me that in 1962
the world was literally five minutes away from the edge. The crews
were in their cockpits, with sealed envelopes containing the bits of
Russia they would be expected to find and obliterate. You know what
else? They didn't have enough fuel to get back .. . not that there
would have been much to come back to. No, I'm glad she hasn't been
born into a world like that."
"She hasn't? What about September 11, and the aftermath .. ."
"Ah but.. ." He stopped. "Let's change the subject. That wee girl
over there represents the start of the finest years of our lives. She's
a shining light in all the gloom we've had recently. Let's just focus
on the good times and enjoy them."
"That's a deal," Karen agreed, pouring coffee into two mugs. "We can
start with our holiday this summer. Where are we going to take
Danielle?"
Andy took his two slices of toast and honey, and his mug, and sat down
at the kitchen table. "Well," he began, "Broughty Ferry's quite
nice."
The baby was still asleep when he left the house fifteen minutes later,
having agreed with his wife's proposal that they find a rental villa
somewhere in France, in early September, and drive there. He climbed
into his metallic blue Mondeo, reversed it carefully out of the
driveway, and headed into the centre of Perth.
Even in the morning traffic, it took him less than ten minutes to reach
his destination. He parked beside a row of five police transport
vehicles, each one full of officers, and stepped out into the morning
sunshine. He looked out over the flat plain of the North Inch; the sun
of the previous few days had begun to dry it out, but it was still
muddy and unsightly. He dreaded to think what the insides of the
houses looked like.
He glanced around him as he walked towards the terrace that faced the
River Tay, where, he knew, the worst of the flooding had happened. His
eye fell on a uniformed inspector, in summer dress, as was he. "Good
morning, Harry," he called out.
Inspector Sharp turned and made an involuntary move to attention as he
recognised the newcomer. He was one of the two senior officers in
charge of policing Perth and its surrounding area. In the larger
Edinburgh force, which Martin had just left, his opposite number
carried a much higher rank.
"Hello, sir," the dark-haired, middle-aged policeman responded; he made
to salute, but the deputy chief constable waved it away with a smile.
"Don't start that, for Christ's sake; on my first week in this job I
started to get tennis elbow. How's it going?"
"It's not yet, sir, but then it's not quite time. As you ordered, we
contacted all the householders who moved out and told them we'd pick
them up from their temporary lodgings and get them here for nine." He
nodded towards two patrol cars that had just drawn up. "That's them
starting to arrive now. I've got our boys and girls waiting in the
minibuses over there, ready to help with the really dirty stuff, and
with the heavy lifting. Some of these people have lived here for
years, and are quite old."
"Fine. Have you got plenty of tools; shovels and stuff for shifting
mud? I guess there'll be plenty of it down there."
"There'll be all sorts of stuff down there in those cellars, sir. I
was a young constable the last time something like this happened, and I
was involved in an operation just like this one. There was fish, rats,
condoms, you name it... and this flood's been a lot worse." He
frowned, briefly. "Mind you, it's not quite right to call them
cellars; with these houses they're more like basement floors, some of
them with several rooms. Their gardens are well below street level,
and they back on to the houses in the street behind; so they've filled
up, and the water's come in from there as well as from the front door
above."
"How deep has it been?" Martin asked.
Sharp scratched his chin. "The water was over four feet deep across
the Inch," he replied. "That means it was above ground-floor level in
the houses. So it must have been fifteen to eighteen feet inside them,
anyway."
"Bloody hell; I understand now what you mean about the mess. We'd
better see for ourselves, then. Go on, Harry; get the show on the
road."
He stood back and watched as Inspector Sharp went about his business,
speaking to each of the householders who had been brought to the scene,
then waving the waiting constables and sergeants, some of them smiling,
no doubt at the prospect of overtime, from the transport vehicles. They
were all wearing overalls, and green rubber boots. Suddenly, Martin
felt gripped by guilt; or perhaps it was only the eagerness of a new
commander to set an example.
"Inspector," he called again. Sharp turned back towards him. "Do you
have a spare set of waders, and boots, my size? Ten at a pinch, or
bigger. Oh yes, and a shovel."
"Probably, sir," he shouted. "Bobby," he yelled across to a sergeant,
who seemed to be supervising the helpers. "See if you can sort out
some gear for the DCC The officer nodded, and headed off towards the
minibuses; Martin decided that he would be as well to follow, to
simplify the process.
