in the wrong direction. He knew the station as well as anyone and remembered that the foot tunnel they had entered was now out of use. It led to the long uphill passage connecting the station to the former Thameslink line, which had been closed down.
There was one hope; the tunnel had a cross-branch from the Piccadilly Line that was still in use. Maybe he could turn off into the crowds once more.
He felt Mr Fox tacking closer, seeking ways to move ahead, from left to right and back. He didn’t know how it happened, but when they reached the junction the crowd was too dense and Mac was forced to continue straight across. Into the section where the tiles were already crusting with grey dust, and the CCTV cameras had been dismantled, and litter from the other tunnels had blown, into the corridor that no longer led anywhere.
On, toward his death.
? Off the Rails ?
12
In the Tunnel
On top of everything else, Arthur Bryant was supposed to be conducting a walking tour around the King’s Cross underground system at seven P.M.
He had all but given up his little sideline lately. The anglophile tourists irrationally annoyed him with their endless questions, and were always trying to trip him up. If they knew so much about the subject, why did they bother coming along? The only other people who attended Bryant’s admittedly esoteric tours were retired archivists, bored housewives or socially awkward loners filling their days with museum trips and cookery courses. His pastime required him to talk to strangers, something he had little interest in doing if it didn’t involve arresting them.
When the tour company telephoned Bryant to remind him of his obligation, he tried to wriggle out of it, but it was too late to cancel. Now he looked around at the group assembled before him and conducted a head-count, studying them for the first time, and found the usual suspects:
A pair of attentive Canadians in matching fawn raincoats and pristine white sneakers who were looking as English as possible, and consequently stood out from the surrounding grubbiness like priests at a party. A Japanese couple, neat and insular, in straight-from-the-suitcase walking outfits, who oozed so much respect that Bryant avoided catching their eye in case they started bowing. A handsome young man of indeterminate Arabic extraction, the kind who could freeze an entire railway carriage just by reaching into his backpack. A handful of sturdy older ladies squeezing the walk in between a Whistler exhibition and a display of traditional dancing at the English Folk Society. A sour-faced man with an annoying sniff and a hiking stick who looked like he harboured thoughts of attacking kittens with a hammer. And a smattering of invisibles there because they wished to get out of the rain, or because they had found themselves tagging along by accident.
“We now find ourselves standing in a passage that passes beneath Pentonville Road,” Bryant told the group, not all of whom appeared to be following his words. “During the war, anti-blast walls were placed over station entrances, floodgates were erected in tunnels and trains had nets fixed over their windows to reduce injury from flying glass.”
“How could passengers tell where to get off?” asked the kitten hammerer.
“The nets had little holes cut in them so they could still read the station names,” Bryant explained. “The service ran normally despite the fact that many of the stations were modified to provide shelter. They had libraries and bunk beds, medical posts, play centres and even classrooms.”
“And racketeers,” said the Canadian lady. “I heard ticket touts illegally sold sleeping spaces on the platforms.”
“The unscrupulous are always ready to profit from war, madam,” said Bryant patiently. “When the fighting ended, the tube’s defences were dismantled at an astonishing speed, and life returned to normal very quickly.” He had one eye on a Chinese man who was more interested in the wall tiles. Perhaps he had been expecting a ceramics tour.
“What about the floodgates?” asked the Canadian lady. “They weren’t dismantled after the war.”
“No, you’re right. There was a worry that an unexploded bomb might breach one of the tunnels under the Thames, so the floodgates stayed in place.”
“But didn’t they also – ”
“Perhaps you’d like to take over the tour while I go and get some shopping in,” Bryant snapped. “I’m out of milk and you obviously know more than me.”
“You’ve no need to be rude.”
“No, but it helps to pass the time.”
Bryant struggled on for several minutes before noticing that some members of the group had lagged behind. Now one of them came running back.
“Mr Bryant, I think you’d better come, someone’s been hurt.” The young man, one of the group’s more invisible members, was pointing back into the branch of the closed-off tunnel. Bryant pushed through the gathering and followed the speaker into the disused passageway. He could see the boy sprawled on the ground, facedown, a dark pool forming around his neck.
He knew at once what he was seeing: the aftermath of a stabbing, without question. Turning the boy over, he was reminded of the one who had come into the cafe with the note; he had the facial wasting of a long-term heroin addict. Blood circled his throat like a red silk bandanna. Pulling back his collar, Bryant released an abundance of gore. His fingers could not undo the shirt buttons. Remembering that his Swiss Army knife was in his top pocket, he pulled open a blade and sawed through the buttons. The boy’s carotid artery had been pierced at two points just centimetres apart. It looked like a vampire had attacked him, but the wound was too sharp and deep to be a bite.
Blood was running across the sloping tunnel floor in a thin, persistent stream. Bryant tore off his scarf and applied pressure to the boy’s neck. “Did you see who was he with?” he asked.
“I heard a noise behind me. I turned around and saw this guy arguing with someone. There was a scuffle – I don’t know – then this one fell and the other ran off.”
“Get a good look at him?”
“No, man. It’s dark down there. Look at it.” Bryant got the point. The end of the tunnel was lost in shadow. The ceiling lights were out.
“Wait here.” He called to the rest of the group, “I just need one of you. You, ma’am? Could you come over here?” He led the Canadian lady to the victim. “I want you to take over from me, just press on his neck, if you’d be so kind.”
“I know what to do. I trained as a nurse.”
“Excellent. The rest of you, stay exactly where you are.” He flicked open his phone but it showed no reception. “Has anybody got a signal?” He raised the phone, pointing, but saw only a sea of shaking heads. “Nobody
