He moved back to the edge of the clearing and checked to see if the disturbance had alerted Jörgensen’s remaining hard men, or even the Swede himself, but the woods were still and silent. Where was Munday? Had he accounted for Jörgensen’s two other buddies, or had they found him first?

  Kyle parked that thought. Rebecca was his priority, and she was most likely still with Jörgensen.

  He moved silently towards the folly and stopped at the foot of the steps. What had Munday said?

  I know what they’re thinking … same as everyone else – that the entrance is somewhere at the base of the twin staircases…

  Kyle climbed the first two steps. If there was no entrance behind the brick façade, then there might be one higher up. Logic suggested it wouldn’t be too far up, otherwise whoever had constructed the tunnels would also have needed to create a corresponding route to return to ground level.

  Kyle considered an eighteenth century builder’s mindset. Then, as now, labour – especially clandestine labour – would have been expensive, so short cuts would probably have been taken wherever possible. So, an entrance at ground level, or very near ground level, made sense. Kyle reached the sixth step, around nine feet from the ground. The next riser, he noticed, was a little larger than the preceding ones. He stamped his foot experimentally on the sixth step, and then tried the next; sure enough, it produced a subtly different noise, less solid, perhaps indicative of an open space below.

  His probing fingers explored the contours and recessed handholds cut into each side of the stone slab. He was impressed; they were almost undetectable from above. He got a good grip on each side and pulled. It came up surprisingly easily.

  Kyle propped it against the bank to his left and lifted the iron ring in the centre of the trapdoor he’d uncovered. That, too opened easily. Those Georgian architects knew what they were about. Kyle peered into the interior.

  Ten rungs led down into a dark shaft, at the bottom of which he could make out an earthen floor that looked solid enough to bear his weight. Now it was time to share his discovery. He lit a cigarette, took three deep pulls and placed it on the step above the opening. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled an invitation.

  ‘Hey! I have it.’

  He lowered himself into the shaft, taking the steps one at a time until his feet touched the bottom. He lit a match and looked around. He was in a small room with two possible exits, not counting the one he had entered by. He went to the nearest opening, ducked his head to avoid the crossbeam and moved quickly along the narrow corridor. A few seconds later he came to a blockage. There was no way through; the tunnel had either been collapsed deliberately or had fallen in over time.

  Dead end.

  He retraced his steps to the entrance, paused briefly before passing beneath the tunnel until he was satisfied that Jörgensen’s minders had yet to arrive, then crossed quickly to the second opening. This looked more promising. It led off to the right, towards the church, and was a wider, taller construction. Whereas the first tunnel had felt airless and disused, this route was wide open and the airflow was good. Before he had time to explore further he heard voices above, a scrabbling of feet. A torch beam shone into the chamber from the access port, formed a ragged pool of light that lit the small room in a diffused, orange glow.

  Kyle waited in the shadow of the second tunnel until he had counted the measured descents of two pairs of feet, then made his way along the passage until he came to the first bend. He knew they’d do the obvious thing; they’d take an opening each. One would explore the dead end tunnel, the other would come his way. That suited Kyle. It meant he could deal with them one at a time.

  Less than a minute later he heard the sound of cautious footsteps, a probing torch beam announcing the arrival of number one.

  ‘Yuri? Yuri?’

  Kyle pressed his back against the tunnel’s damp wall. The man called out again, a series of frustrated phrases in his own language that weren’t hard to interpret.

  Where the hell are you, Yuri?

  Kyle guessed that Yuri would be waking up with a severe headache in around an hour or so. But that was his problem. The footsteps drew closer. Just before the man reached the bend Kyle stepped from the shadows, and before the other had time to react he delivered a fast right uppercut to the chin. Yuri’s buddy reeled back against the wall with a grunt, and the torch jolted in his hand, the beam tracking briefly across Kyle’s face before it dropped to the floor. A millisecond before the tunnel was plunged into darkness Kyle caught sight of the revolver in the guy’s other hand.

