The Drowning Ground Read online

  ‘Oh,’ Graves said. ‘Right.’ He tried to look suitably impressed. ‘The Copa –’

  ‘Libertadores,’ the man finished for him.

  Graves looked at him. The first thing he noticed was the scar. It began at the very top of his forehead and ran deep and white almost straight beneath his thick but closely cropped black hair. Must have needed a lot of stitches, Graves thought, trying not to look at it and wondering how he’d got it. He was very brown despite the cold. He was around forty or forty-one years old and taller than Graves by a couple of inches, which put him at six foot one.

  He pointed to the picture again. ‘You see this,’ he said, touching a flag that looked like it had been made of enough sheets to supply a small hospital. On it was written Los Borrachos del Tablón. ‘Barra brava. Hooligans,’ he said with the faintest trace of what could have been fondness in his voice.

  With some regret, he turned away from the picture and stared directly at Graves. In a moment his expression had changed to one of businesslike neutrality. There was a distant and detached look in his eye. It happened so quickly that Graves had the sudden feeling that he was gazing at a mask.

  The man put out his hand. ‘I’m Downes,’ he said.

  2

  It was cold outside and as usual I was freezing. As I walked along the side of the village green, towards the welcoming lights of the pub, I saw a big old American car: a Falcon, by the looks of it. I hadn’t seen one like it for years. I’d been thinking about my new sergeant, but the moment I saw the car I forgot all about him and about everything else too. A sleek outline to begin with and then an almost luminous flash of silver. It nosed its way through the night, fumes rising into the air from its exhaust. I stood still.

  Yes, it was a Ford Falcon. Its huge engine let out a throaty roar as it went sliding along; its back fins sliced through the wintery air. It passed me by, and then it drew to a languorous stop at the traffic lights near the empty shops. There were two men sitting in front, though I could not make out their faces. The long, sleek bonnet of the car shook slightly. The pace of my heartbeat quickened as I watched it. My fists opened and closed, clenched and squeezed the air. I blinked and rubbed the back of my neck.

  The traffic lights changed and, ever so slowly, it moved off. I held my breath and didn’t move a muscle until the car had finally disappeared from view. I grunted, and my lips drew down in a hard angular line. Then I climbed the steps of the pub, hearing the familiar, happy, muffled murmur of the people inside, and ran my fingers through my hair.

  The usual suspects were sitting in a far corner near the pool table. Their coats and scarves were piled up on a bench near the dartboard. I waved to them in a distracted kind of way, and then I weaved my way around the tables, heading straight for the fireplace in the middle near the windows.

  For a while I stared at the fire licking against the throat of the chimney. My mind drifted, and I began to think about that car again. It had been a while since I’d seen one of those. I still felt slightly on edge. I started thinking about home again, and about the Falcon nosing its way along the streets as it had searched for me all those years ago.

  With some effort, I stopped thinking about it and the image of the car slowly faded as I warmed up. I moved stiffly away from the fire towards the bar and, finally feeling warm, let out a contented sigh and shook off my coat. I ordered a pint, chatted for a while with Des the barman, bought him a drink and then headed over to the three men gathered around the table.

  ‘So we were thinking next Thursday night,’ said Richard in his usual hesitant murmur as I drew up a chair. ‘Think you can swing it, William? Be round your place around 7.00, 7.30.’

  For a moment my mind was completely blank, and it must have shown on my face, but then Gavin cut in. ‘Nice try, Richard, but he won’t fall for it. No one goes into that house; not even the postman gets in there.’

  ‘He’s got his very own harem tucked away, that’s why,’ Henry said from the head of the table and winked lewdly. ‘Ain’t that right, Will?’

  I smiled and changed the subject. After all, they were used to me by now. When I owed someone a dinner, I took them out to a restaurant. I’m not a good cook. They seem to take my lack of domestic hospitality in their stride. Sometimes I’m absolutely convinced that whenever they think of me, they imagine me doing a tango with a rose clutched firmly in my teeth. But then that’s not even tango; it’s flamenco. And there’s nothing quaint about tango. Tango was born in the slums of my ancestors. It was born in the bars around the docks, amidst the pandemonium and brawls of the old city. It isn’t quaint at all.

  I sat looking at my friends. I wondered how long they’d survive back home. Or what they would really think of it. Actually, I think that it would drive them mad after a while. Out here, in the quaint ceaseless calm of an English village, it is hard to imagine a life beyond. From the outside, everything seems to make sense. Everything has its place.

