Free Darkside by Tom Becker Page B

with Carnegie’s address on it. There was just an illegible smear. Jonathan slapped a hand to his wet forehead. How was he supposed to find this guy now?
    He walked round the pool and climbed the ladder up to the grille. He was hoping that he could lift it up and get back on to the surface, but it was locked. There was no way back. Jonathan was about to slide down again when he heard a familiar, well-spoken female voice on the street above.
    â€œSo where’s the boy, Humble?”
    There was a brief silence.
    â€œHe made it through the pipe?” Marianne said incredulously.
    Another silence.
    â€œWhy didn’t you stop him?”
    More silence.
    â€œYou want Skeet to chase after the puppy?”
    â€œIs he still alive?”
    â€œCan still smell him. Puppy not dead. Puppy very close.”
    â€œIs that so?” Marianne raised her voice. “Can you hear us, Jonathan? I bet you can.”
    Underneath the grille, Jonathan held his breath.
    â€œYou’re a brave little one, aren’t you? It’s not over, though. If you’re going to Darkside, we’ll go too. You’ll be a very long way from home, little one, and we know every street corner and back alley. There’ll be no escape . . .”
    Jonathan was relieved to hear the whir of sirens approaching. Marianne turned back to her companions.
    â€œI think that little show has attracted attention. Let’s get out of here. Oh, and Humble? You’d better start thinking of ways to break the news to Grimshaw.”
    At least he had given them the slip. All he had to do now was work out how to get out of here. Jonathan wiped a sleeve across his dripping nose and peered into the gloom. In the corner of the room a set of crumbling stone steps led down into a wide, arched passage propped up at regular intervals by rounded pillars. Amid the stillness the only sounds were the dripping of water, the squeak and rustle of rats, and – somewhere in the distance – the low, throaty rumble of an Underground train.
    There didn’t seem to be any choice. Jonathan hurried down the passage, choking on the foul stench of decay that rolled in waves towards him: the smell of sewers, toilet waste and rotting rodent corpses. The floor was uneven and covered in a thin film of dank water, and the splashing sounds of his footsteps echoed off the curved walls. Jonathan clenched his fist in triumph when he spotted an iron spiral staircase at the end of the passage, flanked by a pair of gas lamps. Desperate for a taste of fresh air, he scampered up the steps. And with that, he came out on Darkside.
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8
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    â€œ S o then, Ricky Thomas. . .”
    PC Ian Shaw burst into the briefing room slightly out of breath, spilling coffee from his polystyrene cup on to himself in the process. A crowd of people – a mixture of uniformed officers and plain-clothed detectives – were seated on chairs and perched on desks in an informal semicircle. The scene looked more like a sixth-form classroom than the heart of a massive police operation. At the front of the room, the Superintendent stood next to a whiteboard covered in various photographs. He was clearly in the middle of a speech, and stopped pointedly as Shaw entered the room. Shaw cursed himself under his breath. If only he hadn’t made that blasted coffee! The Super didn’t tend to forget things like that.
    â€œSorry, guv,” he mumbled.
    The Super glared at him.
    Feeling everyone staring at him, Shaw shuffled red-faced through the ranks of officers to the back of the room. Even the aroma of stale cigarette smoke and sweat couldn’t mask the sense of anticipation in the air. Every policeman in the room knew that this could be the case that made their career. One lucky break, one discovery, one arrest: that would be all it would take. There was more than enough media attention surrounding the case to guarantee promotions for those who did well. Even on a dreary