109

‘What do you think the chances are?’ Glenn Branson said, as Grace drove slowly along the road, peering to the left, looking for the building Lynn Sebbage had described. A strong wind buffeted the car and big spots of rain spattered on the windscreen.

‘One in a million? One in a billion? One in a trillion that he’s in this tunnel?’

‘You’re not trying to think like the perpetrator,’ Grace said.

‘Yeah, and that’s just as well, coz I’d be hanging you on a meat hook and filming you right now if I did.’

Grace smiled. ‘I don’t think so. You’d be trying to outsmart us. How many times has he changed number plates? Those cameras he left behind, like giving us two fingers. This is a very smart guy.’

‘You sound like you admire him.’

‘I do admire him – for his professionalism. Everything else about him I loathe beyond words, but I admire his cunning. If he’s holed up anywhere with that kid, it’s not going to be some garden shed full of mushrooms. It’s going to be somewhere he knows that we haven’t thought of. So I don’t think we’re looking at one in a million. I think we’re looking at very good odds and we need to eliminate this place.’

‘You could have sent a couple of uniforms along,’ Branson said grumpily. ‘Or Norman Potting.’

‘And spoiled our fun?’ Grace said, pulling over on the kerb. ‘This looks like it.’

Moments later, in the beam of his torch, Grace saw the broken padlock lying on the ground. He knelt and peered at it closely.

‘It’s been cut through,’ he said.

Then he pulled the door open and led the way down the concrete steps. At the bottom they stepped on to a gridded metal platform with a handrail. A network of old metal pipes spread out all around them.

Branson sniffed. ‘Someone’s managed to use this place as a toilet,’ he said.

Grace peered over the handrail, then shone his torch beam down the vertical shaft.

‘Shit,’ he said under his breath. It looked a long, long way down. Then he shouted, as loudly as he could, ‘POLICE! Is anyone down there?’

His voice echoed. Then he repeated his question again.

Only the echo, falling into silence, came back at them.

The two officers looked at each other.

‘Someone’s been here,’ Glenn Branson said.

‘And might still be here,’ Grace replied, peering down the shaft again, and then looking at the ladder. ‘And I’m sodding terrified of heights.’

‘Me too,’ Branson said.

‘Heights and claustrophobia? Anything you’re not scared of?’ Grace quizzed him with a grin.

‘Not much.’

‘Shine the torch for me. I can see a rest platform about fifty feet down. I’ll wait for you there.’

‘What about Health and Safety?’ Branson asked.

Grace tapped his chest. ‘You’re looking at him. You fall, I’ll catch you.’

He climbed over the safety rail, decided he was not going to look down, gripped both sides of the rail, found the first rung and slowly, carefully, began to descend.

It took them several minutes to get to the bottom.

‘That was seriously not fun,’ Glenn Branson said, and flashed his torch around. The beam struck the tunnel. ‘Holy fucking shit!’ He was staring at the skeletal remains.

Both men took a few steps towards them.

‘Looks like a new cold case to add to your workload, boss,’ Branson said.

But Grace wasn’t looking at the skull and bones any more. He was looking at a screwed-up ball of paper on the ground. He pulled on a pair of gloves, knelt, picked it up and opened it out. Then he frowned.

‘What is it?’ Branson said.

Grace held it up. ‘A tide chart.’

‘Shit! How long do you reckon that’s been down here?’

‘Not long,’ Grace replied. ‘It’s current. This week’s – seven days’ tides for Shoreham, starting yesterday.’

‘Why would someone want a tide chart?’

‘The entrance to the harbour mouth is only six feet deep at low tide. There’s not enough draught for big ships two hours either side of low water.’

‘You think this is connected with Tyler?’

Grace almost failed to spot the tiny object lying beneath a section of rusted piping. He knelt again and picked it up, carefully, between his gloved forefinger and thumb, then held it up.

‘I do now, for sure,’ he said. ‘A Lucky Strike cigarette.’ He pressed the burnt end to his check. ‘You know what? That’s still warm.’

Pulling on gloves himself, Glenn Branson took the tide chart and studied it for a moment. Then he checked his watch.

‘The harbour mouth opens, if that’s what they call it, at 2.06 a.m. That’s fifty-six minutes’ time. Shit! We have to stop any ship from leaving.’

This time, all his fear of heights forgotten, the Detective Sergeant threw himself up the first rungs of the ladder, with Grace inches behind.