  My friends are open and unsuspecting. There is none of the natural suspicion of the Argentinian. It was almost the first thing I noticed about them: the feeling that you are going to get ripped off, robbed or walked over unless you are careful is almost entirely absent. For me, it’s unbelievable in a way. Here, if things don’t work out, you shrug and come back later. If something doesn’t work back home, there is almost always a riot. People start shouting and knocking on office doors. You have to make a lot of noise if you’re to have any hope of getting anything done or getting what you want. It took me years before I stopped thinking someone was lurking near my front door, trying to get in. Years before I stopped rolling up cash and stuffing it deep down inside my pockets for fear of pickpockets. Habits like that are a pleasure to leave behind, but it’s hard for me to keep a level of restrained indifference when things go wrong, or when someone gets in my way. I want to go for the jugular and cause a fuss. Mix things up a bit and let off a bit of steam in a public place.

  There is a word for it back home. For the sense of constant chaos. Un quilombo. It translates literally as ‘A brothel!’ But it really means the mess arising from a disaster. An unsolvable problem. ¡Que quilombo! ‘What a mess!’ It’s an old expression and used almost constantly. A personal disaster. A political scandal. Hyper-inflation. The lights go out. ¡Que quilombo!

  The Argentinian knows from experience that things will go wrong. He does not trust the mechanic, the builder, the plumber, the electrician, the politician, the policeman, the judge or the accountant. He expects to get ripped off. It is the natural way of things. Police are the worst criminal gang in the world. Better off with a robber than a policeman. Never trust a policeman. Never let one in your house unless you can help it. They are coimeros: bribe-takers in league with gangsters and sometimes killers. And as for the politicians: they make the police look like little children when it comes to stealing.

  I picked up my pint and took a large gulp, quite content to watch my friends talk. Pubs are one of my favourite things about England. We don’t really get them back home. Not like this anyway.

  One of the locals, a skinny old farmer, bent down, picked up a log, threw it roughly on the fire and then kicked it once with the toe of his boot, so that it rested more firmly in the back of the grate. The log, flickering and spluttering, caught fire. Outside, the branches of the trees stirred restlessly in the growing darkness, as the wind picked up and raced along the ancient walls of the pub.

  3

  The phone woke me the next morning, and, shivering, I reached for it and stared through the gap in the curtains. Frost clung stubbornly to the edges of the windows, and the sullen silence out in the woods was so deep that you could almost reach out and touch it. I mumbled into the phone, wrote down the address, changed quickly, grabbed a coffee and then drove straight to Lower Quinton.

  It was a short drive, but it took me a while to find the entrance to the field, spotting it only when I saw the blue lights of the ambulance spinning above the treetops. I slowed down and parked my car behin
d one of two unmarked transit vans. I stepped out, opened the boot, got my wellington boots and then hurriedly put them on before moving quickly along the muddy path.

  Light was just beginning to push through the mass of cloud above, and there was a stiff breeze blowing. The whole village was still asleep. I walked quickly through the gate and stopped when I reached the ambulance. Its back doors were open, and there was a thin old lady perched on the edge of a stretcher. She was clutching forlornly at a green overcoat in her lap, and a thin trickle of blood was crawling its way down her forehead and towards her left eye. Without thinking, I stepped forward to help her, then stopped when I saw that a medic was already rummaging about for a bandage in the back.

  All the same, I peered in. Yes, it was a nasty cut all right. You could see it underneath the grey hair. She was going to need stitches, and quite a few by the looks of it.

  I put my head inside. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked her.

  She looked at me as if noticing me for the first time, smiled and didn’t say anything. Poor dear, I thought. She must be going slightly batty. But then the smile slowly turned into an impatient and sarcastic grimace as it drew slowly back along her teeth.

  ‘Well, of course I’m not all right, am I?’ she said. ‘Do I look all right to you? I’m cold and I’m wet and all I want to do is go home,’ she said, and emphasized the word ‘home’ by nodding her head forward, which only made the blood flow faster towards her eye. ‘But this horrible little man,’ she said, glaring at the medic, ‘won’t let me and now I don’t know where my Jacky is.’

  ‘Your what?’ I said, wondering if it might be a brand of hearing aid or perhaps a type of English walking stick that I had never heard of.

  She looked at me as if I had just said the most stupid thing she had ever heard in her entire life. ‘My Jacky. My dog, man. My dog.’

