Thursday Legends Page 3

  me that in 1962

  the world was literally five minutes away from the edge. The crews

  were in their cockpits, with sealed envelopes containing the bits of

  Russia they would be expected to find and obliterate. You know what

  else? They didn't have enough fuel to get back .. . not that there

  would have been much to come back to. No, I'm glad she hasn't been

  born into a world like that."

  "She hasn't? What about September 11, and the aftermath .. ."

  "Ah but.. ." He stopped. "Let's change the subject. That wee girl

  over there represents the start of the finest years of our lives. She's

  a shining light in all the gloom we've had recently. Let's just focus

  on the good times and enjoy them."

  "That's a deal," Karen agreed, pouring coffee into two mugs. "We can

  start with our holiday this summer. Where are we going to take

  Danielle?"

  Andy took his two slices of toast and honey, and his mug, and sat down

  at the kitchen table. "Well," he began, "Broughty Ferry's quite

  nice."

  The baby was still asleep when he left the house fifteen minutes later,

  having agreed with his wife's proposal that they find a rental villa

  somewhere in France, in early September, and drive there. He climbed

  into his metallic blue Mondeo, reversed it carefully out of the

  driveway, and headed into the centre of Perth.

  Even in the morning traffic, it took him less than ten minutes to reach

  his destination. He parked beside a row of five police transport

  vehicles, each one full of officers, and stepped out into the morning

  sunshine. He looked out over the flat plain of the North Inch; the sun

  of the previous few days had begun to dry it out, but it was still

  muddy and unsightly. He dreaded to think what the insides of the

  houses looked like.

  He glanced around him as he walked towards the terrace that faced the

  River Tay, where, he knew, the worst of the flooding had happened. His

  eye fell on a uniformed inspector, in summer dress, as was he. "Good

  morning, Harry," he called out.

  Inspector Sharp turned and made an involuntary move to attention as he

  recognised the newcomer. He was one of the two senior officers in

  charge of policing Perth and its surrounding area. In the larger

  Edinburgh force, which Martin had just left, his opposite number

  carried a much higher rank.

  "Hello, sir," the dark-haired, middle-aged policeman responded; he made

  to salute, but the deputy chief constable waved it away with a smile.

  "Don't start that, for Christ's sake; on my first week in this job I

  started to get tennis elbow. How's it going?"

  "It's not yet, sir, but then it's not quite time. As you ordered, we

  contacted all the householders who moved out and told them we'd pick

  them up from their temporary lodgings and get them here for nine." He

  nodded towards two patrol cars that had just drawn up. "That's them

  starting to arrive now. I've got our boys and girls waiting in the

  minibuses over there, ready to help with the really dirty stuff, and

  with the heavy lifting. Some of these people have lived here for

  years, and are quite old."

  "Fine. Have you got plenty of tools; shovels and stuff for shifting

  mud? I guess there'll be plenty of it down there."

  "There'll be all sorts of stuff down there in those cellars, sir. I

  was a young constable the last time something like this happened, and I

  was involved in an operation just like this one. There was fish, rats,

  condoms, you name it... and this flood's been a lot worse." He

  frowned, briefly. "Mind you, it's not quite right to call them

  cellars; with these houses they're more like basement floors, some of

  them with several rooms. Their gardens are well below street level,

  and they back on to the houses in the street behind; so they've filled

  up, and the water's come in from there as well as from the front door

  above."

  "How deep has it been?" Martin asked.

  Sharp scratched his chin. "The water was over four feet deep across

  the Inch," he replied. "That means it was above ground-floor level in

  the houses. So it must have been fifteen to eighteen feet inside them,

  anyway."

  "Bloody hell; I understand now what you mean about the mess. We'd

  better see for ourselves, then. Go on, Harry; get the show on the

  road."

  He stood back and watched as Inspector Sharp went about his business,

  speaking to each of the householders who had been brought to the scene,

  then waving the waiting constables and sergeants, some of them smiling,

  no doubt at the prospect of overtime, from the transport vehicles. They

  were all wearing overalls, and green rubber boots. Suddenly, Martin

  felt gripped by guilt; or perhaps it was only the eagerness of a new

  commander to set an example.

  "Inspector," he called again. Sharp turned back towards him. "Do you

  have a spare set of waders, and boots, my size? Ten at a pinch, or

  bigger. Oh yes, and a shovel."

  "Probably, sir," he shouted. "Bobby," he yelled across to a sergeant,

  who seemed to be supervising the helpers. "See if you can sort out

  some gear for the DCC The officer nodded, and headed off towards the

  minibuses; Martin decided that he would be as well to follow, to

  simplify the process.