The waders and boots that were left in the limited carry space of the
vehicles were, not unnaturally, the dirtiest and scruffiest in the
police stockroom, fifty officers having had their pick of the rest. He
grabbed a set that looked as if they would fit him adequately, and
struggled into them, trying not to guess where and why they had last
been used.
When he returned to the terrace, he found Inspector Sharp speaking
earnestly to a second group of homeowners who had been brought to the
scene. There were five of them, and from the way they stood together,
he guessed that they were two couples and one single person, an old
lady who looked at least seventy-five years old. She was white-faced,
and her dull grey hair was tied back in a bun, from which a few wispy
strands had escaped, to wave on the morning breeze. She was dressed in
a long, shabby blue coat, even on a day that was already fulfilling its
promise of warmth, but, like the other four, she had come prepared for
her task, in that she wore a pair of black, ankle-length rubber boots
over her thick brown stockings.
She looked apprehensive; Martin moved towards her, almost
automatically. "I was just suggesting to the people, sir," said Sharp,
as he approached, 'that they might like our officers to go in to their
houses first, to do what we can to make sure that the stairways are
safe, before they venture in."
"That seems sensible to me," the deputy chief constable agreed. He
looked round the group. "Is everyone happy with that?"
The male halves of the couples nodded, but the old lady pursed her lips
and knitted her brow. "Ah'll go in ma ain hoose, son," she said.
"It might not be safe, Mrs. ..."
"Miss!" she snapped, cutting the inspector off short. "Miss Bonney,
&nb
sp; Wilma Bonney. Ah've been through this before, and the last time your
lot cleared up for me wi' their big feet they broke half my china.
That'll no happen again. Ah'll be fine goin' in there. At my age,
Ah've learned to watch my step."
Martin was on the point of suggesting that it might have been the flood
that had broken her china, when he thought better of it. "In that
case, Miss Bonney," he suggested, 'maybe you'll let me come in with you
... just in case some of your furniture's been moved about by the
water, and has to be shifted."
She stared at him, as if she was weighing up his sincerity or his
trustworthiness. Whatever test she was applying, he passed. "Och, all
right," she muttered. "You'll be careful where you put your feet,
though."
"I promise." He smiled at Sharp behind her back as he followed Wilma
Bonney's brisk walk across the street. He kept close to her, for the
mud on the roadway was still damp in places, and he was afraid that she
might slip, but she was as surefooted as he was in his clumsy
footwear.
"Number twelve," she announced, leading him towards a blue doorway, on
the far side of a broad flagstone landing, just a single step up from
the pavement. Martin looked down and realised that it formed a bridge
across a narrow basement yard, on to which three barred windows looked.
The glass in each was broken.
Miss Bonney delved deep into her purse and produced a Yale key, which
she used to open the door. Martin saw that the frame around the keeper
of the lock had been repaired, and remembered being told by Sharp that
he had sent carpenters to the scene when the flood had receded
sufficiently, to secure several houses where the water had smashed its
way in.
"Oh dear." He heard the woman sigh as she looked into her home, and he
sympathised at once. There was a watermark eighteen inches above the
floor level; the carpet runner in the entry hall lay twisted and
filthy, embedded in an undercoat of stones, mire, paper and other
detritus. "Ah could dna have expected anything else, could Ah, son?"
"No', he agreed, solemnly. "I suppose not." He stepped into the hall
and looked into the living room that opened from it. He was both
surprised and pleased to see that it was empty of furniture, although
its fitted carpet, whatever colour it had been originally, was now
almost black.
"Ma nephew helped me move my stuff upstairs," she said, reading his
mind, 'or at least, as much as he could. He's a good boy. He'd have
come wi' me this morning but he's at his work."
"What about the basement?" asked Martin.
"He moved what he could, but there's some big kitchen furniture and
wardrobes and the like that he could dna shift up the stair. He moved
ma good china ... the stuff that your lot didna' break the last time ..
. but all ma usin' stuff's still down there, and ma washing machine,
and ma fridge."
"Let's go and see it, then."
"A'right." She led him to a steep, narrow staircase behind a door at
the back of the hall. She was about to lead the way down, until he
stopped her. Every tread was covered with mud.
"Please, let me go first. I insist."
She frowned at him, but let him go ahead of her. He took the stairway
slowly, as carefully as he could, gripping the rails on either side as
hard as he could, for they too were slippery. The walls on either side
were sodden, and in places the plaster bulged outwards.
