Стивен Бут: Dead in the Dark

‘Like-minded in what way?’

‘Do you need to ask? You know for yourself what the problems are. Everyone can see it. Quite a lot of us think we’re living in depraved and degenerate times. The EU has been a disaster for us in England. Brexit is our future. The Referendum vote gave us hope.’

‘Did it really?’

Pollitt’s lip curled.

‘You sneering liberals,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand, do you? You don’t want to hear what ordinary people think, how immigration is destroying our communities and ruining our lives. You just put your hands over your ears and shout “racist”. Well, it doesn’t work any more. Things are going our way. You’ll see.’

She studied Pollitt, feeling the anger growing inside her. He was a man of his time, a typical product of this moment in history. But that didn’t make him any less despicable in Fry’s eyes. It didn’t make him any less worthy of being stamped out of existence, like the cockroaches that no doubt were infesting his stock room.

Fry took a step closer. Pollitt seemed to recognise the look in her eyes and he flinched as if she’d hit him. But she hadn’t. Not yet.

A few minutes later Fry opened the door of the shop and stepped out into the daylight of Shirebrook marketplace.

Jamie Callaghan had been waiting impatiently for her on the pavement. He looked as though he’d been expecting the worst. He stared in horror at Fry’s hand as she rubbed her knuckles with a tissue.

‘Is everything okay?’ he said.

‘Fine.’

‘Are you sure, Diane?’

Fry shrugged. Callaghan went to the door and stuck his head into the shop.

‘Oh, God. What happened to him?’ he said.

‘I think he was visited by a group of local men who took reprisals.’

‘Polish men? East Europeans?’

‘I don’t know. They may just have been Shirebrook residents who took exception to outsiders attacking members of their community.’

‘He can tell us himself, can’t he?’

Fry turned to look at Geoff Pollitt. He glowered back at her over the hand clutching his nose.

‘He doesn’t seem to be talking,’ she said. ‘Which has got to be a good thing.’

In Lathkill Dale, Ben Cooper was lying on the ground and peering into an impenetrable darkness.

‘Carol! Carol!’ he called.

He called again and again. There was no answer. Only a trickle of soil and stone sliding into the hole from the dangerously unstable edge.

‘I didn’t even hear her fall,’ he said desperately.

‘It’s the entrance to an old mineshaft. They must be all over this valley.’

‘How far down does it go?’

‘There’s no way of telling.’

‘We need lights.’

‘The DCRO team are coming. They’ll deal with it, don’t worry.’

But Cooper was hardly listening. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he’d spotted a ledge of rock jutting out of a hole a couple of feet down. He twisted his body round and eased himself over the edge.

‘No, wait. It’s not safe.’

‘She’s probably injured,’ he said.

‘Well, we don’t want two of you getting hurt.’

Cooper hesitated only a second. One part of him knew that he was being given good advice, that it was foolhardy to risk his own safety, that he should wait for the rescue team with lights and proper equipment. But he was here, right now, and Carol was lying down there, hurt.

His boots touched the ledge and his fingers scrabbled on the side of the hole. He could feel grooves and scratches and smooth surfaces, as if the rock had been attacked by hundreds of hammers and chisels. He got a grasp on a crevice and steadied himself then pulled out his torch and shone its beam down into the shaft.

‘I can’t see anything. There’s a massive tree root in the way. She must have fallen right through it.’

‘It might have broken her fall at least.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘But we can’t get to her. Too much debris has fallen in.’

‘Is there another way to get in?’

‘We can try to find one,’ the DCRO controller said doubtfully.

‘We’ve got to find one.’

More help arrived, and they began to scour the hillside for yards around the old mineshaft, dragging aside fallen trees and hacking through tangled brambles. Long minutes passed and it was almost half an hour before a rescuer held up a hand.

‘Here!’

‘Yes, we’ve got something.’

‘It looks like the remains of a mine entrance, but it may just be a ventilation shaft, or a drainage channel.’

‘If it goes into the same shaft, it’s what we need.’

Cooper began pulling away the undergrowth, tearing his hands on the brambles. Quickly other people came to his side and began to help.

‘Inspector Cooper, there’s something here.’

‘What have you got? Is it Carol?’

‘I’m... not sure.’

There was something about the man’s tone of voice that made Cooper’s heart sink, and his skin felt cold.

‘Let me look,’ he said.

‘Be careful, sir.’

‘I’m fine. Stand aside.’

Cooper pulled out his torch and shone it into the hole they’d made. The light worked its way along the edge of the hole until it hit something white and very still. An officer lowered himself down into the hole.

‘It’s a body,’ said the officer. ‘But it’s not DC Villiers.’

Cooper stared at him.

‘Is it the body of a male?’

‘Hard to tell, sir. The head and torso are buried under a collapse. The rest of the body is skeletonised.’

‘It will have to wait, then. Mark the spot. We’ll come back to it.’

Cooper joined him in the hole. A passage ran off in both directions, hacked through the hillside by miners, one of the last workings of Mandale Mine.

He took a moment to get his sense of direction.

‘This way.’

They had to stoop in the passage. The rock walls were worn smooth in places, in others left broken and jagged. A length of rusty chain hung from an iron bolt in the wall. Rotting lumps of timber lay crumbling underfoot. Cooper tripped over a jutting stone and the officer grabbed his arm to steady him.

After a few minutes they came to a point where the passage took a sharp turn. Rocks had tumbled from the roof here and it was a tight squeeze to get through, but he managed. Ahead was total blackness. He ducked to get the headlamp pointed forward. And his heart sank. The passage ended ten yards further on in a solid wall of stone.

But wait a minute. There was light coming through from above. Just a single shaft of it, almost hidden by his helmet lamp. Cooper began to move forward again. He was breathing heavily, and not only from the exertion. The air was bad down here.

He cast his light about the passage as he moved, conscious that he might pass over the opening to another shaft at any second. And then to his left he spotted an opening in the floor, a sloping access into another shaft. What did they call it? A winze.

The space around him was full of dust now. It swirled in his torchlight and settled on his skin. He could feel himself breathing it in. It formed a sour, rough coating inside his mouth, drying up his saliva. He was beginning to feel a bit light-headed. Any longer and he would have to retreat.

But there she was. Thank God she was wearing an orange waterproof. It reflected the light at the furthest limit of his torch beam and she was lying halfway down the slope into the next shaft. She was covered in dust and branches and small stones.

‘I can see her,’ he called back.

‘Is she conscious?’

‘I can’t tell. She isn’t moving.’

Even as he spoke, he saw Villiers stir. She moved her arms, then her legs, and began to sit up. He heard her groan.

‘Carol, stay where you are. I’m coming down.’