Christopher Fowler - The Water Room

As she sought to regain a foothold in the dark snarls of weed, she knew that the poor thing was dying. She wondered if foxes could do something like this. They had been drawn into the city to scavenge on junk food, but did they also prey on cats? Cleo was covered in mud and blood. It was as if something had clawed its way up through the moist earth to attack her.

By the time she was able to gently lift it free, the cat was dead. Kallie glanced back at the little terraced house, its interior darkened, its brickwork retreating from sight under cover of rainfall, as if the property was disassociating itself from her palpable distress.

‘Are you sure you can keep up?’ asked May, concerned. His partner was breathing hard and had paused to lean against the railings.

Bryant waved aside the concern for his health. ‘I’m fine, don’t worry about me. I’ve been much better since I started remembering to take my blue pills.’

‘Why, what do they do?’

‘They alleviate the side effects of my yellow pills. I don’t think he’s got this right. I expected the river Lea, something over Romford way.’

The detectives were following Gareth Greenwood down Farringdon Road, rather too closely for comfort, but at least the heavy rain was reducing their visibility. The Quality Chop House still advocated working-class catering on its steamy windows, but now most of the shops reflected a neighbourhood filled with single professionals in converted loft apartments. Ahead, where Farringdon Lane branched away, stood the slim wedge of a public house, the Betsy Trotwood. They sheltered in its lee and watched as Greenwood closed his umbrella, striding off in the direction of Clerkenwell Tube station.

‘The Fleet is still the best known of all the London rivers,’ said Bryant as they stepped back into the rain. ‘But its remains don’t go near any of the city’s financial institutions, so we can assume he’s not out to rob a bank. I’ve been doing a bit of research into the subject of lost waterways, and it’s fascinating stuff. Various tributaries fed into the Fleet as it flowed south, the largest junction comprising the two that flowed either side of Parliament Hill Fields, to meet in Camden Town. Beyond the junction, it was reported to be sixty-five feet wide when in flood. By the time it got to Holborn Viaduct it was wide enough to float boats on. He’s not carrying any equipment. You’re sure he made the appointment for this morning?’

‘That’s what he told Monica. She rang me last night as soon as he went to the pub.’

Greenwood had alighted from a bus in Rosebery Avenue, passing so close to the detectives that they were obliged to hide themselves behind their umbrellas. The academic was short and stout, with a mane of yellow-grey hair that would have allowed him to pass as a dinosaur rocker, especially as he was wearing brown boots with jeans tucked into them. He strode briskly along wet pavements, but mercifully stopped to admire something in the window of a furniture shop, which gave his pursuers the chance to gain ground.

‘There were plenty of wells bored along the valley line of the Fleet in medieval times,’ Bryant continued. ‘Holy Well, Bagnigge Wells, Clerk’s Well, St Clement’s Well-they formed spa resorts or the sites of nunneries, and some of the water sources are still active. You can buy bottled water from the Sadler’s Wells. It’s got a bit of an undertaste but it’s quite nice. Listen to this-’ He pulled a bedraggled scrap from his pocket. ‘ “Come prithee make it up, Miss, and be as lovers be, We’ll go to Bagnigge Wells, Miss, and there we’ll have some tea.” The Apprentice Song .’

‘So you’re saying that the Fleet still flows?’ asked May. ‘I thought you said it had silted up and been covered over.’

‘Yes, but apparently not all of it-the wells are there, and water always finds a way. We build dams of brick, and rivers simply flow around them. The Fleet was thirty feet under street level in places. It flowed beneath the Regent’s Canal, which is only shallow.’

‘You talk about it in the past tense.’

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t. The London water table is rising fast, you know. Gardens are becoming marshy once more. It’s inevitable that some of the old rivers will make a reappearance at such a time. They have before. The Fleet would be with us now if the butchers of Eastcheap hadn’t emptied entrails into it for centuries. They were called “pudding”, you know, animal guts. That’s what Pudding Lane-where the Great Fire started-refers to. People imagine plum cakes, but it’s reeking entrails. Can you still see Greenwood?’

‘He’s heading toward Turnmill Street.’

‘You see, “Turnmill”. There were a number of water mills here. Dickens often used this area. Saffron Hill was the home of Fagin and his lost boys.’

‘Wait, he’s stopped. He’s looking for something.’

Their quarry appeared to be consulting a piece of paper. After a moment, he folded it away and set off again.

‘You know, we’re very close to the Fleet Ditch now,’ said Bryant, stabbing his stick in the direction of the drains. ‘The Fleet was covered from Holborn Bridge to the Punch Tavern. Today it’s a sewer that you can supposedly still reach from the arched tunnel entrance past St Bride’s, but it just empties into the Thames. What can he possibly want with it at this point?’

Greenwood had stopped again. Now he stood in a curious stretch of the street between fashionable restaurants and derelict houses, looking along the pavement. The figure who stepped down from the shelter of the bookshop doorway looked familiar to May. He was tall and slender, long-necked, elegantly dressed, possibly of Ethiopian extraction. The pair spoke briefly, and when they made their move it was so fast that the detectives nearly missed them. They had passed through a door cut into the wooden frame covering an alley no wider than a man’s arm.

May reached it first, but the door had already been closed. He put his ear to the wood and listened, then deftly picked the Yale lock. The alley beyond was filled with beer crates and empty catering drums of ghee. The brick walls were green with mossy weeds. ‘Look,’ Bryant pointed, ‘river damp. You can smell it. Brackish. Old mud.’

Greenwood and his accomplice must have passed to the end of the alley; the only other door had boxes and coils of wire stacked in front of it. The corridor opened into a small dingy square with the Edwardian stone arch of a former stable, now overgrown and litter-filled, the signs of lost utility and urban misuse. Ahead was the rear of a Romanesque building, solidly built, small windows, probably a warehouse. A wide wooden door and two narrow, filthy wire-glass panes were set in the wall, but here May’s lock-picking skills defeated him, and he was unable to gain entrance. The windows were each divided into twelve small panels. Breaking them would be too noisy and time-consuming. May looked back and saw that his partner was having trouble clambering between some rusted lengths of iron. He led Bryant away.

‘Come on, Arthur, they’ve gone for now. Let’s see if we can identify our mystery man.’

‘How?’ asked Bryant, extricating his overcoat from a length of wire fencing. ‘I’m getting holes in my good astrakhan.’

‘I fired off a good half-dozen shots on my phone with a reasonably decent zoom,’ May explained. ‘They’ve already gone to my computer. I’ll tell Bimsley to download them and start enhancing the images.’

‘Dear God, it’s technology gone mad.’

‘Not if it helps us save a colleague from ruining his career,’ May replied, linking his arm with Bryant’s. ‘Let’s go back.’

Heather Allen shed a few dutiful tears and quickly composed herself, agreeing to let Kallie bury the tiny cat in her garden. She couldn’t have it buried in her own, because George had laid decking.