  The waders and boots that were left in the limited carry space of the

  vehicles were, not unnaturally, the dirtiest and scruffiest in the

  police stockroom, fifty officers having had their pick of the rest. He

  grabbed a set that looked as if they would fit him adequately, and

  struggled into them, trying not to guess where and why they had last

  been used.

  When he returned to the terrace, he found Inspector Sharp speaking

  earnestly to a second group of homeowners who had been brought to the

  scene. There were five of them, and from the way they stood together,

  he guessed that they were two couples and one single person, an old

  lady who looked at least seventy-five years old. She was white-faced,

  and her dull grey hair was tied back in a bun, from which a few wispy

  strands had escaped, to wave on the morning breeze. She was dressed in

  a long, shabby blue coat, even on a day that was already fulfilling its

  promise of warmth, but, like the other four, she had come prepared for

  her task, in that she wore a pair of black, ankle-length rubber boots

  over her thick brown stockings.

  She looked apprehensive; Martin moved towards her, almost

  automatically. "I was just suggesting to the people, sir," said Sharp,

  as he approached, 'that they might like our officers to go in to their

  houses first, to do what we can to make sure that the stairways are

  safe, before they venture in."

  "That seems sensible to me," the deputy chief constable agreed. He

  looked round the group. "Is everyone happy with that?"

  The male halves of the couples nodded, but the old lady pursed her lips

  and knitted her brow. "Ah'll go in ma ain hoose, son," she said.

  "It might not be safe, Mrs. ..."

  "Miss!" she snapped, cutting the inspector off short. "Miss Bonney,

&nb
sp; Wilma Bonney. Ah've been through this before, and the last time your

  lot cleared up for me wi' their big feet they broke half my china.

  That'll no happen again. Ah'll be fine goin' in there. At my age,

  Ah've learned to watch my step."

  Martin was on the point of suggesting that it might have been the flood

  that had broken her china, when he thought better of it. "In that

  case, Miss Bonney," he suggested, 'maybe you'll let me come in with you

  ... just in case some of your furniture's been moved about by the

  water, and has to be shifted."

  She stared at him, as if she was weighing up his sincerity or his

  trustworthiness. Whatever test she was applying, he passed. "Och, all

  right," she muttered. "You'll be careful where you put your feet,

  though."

  "I promise." He smiled at Sharp behind her back as he followed Wilma

  Bonney's brisk walk across the street. He kept close to her, for the

  mud on the roadway was still damp in places, and he was afraid that she

  might slip, but she was as surefooted as he was in his clumsy

  footwear.

  "Number twelve," she announced, leading him towards a blue doorway, on

  the far side of a broad flagstone landing, just a single step up from

  the pavement. Martin looked down and realised that it formed a bridge

  across a narrow basement yard, on to which three barred windows looked.

  The glass in each was broken.

  Miss Bonney delved deep into her purse and produced a Yale key, which

  she used to open the door. Martin saw that the frame around the keeper

  of the lock had been repaired, and remembered being told by Sharp that

  he had sent carpenters to the scene when the flood had receded

  sufficiently, to secure several houses where the water had smashed its

  way in.

  "Oh dear." He heard the woman sigh as she looked into her home, and he

  sympathised at once. There was a watermark eighteen inches above the

  floor level; the carpet runner in the entry hall lay twisted and

  filthy, embedded in an undercoat of stones, mire, paper and other

  detritus. "Ah could dna have expected anything else, could Ah, son?"

  "No', he agreed, solemnly. "I suppose not." He stepped into the hall

  and looked into the living room that opened from it. He was both

  surprised and pleased to see that it was empty of furniture, although

  its fitted carpet, whatever colour it had been originally, was now

  almost black.

  "Ma nephew helped me move my stuff upstairs," she said, reading his

  mind, 'or at least, as much as he could. He's a good boy. He'd have

  come wi' me this morning but he's at his work."

  "What about the basement?" asked Martin.

  "He moved what he could, but there's some big kitchen furniture and

  wardrobes and the like that he could dna shift up the stair. He moved

  ma good china ... the stuff that your lot didna' break the last time ..

  . but all ma usin' stuff's still down there, and ma washing machine,

  and ma fridge."

  "Let's go and see it, then."

  "A'right." She led him to a steep, narrow staircase behind a door at

  the back of the hall. She was about to lead the way down, until he

  stopped her. Every tread was covered with mud.

  "Please, let me go first. I insist."

  She frowned at him, but let him go ahead of her. He took the stairway

  slowly, as carefully as he could, gripping the rails on either side as

  hard as he could, for they too were slippery. The walls on either side

  were sodden, and in places the plaster bulged outwards.

