46

I’M SINKING, SO FAST IT FEELS LIKE I’M STILL FALLING, INTO A blackness that is dense enough to be solid, and I know that, against every instinct, I cannot panic. I have minutes. Fall into the Thames around Westminster in the middle of winter and it takes roughly 120 seconds before the cold paralyses your limbs and you sink to the bottom. In late September I might have a few minutes longer.

Still moving fast. Make those minutes count. Limbs outstretched now to slow me down. Looking around. Eyes stinging. Nothing to see but shifting dark shapes. Lights. The lights from the bank above me. I’m not sinking any more but moving fast all the same. The tide has got me.

Swim. Get up to those lights. Don’t breathe. Don’t think about the river, about the darkness below, about weed tangling in my face. Make those minutes count. Savage pain as something hits me hard. I’m being dragged against a hard surface I can’t see. For a second I stop moving and know I’m caught on something. The river rips past me like a waterfall and I know this is the end. Then I’m free again, spinning off into darkness. Lights still above me. Don’t breathe. Minutes have gone by. Clock ticking. I need air.

I’m breathing. I’ve broken the surface. Then I’m down again, but air in my lungs has given me hope. I kick. Keep moving. Don’t give in to the cold. A body is recovered from the Thames every week of the year. Most of them are found in London. Don’t be one of them.

I surface again. The huge wheel of the London Eye is already small in the distance. I’ve travelled so far already. The tide is hurrying away with me. Then I’m dragged under again. I am in the river in the dark in a heavy tide. I’ll be found, days from now, probably in the U-bend around the Isle of Dogs because that’s where most bodies get trapped. I’ll be bloated and mutilated and the seagulls will have got to me. I’ll be laid in a shallow, large bath at Wapping while the Marine Unit take fingerprints – if I have fingers left – and try to establish my identity.

But I’m still alive, still breathing and moving. Get the jacket off, the fabric is heavy and it’s dragging me down. I risk reaching for the button and remember just in time.

The jacket might be my only hope. That and Joesbury’s mobile phone in my pocket. He and the others will know where I am. They’ll be following me downriver. Just stay alive. I catch a glimpse of something huge on the bank. Cleopatra’s Needle. I’m heading for Waterloo Bridge. There’s the Queen Mary. The river bends sharply here. This is where I run the greatest risk of being crushed to death against a bridge pier, or a tethered barge. It might also be my best chance.

I turn to face the direction I’m travelling in. I’m almost in the centre of the river and I have absolutely no chance in this tide of swimming to the side. But the north bank is busy here, it’s almost a parking lot for pleasure boats and historic ships. Shit, that hurts. Something hits me in the face and for a few seconds I can’t even breathe, but the boats of the Embankment are getting closer. There is a small one, some sort of water taxi, it has lines running to the shore. Several of them just above water level.

I hit them full on. The river howls and increases its grip. It’s pulling me round, trying to get me free, it’s not giving up on me just yet. I catch hold of a line and find myself almost horizontal in the water, so hard is the river dragging me downstream. I make the last effort I’m capable of and manage to hook my elbow around the line. I lock my hands together. It’s all I can do.

Now I really do have minutes. Minutes before my strength gives up. Minutes before the cold, even in September, gets to me. Joesbury and the others will be looking for me. The control room in Scotland Yard will know where I am, will be sending back information. Someone will come for me.

I just have to hope Joesbury’s swanky tracking devices don’t mind the wet.