  Momentarily blinded, Kyle moved forward, arms raised, towards the spot where the man had fallen. His adversary was down but not out; using the tunnel wall as a springboard, he propelled himself forward and hit Kyle dead centre. They tumbled to the floor, tangled together, but Kyle knew the other guy wouldn’t be keen to engage in a bout of prolonged physical combat, not now that he’d had the chance to clock Kyle’s build. No, he would be looking for the revolver he’d dropped.

  But to do that, he had to release Kyle and make a grab for it. The man’s head was close to Kyle’s, his breath sour in his face. Kyle waited for him to let go and commit himself to lunge either right or left; it was a gamble and it could go either way, but then every moment of Kyle’s current existence was a gamble of sorts. Like a dream-sequence from a movie, everything seemed to slow down; Kyle felt a sensation of light-headedness, but also an overwhelming sense of calm. If he died, he died. Hell, he had to die sometime; in an hour, or tomorrow, or any time. So what?

  The guy rolled off him and went left; Kyle went right. His hands swept the floor, connected immediately with a cold, metallic grip. His finger curled round the trigger.

  A sudden, breathless silence filled the tunnel; the other man knew he had just lost. Kyle sprang to his feet, took careful aim at the dark outline crouched in front of him, and brought the butt of the revolver down on his head. The man rolled over and lay still.

  Three down, one to go.

  Two, if you counted Jörgensen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Hey? You there? Is dead end here. No damn good.’

  The second man’s confident footsteps gave Kyle a good indication that he wasn’t expecting trouble. This time Kyle waited a little longer before announcing his presence because he’d found a better place to wait; twenty yards further on, where the tunnel made an almost ninety-degree turn to the right. He’d dragged the first man along with him, dumping the unconscious form behind an ancient trestle table propped against the nearside wall.

  Kyle waited until his mate had moved a foot or so past him before stepping out and wrapping his arm around the thick-set neck.

  ‘Drop it.’

  The man froze, did as he was told, and his weapon fell to the floor. Keeping one arm firmly locked around the other man’s throat, Kyle hissed a second instruction. ‘Bend, nice and slow.’

  They bent together and Kyle retrieved the automatic, slipped it into his pocket. He released his hold, just a little. ‘Now, I’m asking nicely. Where is Jörgensen?’

  The man responded in a stream of his mother tongue. Kyle tutted. ‘I already know you speak English, albeit pidgin, so let’s try again. Where is Jörgensen?’

  More Eastern European invective.

  Kyle tightened his grip again, tutted. ‘I hate swearing. It’s ugly. But coming from you, it kind of fits. Speak nicely or not at all, got it?’

  The man gurgled. He understood well enough.

  ‘I’ll find him easily enough without you, but I’m not wasting the rest of my evening playing night games. I’ve better things to do, understand?’

  Kyle eased the pressure a fraction and number four took a shuddering breath.

  ‘There you go. Much nicer when you can breathe, isn’t it?’

  ‘The church. He said he goes to the church.’

  ‘He said that? When?’

  ‘I don’t know, ten minutes, or something.’

  ‘Or something.’

  ‘Yes. He said that. Is the truth.’

  ‘Good. The church it is, then.’

  Kyle twisted the man through a hundred and eighty degrees and hit him hard. He sank silently to the floor.

  Kyle spend a few minutes trussing the two men together and stuffing a handkerchief in each mouth. When he was satisfied they were securely tied, he took the torch and carried on along the tunnel. By his reckoning it was heading in precisely the right direction.

  After a couple of minutes the tunnel began to narrow and Kyle noticed that there was now a definite incline, another indicator that the tunnel was a direct route to the church. However, the torch he’d borrowed must have sustained damage because it soon began to flicker and then died altogether.

  Kyle paused to strike a match. The sudden flare highlighted a line of graffiti on the wall ahead:

  Abandon hope all ye who enter here

  Kyle pressed on regardless. Hope was an uncertain premise; Kyle’s preference was for direct action. He wondered if the line had been penned by some eighteenth century subaltern, or maybe just a builder with a warped sense of humour.