  It was only when he got to the foot that he realised she had been

  following behind him. She stepped carefully off the last tread, and

  stood beside him, looking around the big room into which they had

  emerged. "This is ma kitchen," she announced; unnecessarily, for he

  could see, or at least make out the shapes of a cooker, and a tall

  fridge. He glanced down at his feet, and saw that he was standing in

  mud up to his ankles. The place was an almost indescribable mess; it

  was strewn with more stones, crockery.. . some of it broken, he

  noticed ... and with tins and packets of food from storage cupboards

  and from the fridge. But it was more than just the mess; the place

  smelled terrible. For some reason, he remembered a holiday in Spain,

  when a truck had come to pump out a blockage in the sewer not far from

  Bob Skinner's villa.

  He looked at Miss Bonney; she caught his glance and gave him a faint

  smile. There might have been a tear in her eye, but then again, there

  might not.

  "I'm very sorry," he said, sincerely.

  "It's no' your fault, son," she replied, quietly. "It's God's; naebody

  else's but his." He heard himself sigh.

  "What else is there down here?" he asked.

  She pointed to her right, to a door in the far corner. "Ma laundry

  room's through there, wi' a toilet off it." Then she nodded to her

  left. "Through there, there's a big bedroom, a smaller one, and a

  cupboard. Ah'll just go and see whit they're like, and then, Ah

  suppose, Ah'll have to let your folk in after a', tae help me clear oot

  this mud."

  "Yes," he murmured. "It's best."

  He watched her as she squelched across the kitchen, towards the door on

  the far left. Her boots made a sucking noise with each step.

  She reached the doorway, and turned, laboriously, to step through.

  Then, without warning, as he watched her, Martin saw her hand fly to

  her mouth. She gave a short gasping cry, and stumbled back until she

  lost her footing, and sat down with an audible splash on the muddy

  riverbed which had invaded her home.

  He did his best to rush over to her, but his footwear made haste

  impossible. When he reached her, the old lady was trying to push

  herself up. He leaned over her, took her gently under the arms and

  raised her to her feet. "There, now," he said, hoping to soothe her.

  "What happened?"

  She neither answered him, nor looked at him. Instead she kept her eyes

  fixed on the doorway. He turned; when he saw what held her gaze, he

  almost stumbled himself.

  In the short corridor that led through to the front rooms, there lay

  the body of a man. It was on its left side, half submerged in the

  mire. Looking at it, Martin knew at once why the smell had been so

  bad.

  "Jesus!" he whispered. "Is that your nephew? Could he have come back

  here and been caught in the flood?"

  "No," Miss Bonney whispered. "Ma nephew's a great big lad. Ah've

  never seen thon before in ma life."

  The Deputy Chief Constable cursed himself for not having brought a

  two-way radio. Then he remembered the cellphone in his trouser pocket.

  He fished inside his waders until he found it. His white shirt was

  unimaginably muddy, but he gave it no thought as he dialled the

  headquarters number.

  "This is Mr. Martin," he told the switchboard operator, as soon as he

  answered. "Patch me through on the radio to Inspector Sharp." The man

  obeyed, without a word.

  "Yes, sir?" Sharp's voice was remarkably clear. "Anything up?"

  "Very much so," he answered, tersely. "Have we had any
missing persons

  reports in the wake of this flood?"

  "No, sir," the inspector replied. "None at all. We had an eye out for

  them too, don't worry."

  "Well, we've missed one. He's down here in Miss Bonney's basement. Get

  an ambulance along here will you, but tell them no lights and siren, I

  don't want any unnecessary fuss."

  He ended the call, and turned back to the old lady. "Can you stand on

  your own for a bit?"

  She gave him a withering look. "Of course."

  In three long strides he stepped over to the door, then shuffled his

  way through, until he stood over the body. Years of experience had

  taught him to ignore, or at least tolerate, the smell. He crouched

  down and leaned over, to see better. It was in a filthy state, and

  there were early signs of decomposition, but it was still clearly the

  corpse of a middle-aged man. It was clad in what looked like a heavy

  shirt, rough jacket, and flannel trousers. He glanced along towards

  the feet and saw socks, but no shoes.

  He leaned further across, meaning to use the opposite wall to lever

  himself upright again, then paused, unusually aware of his contact

  lenses as his eyes narrowed. The body was lying awkwardly, and its

  right arm seemed to have been twisted behind it by the water.

  From this new angle he could see clearly a mark on the wrist; it was

  vivid, the kind of groove that could have been left by a ligature.

  "Bloody hell," he murmured, then pushed himself to his feet off the

  wall, fumbling for his cellphone once again.