It was only when he got to the foot that he realised she had been
following behind him. She stepped carefully off the last tread, and
stood beside him, looking around the big room into which they had
emerged. "This is ma kitchen," she announced; unnecessarily, for he
could see, or at least make out the shapes of a cooker, and a tall
fridge. He glanced down at his feet, and saw that he was standing in
mud up to his ankles. The place was an almost indescribable mess; it
was strewn with more stones, crockery.. . some of it broken, he
noticed ... and with tins and packets of food from storage cupboards
and from the fridge. But it was more than just the mess; the place
smelled terrible. For some reason, he remembered a holiday in Spain,
when a truck had come to pump out a blockage in the sewer not far from
Bob Skinner's villa.
He looked at Miss Bonney; she caught his glance and gave him a faint
smile. There might have been a tear in her eye, but then again, there
might not.
"I'm very sorry," he said, sincerely.
"It's no' your fault, son," she replied, quietly. "It's God's; naebody
else's but his." He heard himself sigh.
"What else is there down here?" he asked.
She pointed to her right, to a door in the far corner. "Ma laundry
room's through there, wi' a toilet off it." Then she nodded to her
cupboard. Ah'll just go and see whit they're like, and then, Ah
suppose, Ah'll have to let your folk in after a', tae help me clear oot
this mud."
"Yes," he murmured. "It's best."
He watched her as she squelched across the kitchen, towards the door on
the far left. Her boots made a sucking noise with each step.
She reached the doorway, and turned, laboriously, to step through.
Then, without warning, as he watched her, Martin saw her hand fly to
her mouth. She gave a short gasping cry, and stumbled back until she
lost her footing, and sat down with an audible splash on the muddy
riverbed which had invaded her home.
He did his best to rush over to her, but his footwear made haste
impossible. When he reached her, the old lady was trying to push
herself up. He leaned over her, took her gently under the arms and
raised her to her feet. "There, now," he said, hoping to soothe her.
"What happened?"
She neither answered him, nor looked at him. Instead she kept her eyes
fixed on the doorway. He turned; when he saw what held her gaze, he
almost stumbled himself.
In the short corridor that led through to the front rooms, there lay
the body of a man. It was on its left side, half submerged in the
mire. Looking at it, Martin knew at once why the smell had been so
bad.
"Jesus!" he whispered. "Is that your nephew? Could he have come back
here and been caught in the flood?"
"No," Miss Bonney whispered. "Ma nephew's a great big lad. Ah've
never seen thon before in ma life."
The Deputy Chief Constable cursed himself for not having brought a
two-way radio. Then he remembered the cellphone in his trouser pocket.
He fished inside his waders until he found it. His white shirt was
unimaginably muddy, but he gave it no thought as he dialled the
headquarters number.
"This is Mr. Martin," he told the switchboard operator, as soon as he
answered. "Patch me through on the radio to Inspector Sharp." The man
obeyed, without a word.
"Yes, sir?" Sharp's voice was remarkably clear. "Anything up?"
"Very much so," he answered, tersely. "Have we had any
missing persons
reports in the wake of this flood?"
"No, sir," the inspector replied. "None at all. We had an eye out for
them too, don't worry."
"Well, we've missed one. He's down here in Miss Bonney's basement. Get
an ambulance along here will you, but tell them no lights and siren, I
don't want any unnecessary fuss."
He ended the call, and turned back to the old lady. "Can you stand on
your own for a bit?"
She gave him a withering look. "Of course."
In three long strides he stepped over to the door, then shuffled his
way through, until he stood over the body. Years of experience had
taught him to ignore, or at least tolerate, the smell. He crouched
down and leaned over, to see better. It was in a filthy state, and
there were early signs of decomposition, but it was still clearly the
corpse of a middle-aged man. It was clad in what looked like a heavy
shirt, rough jacket, and flannel trousers. He glanced along towards
the feet and saw socks, but no shoes.
He leaned further across, meaning to use the opposite wall to lever
himself upright again, then paused, unusually aware of his contact
lenses as his eyes narrowed. The body was lying awkwardly, and its
right arm seemed to have been twisted behind it by the water.
From this new angle he could see clearly a mark on the wrist; it was
vivid, the kind of groove that could have been left by a ligature.
"Bloody hell," he murmured, then pushed himself to his feet off the
wall, fumbling for his cellphone once again.