The Sentence Is Death

‘Well, when the storm broke, it broke right above them and the trouble was that the ground was hard-baked, which meant that the water came in all the faster. They knew they were in trouble pretty much straight away and they had a choice. They could climb up to higher ground or they could move as fast as they could and make it to the exit. The three of them decided to do that. There was one contortion they had to manage but after that it was fairly easy-going . . . a bit of crawling, a bit of stooping. But as long as they kept ahead of the water, they’d be all right.

‘So that’s what they did. They all agreed on it. But somehow, in the hurry to get out, Charlie Richardson got separated and left behind. The other two only noticed he wasn’t there when they reached the final passage with the exit just in front of them. So what are they to do? They can see daylight right in front of them. It would be madness to go back with the water rushing towards them. They shout for him but that’s a waste of time. He could be five metres away, but with the noise of the water and all the rest of it, he won’t hear them. So they decide to go back in. The path they’ve just taken has become a fast-flowing river with the water coming out towards them but it’s what they call a vertical crack . . .’

‘It’s very high but it’s narrow,’ Gallivan explained. ‘They can move above the flow, using their hips and their elbows, pinning themselves between the walls.’

‘It’s still dangerous,’ Susan Taylor added. ‘Because if they slip they’re going to get swept away. But the two of them fight their way back in and there’s still no sign of Charlie.’

She stopped herself as if there was no point telling any more.

‘They decided he must have missed the contortion altogether and continued straight into a tangle of different passageways. It’s like an underground maze.’

‘Spaghetti Junction,’ Gallivan said. That was the name that Davina Richardson had told us.

‘There was no way they could get back there so they made a second decision, which was to get back out and call for help.’

‘They went up to Ing Lane Farm.’ Gallivan picked up the story. ‘The farmer there is Chris Jackson and they knew that if he wasn’t in his wife would be. They went there and rang the police. They contacted me directly. I logged the call at five past five and called out the team. We were down Long Way Hole by seven.’

‘The police called me too.’ Susan lifted her cup of tea but it had gone cold. She grimaced and put it down again. ‘That’s when I knew there was something wrong. But it wasn’t until the next day that they found him . . .’

‘That’s enough,’ Gallivan growled. ‘You should read the inquest if you want to know more. It’s all out in the open. I think you should leave now.’

‘The girls will be back soon,’ Susan said. She reached for a tissue and I saw that her hand was trembling. Looking up, I realised she had begun to cry.

‘Wait for me outside.’ Gallivan went over to her.

Hawthorne stood up. ‘Thank you for seeing us, Mrs Taylor,’ he said. ‘We’ll find out what happened at King’s Cross station. I promise you that.’

She glanced up at him almost balefully, as if she actually blamed him. She had a point. His visit had only opened the wounds, forcing her to relive what had happened all over again. I nodded but said nothing. We left the room.

But we didn’t leave the house straight away. Making sure he wasn’t being seen, Hawthorne crossed the front hall and went into the living room. I followed him. The room was empty to the point of being austere. Apart from the fireplace and the piano there was a television, two sofas, a coffee table with a cactus in a pot and a few photographs of the family in happier times. A pair of French windows opened into the conservatory. The cat had curled up on one of the chairs. That was everything. There was nothing else.

‘What exactly are you looking for?’ I whispered.

‘You don’t see it?’ Hawthorne replied.

I waited for him to continue. He didn’t.

‘No,’ I said.

Hawthorne shook his head. ‘It’s right in front of your eyes, mate.’

Whenever Hawthorne saw anything or worked something out, he deliberately kept it from me as if the whole thing was some sort of game. This is often the case in detective stories and I always find it infuriating, but I knew only too well that there was nothing I could do. We left the living room and tiptoed back out into the street. As soon as we were outside, he lit a cigarette.

‘Did you really have to be so hard on her?’ I said.

Hawthorne looked genuinely surprised. ‘Was I?’

‘She was upset.’

‘She was nervous.’

Had she been nervous? I didn’t think so. I certainly hadn’t seen it. And what did she have to be nervous of? As I turned these thoughts over in my head, I remembered the one thing I knew that Hawthorne probably didn’t. It came from having lived in Crouch End for sixteen years and although it almost certainly wasn’t relevant, I decided to share it. At least it allowed me to contribute something to the day.