  The match burned out and he lit another – noticing as he did so the stump of an old candle lying on the lid of a mildewed wooden chest. Kyle lit the candle and then, out of curiosity, opened the chest. It was empty except for a lining of newspaper. The date of the yellowed Daily Mail was August 1954.

  Kyle closed the lid and moved on. Wherever Munday had stashed his money it certainly wasn’t going to be found in a random, unlocked box.

  The candle cast unnerving shadows on the tunnel walls as the gradient sloped up and up. Surely he must be nearly there? The tunnel bent to the right again and following it, Kyle was suddenly confronted by a dead end; the only way out was a metal ladder bolted to the brickwork. He raised the candle above his head. The ladder led to a bolted hatch some fifteen feet above.

  He tested the ladder’s stability, put his foot on the first rung. It seemed good and solid. He climbed a couple more rungs and they held steady. At the top, he let wax from the candle drip onto the top rung and fixed the candle in place while he got to work on the bolts. One drew relatively easily after a few hard tugs. The other, following the general rule of things that needed to be unfastened, didn’t want to move at all.

  He could see that the door hadn’t been accessed for a very long time; a wide lattice of spider’s web hung beneath the wood of the hatch like a miniature safety net. The candle was burning low, and Kyle didn’t much fancy mucking around in the dark, especially when he had no idea what might be waiting for him once he’d got the hatch open.

  He hefted the automatic, banged the butt against the recalcitrant bolt. It gave a little, so he hit it again. This time it slid open with a small shower of rust flakes. He pocketed the gun, pushed experimentally at the trapdoor with both hands; it gave a creak and opened a fraction, letting in a puff of stale air. Kyle cautiously stuck his head through, felt for the candle and held it aloft.

  ‘Perfect,’ Jörgensen’s voice said. ‘Do not move. I am an excellent shot.’

  Kyle ducked down and let the trapdoor fall with a crash. The report of Jörgensen’s pistol followed an instant later.

  Not excellent enough…

  Kyle swung himself to the left of the shaft, clung to the side of the ladder. Four more shots punctured the wood and whistled past his head before the trapdoor was wrenched open and Jörgensen’s face appeared in the gap.

  ‘Don’t be a bloody idiot, Kyle.’

  This time, Kyle complied. He was a sitting duck; even if he went for the automatic, Jörgensen would shoot him like a rat in a trap before he could even aim his own firearm.

  ‘I’d raise my hands, but I’m using them.’

  Jörgensen gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Just keep them where I can see them, and climb up very slowly. I have found the ideal resting place for you.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Kyle heaved himself through the small aperture. It was only just wide enough for his shoulders; either eighteenth-century builders were very slight in stature, or they just hadn’t considered someone of Kyle’s build.

  Jörgensen played his torch at Kyle’s feet. ‘Want to know what I found?’

  ‘Munday’s treasure box? Good for you.’

  Kyle looked around him. They were in the church crypt; rows of wall-mounted ledges groaned under the weight of two hundred years’ worth of dead people.

  ‘Albert Cheeseman, went to sleep January 12th 1899,’ Jörgensen quoted. ‘May his soul rest in peace.’

  ‘Ah. Don’t tell me. Mr Cheeseman had to make way for something of greater value.’

  Jörgensen guffawed. ‘Ten thousand pounds in ten pound notes, to be exact.’

  ‘Here? In the crypt?’ Kyle was thinking about the key.

  ‘Almost. Come this way, if you please, DC Kyle.’

  ‘Ex-DC Kyle.’

  ‘Walk in front of me, if you wouldn’t mind. Thank you.’

  ‘Where’s Rebecca?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  They made their way along the earthen floor of the crypt. Many of the coffins had rotted, their crumbling lids exposing the contents; grinning skulls animated by Jörgensen’s dancing torchlight. Kyle paid them scant attention; he was thinking hard. Jörgensen had passed on the opportunity to kill him outright. Sure, the Swede was probably planning on something terminal – but only after he’d shown Kyle the money. That fitted with Kyle’s character assessment; Jörgensen’s ego would be his downfall. Kyle followed his usual rule of thumb: keep your opponent talking…

  ‘You’re on your own, Jörgensen. Your hired buddies are otherwise engaged.’

