Weldon stared at the muddy footprints at the entrance to the mine. The gate was secure enough, a hefty chain wrapped several times around both uprights. But on further inspection he noticed that the padlock was relatively new.
He raised his head.
On the horizon, he could see a line of cars parked on the top road, cameras and binoculars trained on police and civilian search teams as they went about their business. The operation to find the girl had turned what was normally a desolate and beautiful landscape into a day trip for some, attracting a level of interest he personally found repugnant. Morbid curiosity of that kind was something he could not comprehend.
Nor did he wish to.
Pushing his anger away, Weldon studied the footprints again and got straight on the radio: ‘Weldon to TSG. Harry, get over here with the cutting gear.’
Within seconds, a stocky guy arrived by his side with a couple of tactical support officers in tow. They were wearing reflective jackets and one was carrying a large set of bolt cutters. Weldon pointed out the footprints, then stood back and waited somewhat impatiently while they called for tread plates in order to preserve them. It was a dull, windy day. Dusk would arrive in only five hours and he was keen to get going.
The bolt cutters sliced through the padlock with ease. Weldon switched on his cap lamp and led the way as he had done countless times for the past few days, this time hoping for a more fruitful result. The roof of the mine was less than the height of an average man. With water sloshing around his feet, he guided the others by torchlight into the pitch darkness.
Light bounced off wet walls casting shadows in the eerie space as they moved, one slow step at a time, being careful where they placed their feet as they picked their way in. After about fifteen minutes, the tunnel widened and it was possible to stand up straight. Directing torchlight around the dank walls, one officer’s sudden intake of breath made Weldon turn around.
What he saw was gut-wrenching, even for the most hardened of professionals. Rooted to the spot, he had only one focus: a set of shackles hanging loose from the wall. Nobody moved or spoke as he examined them more closely, careful not to touch anything, his former police training kicking in. He turned to the others, frustrated with their gruesome find.
‘Keep searching,’ he said.
Nobody moved.
‘Well, go on! What are you waiting for? I’m heading back. The radio’s fuck-all use down here and we need a forensics team to examine this lot.’
Leaving them to it – with instructions to stay together should they come to a fork in the tunnel – Weldon made his way back to the entrance. As soon as he reached the surface, he called in the CSIs, then pulled out his mobile and dialled Daniels’ number. She answered almost immediately – from a vehicle, by the sound of it.
‘What is it, Dave?’
‘We have ourselves a crime scene,’ was all Weldon said.
‘And Jessica?’
‘The bastard’s moved her. We’ve got fresh blood here. Your forensics guys are on it. TSG are searching the remainder of the mine in case she’s still down there . . .’ He paused but Daniels was silent. ‘I’m sorry, Kate. I know it’s not the news you wanted.’
‘No.’ The DCI sounded more upbeat than Weldon had expected. ‘This is a positive development. If Jess were dead, why move her body at great risk of being seen? Whoever’s got her is methodical, make no mistake about that. He’ll have thought this through and left nothing to chance. In my book, that means two sites to hide her – in case we got close. With you lot crawling all over the place I don’t think the second will be too far from the first. You’ve got to keep searching. You can find her in time, I know you can.’
Jessica had heard a voice, her father’s – clear and strong – telling her not to give up. And now she had a plan . . . of sorts. But would it work?
One chance.
Only one.
Fight, Jess!
Dig deep.
Deeper than ever before.
Manoeuvring her skinny left leg as far downstream as it would reach, she tucked her chin into her chest until the strap of the hard hat she was wearing worked free. Then, tilting her head to one side, she pressed it up against the wet wall with a view to dislodging the hat. Then, at the very last moment, she pulled back. She just couldn’t do it, just couldn’t bear the thought of the lights going out completely, ending her days in a cold wet chamber, alone in the dark. She wailed, terror overtaking her for a moment.
You must.
It’s the only way.
She tried again and this time went through with it. The hat slid sideways and fell – in what seemed like hours of slow motion – glancing off her bony right shoulder, landing in the murky water beneath. Instantly taken by the current, it sailed off and Jess jerked her leg towards it, flailing around in the water, catching the chin strap just right. Hooking it on to her foot, she was amazed to see that the bulb was still illuminated. Sobbing with relief, she rested a while. She said a little prayer, in case there was a God.
Maybe He was calling her?
Well, I’m not fucking listening!
It took all the effort she could summon to lift her leg, let alone swing it back and forth using the hard hat to tap out an SOS. It was a pathetic attempt, a stupid idea that had little chance of success. Stealing herself, she took a break and tried again: three sharp knocks . . . three longer ones . . . three sharp knocks.
Less than a couple of hundred metres away, a chill wind whipped across the open moorland. Discovering the crime scene had shaken Weldon. But hearing Daniels’ take on things had given him hope. To the right of his search area, another casualty of the operation was being stretchered away to a waiting ambulance, having dislocated a shoulder in a fall below ground. A fractured leg had already claimed one of his team that day, no doubt keeping the voyeuristic day-trippers satisfied on the road above.
He looked on as the ambulance drove away, taking the noise of its siren with it. As it disappeared over the brow of a hill, the area fell silent again. Weldon went rigid. He could’ve sworn he’d heard something, although he couldn’t quite place exactly what it was or where it had come from.
Tilting his head, he listened . . .
Silence.
Only the wind howling through the brush and the distinctive sound of the wing beats of red grouse rocketing up from the heather, their habitat disturbed by a member of the search team. The creature was the bane of every motorcyclist this side of the Isle of Man; one Weldon had come across far too frequently while riding round the countryside.
Then the sound was back.
Weldon held up a hand and blew his whistle.
Those of the search team within hearing distance froze.
Inside the mine, Jessica’s heart leapt as she heard the whistle. But her throat was so dry she wasn’t able to call for help. The hat was still strapped to her ankle but it was now full of water, dragging her leg downstream like a lead weight. She couldn’t find a way to empty it and repeat her SOS.
Outside, police and civilian teams had stopped what they were doing and were maintaining search protocol, their ears pinned firmly to the ground, a call on the radio eventually breaking the silence.
‘TSG Leader to Weldon. Was that a definite shout, over?’
Weldon looked up, two dozen pairs of eyes turned towards him.
‘Not sure,’ Weldon radioed back. ‘Could’ve sworn I heard tapping.’
‘TSG Leader to all units. Anyone else hear anything?’
Several calls of negative came back. One smart arse said the only call he’d heard was one of nature and was told, in no uncertain terms, to fuck right off.
They listened for a few seconds longer.
Weldon shook his head. ‘Must’ve been the wind.’