Хилари Боннер - Deadly Dance

‘Hold on a minute.’

Vogel lowered himself into the pit and bent over to examine closely where the men had been drilling around the edges. He asked to borrow a screwdriver with which he prodded and probed.

‘This couldn’t be some kind of giant plug, could it?’

‘A plug, mate?’

‘Yes, exactly that. A plug made to fit precisely into a bloody great hole.’

‘Well if it is, then it looks to be permanent.’

‘It can’t be permanent. It has to move. The only question is how it moves.’

Vogel hauled himself up and began to root around the garage.

‘What’s that,’ he asked, pointing at a large piece of machinery propped in a corner. ‘Isn’t that some sort of hydraulic pump?’

‘Well yes, but it’s just the sort of stuff that ends up in a garage, isn’t it?’ said the same young woman CSI.

‘Is it?’ queried Vogel. ‘Look, you can see it’s in decent working order. No dust. Could have been used recently. Hydraulics can be channelled to move large objects. Did nobody think of that?’ The CSIs exchanged uncertain glances. ‘If this is what I think it might be, that pump must connect to something,’ muttered Vogel.

Jenkins spoke then, pointing to a cupboard over to Vogel’s left.

‘Look at that, boss,’ she said.

The door to the cupboard was slightly ajar. Vogel could just see a wheel inside, fitted to the wall, and a complex of pipes emerging from the floor.

‘Have you checked that out?’ he asked the CSIs.

‘Probably some sort of old water supply,’ replied one of them. ‘We did look at it, yes…’

His voice tailed away as he glanced back from the cupboard to the pump.

‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered.

‘Let’s get on to it,’ snapped Vogel.

‘You guys.’ He turned to the workmen. ‘Either of you two know any more about engineering than this lot seem to?’

‘A bit, I’ve worked in mining in South Africa,’ said one of them, a big man with an abundance of red hair that matched his complexion. ‘We used hydraulic rams over there. I’ll have a look if you like.’

‘Good, get on with it.’

Vogel turned to the second workman. ‘And you, clear all that rubble away in the pit. They’ll help you.’ He gestured at the less-than-thrilled-looking CSIs. ‘If I’m right, we need to make sure there’s nothing down there that might impede smooth movement.’

The redhaired workman was already at work.

‘The pump’s petrol driven and its tank’s half full,’ he reported. He moved the pump close to the cupboard. Vogel was no longer surprised when it became apparent that the pipe-fitting connectors in the wall cupboard and on the pump itself matched perfectly.

The workman was able to attach the pump with little difficulty.

‘Shall I fire her up?’ he asked.

‘Quick as you like.’

The man paused.

‘You know, it would be quite an engineering feat to construct anything like this. Can’t be many people capable of it.’

‘No,’ agreed the DCI, thinking about Willis’s background as a mechanical design engineer.

‘Just the one,’ he continued. ‘But he is Aeolus.’

The man looked confused, perhaps he was one of surely only a handful of people in the country who’d managed to avoid the massive media coverage.

‘Just get on with it,’ instructed Vogel.

The pump fired at the third attempt.

The workman then began to turn the wheel within the cupboard, at first with no apparent result. He tried again. There was a grinding noise, followed by a shuffling sound, which came from the foot of the inspection pit. Vogel swung round, lurched towards the edge of the pit and lowered himself down in one clumsy but effective motion.

Part of the base of the pit was moving; a section of concrete was sliding slowly to one side. But the giant plug, as he had rather aptly described it, was moving too slowly for Vogel. As soon as a big enough gap had been created he leaned through it, hanging on precariously in a crab-like position, with one arm and one leg still on the stationary part of the pit’s base.

As soon as he got his head through the gap, he could tell there was a considerable space beneath him. But it was very nearly pitch black, barely illuminated at all by the light behind him. He yelled for a torch which was thrown down by a CSI. He shone it into the space.

Dawn Saslow was just a few feet away, sprawled on the floor and chained to a wall, the way Willis must have left her. Even in the dim light of the torch, it was immediately apparent that she had been badly beaten. Her face and clothes were covered in blood. One cheek was little more than a swollen, black mass. Vogel could also smell the sweet stench of human excrement. Oh my God, he thought, were they too late? Then Dawn lifted one arm, just a little, almost like a weak wave of greeting.

She was alive.

‘It’s all right, Dawn, it’s all right now, we’re here,’ he shouted.

She seemed unable to speak. He couldn’t tell yet how bad her injuries were. But Dawn Saslow was alive. The massive block of concrete continued to shift. Vogel let himself drop to the lower ground level. He ran to Dawn, scrabbling hopelessly at the cuffs around her legs and the chain which restrained her. PC Jenkins followed Vogel down through the inspection pit and was quickly beside him.

‘Sir, gently, sir, you could hurt her,’ she said.

She let her fingers brush lightly against Dawn Saslow’s good cheek.

‘Hang on in there, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘We’ve got you now and we’ll have you free in a jiff.’

It was probably the gentle touch and the kind words which caused the tears that began to run freely down Saslow’s damaged face.

The workmen had come well prepared. On cue, one of them jumped down wielding a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters. Vogel gestured him forwards and he began at once to cut through the cuffs and the chain restraining Saslow. She grunted with pain as the man attacked the cuffs around her ankles, which had bitten deeply into her flesh, but, although clearly shocked to the core, he was admirably quick and efficient.

Once Dawn was free Vogel wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

‘It’s all right, baby,’ he said. ‘It’s all right.’

He could feel the young woman’s body heaving, her sobbing now quite out of control. But she was alive, bless her, she was alive. Vogel felt relief flowing through every vein in his body. Eventually Dawn’s sobbing began to subside, then she spoke. Her voice was weak, little more than a croak, but the message was clear enough.

‘Just get the bastard, boss,’ she said.

The paramedic team were still checking out Dawn Saslow, before carrying her from the prison that had nearly become her grave, when Hemmings called Vogel’s mobile. He said that Willis/Aeolus had been duly tracked up the M4 and spotted swinging off towards Heathrow.

A simple check of flight information had already revealed that he’d booked himself on a flight to Moscow under the name of Richard Perry, whose passport and driving licence he presumably had with him.

Well, he didn’t think he had anything to fear, did he?

After all, he’d been quite confident that Dawn Saslow would not be found, unless he chose for her to be.

The airport police, a branch of the Met since the 70s when airport security concerns had begun to seriously escalate, had been alerted. Yet, so far, they had been told to keep only a watching brief. They, and just about every cop in the country, had been informed of DC Saslow being missing and instructed that her recovery was first priority. Now she was safe, their priorities had shifted. Heathrow’s highly trained specialist police unit were fully armed and programmed to handle major terrorist situations. Vogel thought they were just the boys to deal with bloody Aeolus.