Christopher Fowler - The Water Room

‘Why confide in her? Why not tell us?’

‘Perhaps his discovery was of particular relevance to her, or this missing partner of hers who was currently last heard from in-’ he consulted his notes, ‘Santorini?’

‘Let’s assume for the moment that you’re correct, and that this is some kind of domino effect, in which case Elliot Copeland dies to prevent the identity of Ruth Singh’s killer from emerging, and Jake Avery dies to keep Elliot’s murderer hidden. There’s no driving force to the hypothesis-no motive. None of these people had the usual family ties.’

‘You forget that following my theory, we only need a motive for the first death, and that could be something terribly mundane. We know that Ruth Singh had been the victim of racism from the tape Kallie gave us, if thirty seconds of guttural filth on a bad line can be taken as racism. We know that, despite Mark Garrett’s claim to the contrary, she was visited by him the night before she died. Let’s assume she made an enemy, someone who found a way to take her life-’

‘-by flooding her bathroom and quickly draining it.’

‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, John.’

‘What’s wrong with a simple conk on the head? She was an old lady, all anyone would have had to do was push her downstairs. Why go to the trouble of drowning her on dry land?’

‘I think we have to set aside the “why” and concentrate on “how” for a while.’

‘How is it you always manage to sidestep the logical questions any normal person would ask?’

‘I never gave you any reason to assume I was logical. Have you ever known me to plan anything more than two hours in advance, or stay awake all the way through a committee meeting?’ Bryant reached back to his bookshelf and began pulling down some dusty, tattered volumes.

‘I suppose not,’ May sighed. ‘If you were logical, you’d have stayed with Alma as your landlady in the old apartment. She washed your socks for forty years. Any sane person would have bid you good riddance, but she’s terribly cut up about you dumping her. And I don’t think you’ll find the answer in any of those filthy old books.’

‘Well, of course, that’s exactly what you would say,’ Bryant bridled, loading them into his briefcase. ‘Anyway, what about your granddaughter? I thought you were bringing April in to help us. I thought you were going to have it out with her once and for all. Put your own house in order, I say.’

Stalemate, thought May. ‘So what are the books for?’ he asked, giving in gracefully.

‘Ah, well. Seeing as we divided assignments, I thought I’d try adopting your methods for a change. Any word from Greenwood?’

‘Monica called to tell me that Jackson Ubeda and her husband are going off somewhere together tomorrow night, and that he’s not expected back until the next morning. I think it was her way of telling me that she’d be alone in the house.’

‘Thank God I don’t have your trouble with women. What a moral dilemma. Which duty will you choose, I wonder? To satisfy the unfulfilled wife or to rescue the good name of your rival? The unit can’t help you now, you know, not with Raymond having to report our every movement to Marsden and the rest of HMCO liaison.’

‘Then I’ll inform you of my decision,’ said May.

‘And I’ll do the same if my hunch with these books pays off.’

The axe is about to fall on this place and they’re behaving like children, guarding their essays from each other, thought Longbright, watching them from the door. They’re out of step, out of date, and it looks like they’re finally running out of time.

Bryant unloaded the books at the end of Tate’s bed. ‘I’m afraid they’re rather esoteric,’ he apologized, ‘but you may find them interesting.’

The itinerant turned over the first volume and studied the title suspiciously. A gruesome face on the cover of Dental Evidence in Body Identification. Volume One: Bridgework stared back at him. ‘Thank you,’ he said uncertainly.

There was an unbearably terminal aspect to Tate’s little room. When he had mentioned the stripped-back bareness of the workers’ houses in Balaklava Street, homes that had been built for the poor, he could have been describing this, his own eventual residence. His knotted hands turned the pages with surprising delicacy. On the sill above his bed stood a row of syrup tins containing stunted geraniums. An overpowering smell of stewed beef wafted in from the corridor.

‘I wondered if we might talk a little more,’ Bryant suggested.

‘You want to know something, don’t you? There’s been another one.’

‘You heard.’

‘Everyone talks in here. But I saw.’

‘What do you mean, you saw?’

‘What you told me off for doing.’

‘You mean watching?’ Bryant sat forward. ‘You were watching the house?’

‘In one of my positions. Traffic warden uses it. Runs out from his hidey-hole to arrest the cars.’

Bryant knew that rough sleepers developed territorial habits every bit as strong as those with homes. ‘Where is that?’

‘On the waste ground.’

‘What did you see, Mr Tate?’

‘Saw the bedroom light go out in number 41.’

‘Did you notice who went in?’

‘No. You can only see upstairs from there.’

‘What about Elliot Copeland? Did you see him on the night of the accident?’

‘Yes. The earth swallowed him up.’ Tate turned the pages, feigning disinterest in the conversation.

‘This is very important,’ urged Bryant. ‘Did you see anything at all that could identify the culprit?’ The moment he spoke, the delicate skein of communication between them was damaged. Tate’s eyes clouded as he closed the book. Bryant knew he had to try another approach.

‘I thought you might like that volume.’ He reached over and tapped the cover of a battered paperback entitled The Vanished Rivers of London . ‘Fascinating stuff about this area. It even has a picture of your temporary home in the alley. Of course, it wasn’t just an alley back then, when the book was written. It was called Streamside Path.’

Tate’s eyes flickered.

‘Page 201, if you’re interested.’ Bryant flicked through and allowed the book to fall open at the marked spot. He waited while Tate studied the picture.

‘I wonder how many other tunnels there are beneath the terraces around here,’ he mused. ‘Three or four, at least.’

‘Seven,’ murmured Tate without thinking. ‘All forgotten.’

‘Not by you. I presume their waters run into the Regent’s Canal.’

‘Some. Not all.’

‘Why not?’

No answer.

‘I just want to know what happened. I can see it’s painful to talk about these things. But there are other ways. Can’t you give me some guidance, put me on the right track? The river Fleet, I know it’s connected, but I don’t understand its significance.’

‘The river is where it all started. It has the power to change lives.’

‘You could show me.’

‘You’d tell.’

‘I couldn’t promise not to if I found evidence pertaining to the investigation,’ Bryant pointed out.

‘Then we won’t go.’

‘I can give you anonymity. No one will know it was you who took me. Your identity would remain a secret.’

Tate thought for a moment. ‘Can you get more books?’

‘Easily.’

‘Do you swear?’

‘On my honour as a gentleman.’

‘Haven’t heard anyone say that for a long time.’ Tate eased himself from the bed and pulled a hammer from underneath the mattress. ‘We’ll need this.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It was a long hot summer. No rain from June the sixth until three weeks ago. Dried out all the river beds.’