Christopher Fowler - The Water Room

‘I’m not at all sure I’m with you.’

‘Well, you get sudden localized floods that appear as if from nowhere, and drain away just as quickly. There was a famous case back in the 1920s-some heavy wooden coffins were found moved from their pedestals in a sealed crypt in south London. There had been an unusually high tide that season. The water had seeped in through a tiny crack, lifted the coffins and drained back out. Water can travel fast, in very odd ways. It can be drawn up through a stone wall in dry weather, causing a damp spot ten feet from the ground. And they’re saying Mrs Singh was found drowned. When I looked at this, I began to wonder.’

He smoothed out a section of the map centred on the streets where they stood. ‘You see this large corner site? It’s a gastropub called J.A.’s. Changed its name in the late nineties. Used to be the Jolly Anglers, built on Anglers’ Lane. The lane’s not marked on this map as a river, but we know from local history that it was a popular bathing spot. The council filled it in some time around 1890. So we draw that in.’ He took a blue pen and ran a broken dotted line through the lane. ‘The only other Fleet tributary is marked here, two roads further over. But of course it must have connected to Anglers’ Lane; the river had to be fed from somewhere. Which only leaves Balaklava Street-or rather, the ginnel running behind the back gardens on the west side of the terrace, where Mrs Singh lived. It then crosses over the road, because it has to get down to its next known point of existence, at Prince of Wales Road. Which means that it flows right underneath Mrs Singh’s house.’

‘But you said it had dried up.’

‘I said that parts of it had, and parts had been bricked up, so that the river has to find ways to re-route itself. You have to remember that the Fleet was once over sixty feet wide here in Camden Town, and flowed to a great basin which is now Ludgate Circus.’

‘You’re suggesting we had some kind of flash flood, that the water poured into her basement and drained back out, not even leaving a damp spot by the time Bryant and her brother arrived the next morning? It doesn’t seem very likely. Where would the water drain to?’

‘Here, to the Regent’s Canal at Camden. We know the canal is topped up by underground pipes coming from the north. We’ve never drained enough of the canal to map what’s down there, and half of the Victorian plans went missing in the sixties-they made very popular framed prints for a while. We’ve had an unusually dry summer, followed by a freakishly wet autumn. I’m wondering if the extreme weather conditions unblocked some of the pipework. It might explain how Mr Copeland died as well. Suppose water suddenly filled that ditch, undermining his truck, then drained away just as suddenly?’

‘My partner made a detailed examination of Mrs Singh’s house. He said that apart from one or two odd patches of damp, it was bone-dry. Yet ten hours earlier, it was so full of water that a woman drowned in it? I’m sorry, Mr Wilton, it’s an interesting theory, but a little far-fetched.’

‘I knew I wouldn’t be able to convince you,’ Oliver sighed, folding away the map. ‘But you’d be surprised. I know about these things. The movement of water far exceeds anything you can imagine.’

‘I’m Mr Bryant. Do you remember me?’

The elderly detective was standing on the Wiltons’ front step with rainwater pouring from the brim of his battered brown trilby. May’s encounter with Oliver Wilton the day before had given him an idea.

Brewer nodded. ‘You came to our party.’ The boy spoke at the floor. He had the look of a child who had rarely been allowed outside alone.

‘I decided to dig up a little local history, part of an investigation, and thought you might like to come along, if you weren’t doing anything. I’d be glad of the company.’

It was hard to tell whether Brewer was flattered or horrified by the idea. He was probably intrigued at the prospect of accompanying a police inspector, but the pleasure was offset by the embarrassment of being seen with an elderly man. Either way, it had to be more fun than watching other kids have battles in canoes.

‘You see, Brewer, I’m starting to think there’s something very peculiar going on around here, and I could really use a little help. I need someone who knows the area, someone who’s been keeping their eyes and ears open. I thought that person might be you.’

‘Dad’s at work. Mum’s out. I’m not allowed to go anywhere. And she says don’t talk to strangers,’ said Brewer uncomfortably.

‘Oh, you’re not a stranger,’ said Bryant airily. ‘I know a little about you. I saw you at the party, watching everyone. I bet I could tell you something about yourself.’

‘You couldn’t.’

‘A challenge, eh? I’ll make a deal with you. If I can, you have to give me a hand and put in a full day’s police work with me. I’ll clear it with your mum.’ Bryant narrowed his eyes and studied the boy. ‘I know something you probably haven’t told anyone. You really hate your name. You wish you’d been called something else.’

The boy’s continued silence betrayed him.

‘In fact, it isn’t even your first name.’ From the corner of his eye, Bryant could see the nylon football bag hanging in the hall. The initials printed on it were D.B.W. Nobody was called Derek any more, and middle-class parents were unlikely to have opted for Darren or Dale. Damien had passed the peak of its popularity. ‘Your first name is David,’ Bryant told him, ‘which is good enough for David Beckham, but apparently not for your dad. He wants to move you to a private school, where they play rugby.’ This was a combination of intuition and common sense. Tamsin was Oliver’s second wife, a fair bit younger and more of a trophy than his first. Oliver was clearly trying to pull the boy up a few social rungs to please her. He held down a decent job, was making money, and had mentioned the poor quality of the local schools at the party. On the morning of Ruth Singh’s death, Bryant had seen the boy leaving his house with football boots slung over his shoulder.

‘You’ve talked to him.’

‘Not since your party, and never about you. Grab yourself a coat, David, while I call your mother. I won’t come in-I don’t want to fill your house with water.’

Brewer hesitated for a moment. Hanging out with a disreputable-looking policeman could prove dangerous, and would probably get him into trouble with his father. The offer was worth accepting for that reason alone. He scampered off down the hall.

It was unorthodox, Bryant knew, but he needed some deeper attachment to the residents of Balaklava Street that went beyond question-and-answer, and looking after the boy was a good way of making friends.

As they splashed off along Balaklava Street a few minutes later, David felt comfortable enough to fall into step beside Bryant. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘First we’re looking up an old colleague of mine who’s moved in just a few roads away. She knows all about the area.’

‘Is she a teacher?’

‘Sort of,’ Bryant smiled. ‘She’s a witch.’

‘What do you think of the new place?’ asked Maggie Armitage with some pride. The doorway of the small nineteenth-century brick building on Prince of Wales Road was illuminated by a garish red neon sign that read: CHAPEL OF HOPE. ‘I got it from the council when the old tenants moved out. Not enough hope in the vicinity, apparently. We’ve been shifted from our eyrie above the World’s End pub in Camden Town.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Bryant. ‘Don’t tell me the landlords disapproved of your pagan gatherings.’