  Jörgensen stuck the pistol into the small of Kyle’s back. ‘Do I care? I found what I came for; and you are no longer a problem. Stop here. Go up.’

  They had reached a set of stone steps that presumably led up into the body of the church. Kyle did as he was told; the steps terminated at a heavy iron door, into which an inspection grille had been cut. Kyle stood in front of the door and waited.

  ‘Go on. Open it.’

  Kyle slid the grille open and looked into a tiny room, almost a cell. Rebecca was sitting on the floor, gagged and bound. Her eyes widened as she saw Kyle peering in. There was a coffin against the opposite wall from where Rebecca was sitting, the unfortunate Mr Cheeseman’s, presumably. The lid was open and Kyle could see bundles of notes inside.

  ‘If you would be kind enough to hold the torch. Point it towards the lock.’

  The pistol dug into Kyle’s back as Jörgensen gave him the torch.

  Jörgensen inserted Munday’s key and turned it. ‘You know what this place is?

  ‘I’m guessing you’re about to tell me.’

  ‘An anchoress’ cell. See, up there? That was a window, so she could look into the church. It was sealed long ago, and no one comes in here – but now, there is a new anchoress. And you will join her in her ascetic vigil.’

  ‘I’m charmed.’

  Jörgensen was enjoying himself. ‘But your vigil will be short-lived. In the days of the anchoress, the faithful congregation would see to her earthly needs. But how long will you both survive without water? Without food? The floor above – it is thick, solid. No one will hear you. No one will know you are here. Maybe you will be discovered by some future generation. An archaeological marvel, hm? Perhaps they will place you in a museum.’

  ‘My mother always wanted me to make my mark.’

  ‘The water failed to claim you; now the earth will swallow you.’

  Kyle thought he’d heard something, a surreptitious sound from the crypt. Rats? Or maybe–’

  ‘Sit down.’

  The pistol was still pointing directly at him; Jörgensen couldn’t miss. He stood next to Rebecca. Her eyes were twin ovals of fear.

  ‘Torch, please, Mr Kyle.’

  Kyle made as if to hand it over. ‘You finally lost the DC. Well remembered.’

  As Jörgensen reached for the torch Kyle heard the noise again, the soft tread of plimsolled feet. Jörgensen glanced towards the cell door. Kyle shone the torch directly in Jörgensen’s face, then shut the beam off. The room was plunged into darkness.

  Jörgensen fired the pistol. The cell lit up momentarily in the muzzle flash, and in that brief millisecond Kyle saw Munday lying full-length on the top step, both arms extended in front of him. Two further shots rang out. Jörgensen screamed.

  Kyle flicked the torch button.

  Jörgensen lay on his back clutching his legs; blood was seeping from gunshot wounds in both limbs, spreading in an irregular pool around him.

  Munday picked himself up, dusted himself down. ‘Floor’s filthy. I thought cleanliness was next to godliness.’

  The room stank of cordite. Jörgensen was panting through clenched teeth. ‘Call a doctor. I’m bleeding to death.’

  Munday affected a brief inspection. ‘Give me some credit. I missed both arteries. You’ll live.’

  Kyle turned his attention to Rebecca, untied her gag. ‘Are you OK? Did he–?’

  ‘I’m fine, Cam. Just get these off me.’

  Kyle undid Rebecca’s bonds and she stood up, rubbed her legs and wrists. She went to the prone Jörgensen, kicked him hard in the groin. ‘You bastard.’

  Jörgensen howled, curled himself into a ball.

  Kyle moved to restrain her but Munday got there first. To Kyle’s astonishment, they fell into each others arms. ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ Munday was whispering. ‘I thought he’d killed you.’

  ‘I’m fine, I’m OK, really.’ Rebecca tightened her arms around Munday. ‘I knew you’d come. I knew it.’

  Kyle’s mouth opened and closed as he looked at them in disbelief. His gaze tracked from the entwined couple, to the coffin of bank notes, to Jörgensen and then back again.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18