  But I was already backing out. ‘I’m sure your dog’s fine,’ I said a little meekly, turning on my heel and moving towards the gate. Old bag, I thought, and then at almost exactly the same time my mind moved as if of its own accord to search for the Argentinian equivalent: Vieja Bruja – ‘Old Witch’.

  By the gate I saw that the old woman’s dog was being taken care of by a young police constable called Varley. There were plenty of words in English and Spanish for Varley – none-too-flattering ones – but I tried not to think of them. The dog, I noticed without much surprise, was already causing him trouble.

  Varley was patting the dog behind the ears and trying to settle it. But that didn’t seem to be working, so he got down on his haunches and tried to make it sit and stay there by pressing its back legs down on to the ground, imploring it all the while to calm down. But the dog, a rakish and very young-looking fox terrier, seemed hell-bent on racing back up the hill. It hopped forward on its two hind legs, straining against the lead, whining in its desperation to examine the strange and exciting phenomenon it had just seen up on Meon Hill.

  Varley looked up when he heard me approach and momentarily lost concentration, letting slip his grip on the lead. The dog suddenly pulled away, and the lead slipped out of Varley’s hands. Varley stumbled and then fell over into the mud, fumbling for the lead but missing it by the very tips of his fingers as the dog began to crawl under the gate.

  But by then I was already speeding up towards him. I took a few quick strides and stamped on the dog’s lead, stopping it dead in its tracks. I reeled the creature in like a fish before tying the lead to the gate. Varley looked like I was about to give him a bollocking. But it was too early, and I was too cold and still half asleep. Instead, I looked with some admiration at the woman’s dog and patted it around the ears while Varley brushed his jacket off as best he could.

  The dog at last seemed to calm down, and, now knowing that there was no chance of getting back up the hill, it looked wistfully upwards towards it from time to time, sometimes gazing at me and then Varley in a friendly sort of way.

  ‘This little bugger belongs to the lady in the ambulance, I presume,’ I said. ‘The lady who called it in.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘She looks pretty banged up,’ I said, already feeling guilty about calling her an old bag even if I hadn’t actually said it out loud.

  ‘I think she’s all right, sir. The cut’s not as bad as it looks. But they’re going to have to take her to A & E and do a head scan just in case. She fell over when she tried to climb the stile and hit her head. She was in a bit of a hurry to get to a phone, y’see.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I can imagine. Just walking along minding your own business and suddenly that.’

  ‘Well, yes, sir,’ Varley said, as if I had just said something rather insensitive. ‘I know I’m not going to forget it in a hurry.’

  ‘You’ve been up there, then?’ I said, surprised.

  ‘Yes, sir. I was first on the scene, and, as the lady wasn’t making much sense, I thought I’d better check. She kept going on about a dog or something. About how she knew who it was up there because she recognized his dog.’

  ‘His dog?’ I said. ‘So his dog must still be on the hill.’

  ‘I guess it must be,’ Varley said, as if realizing this for the first time. ‘Must have run off, though, because I didn’t see it.’ He looked baffled; then his face brightened. ‘But I did see a body – there’s definitely a body up there. The old lady’s dog found it. She told me that the moment she let her dog off his lead, he went racing up the hill like a demon. He must have sniffed out the body. And when she got to the top, Jacky was there, wagging his tail like mad and sniffing at it.’ Varley shot the dog an indignant look.

  I wrapped my coat more tightly round my body before glancing up at the hill rising in the distance beyond the gate. ‘Apart from Dr Brewin and his team, anybody else been up and tried to get in?’

  ‘Only a couple. Villagers with their dogs. The hill’s a popular run for them, so I told them there had been an accident. And sent them home.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Keep on telling them that.’

  At the far end of a garden, by the side of the path, was a neat-looking cottage. It was very cold outside. I looked at Varley. His jacket was splattered with mud. He had a long day ahead of him; we all did.

  ‘Dr Brewin probably told you this already,’ I said, watching Varley carefully. ‘But I’m going to tell you again just in case. No one is to go past that gate without his say so. No one. It’s his crime scene for now, and he decides who comes in and who doesn’t. So you radio in every time anyone tries to get access. And I mean anyone. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Varley said. ‘But your…’ He paused before saying, ‘Well … your sergeant asked me to tell you to enter the field from the garden over there.’ Varley pointed to the garden that ran along the side of the path. ‘He’s informed the owner and he’s given orders that everyone is to go through that way, sir, so as not to disturb the path into the field.’

  There was a brief moment of confusion. In my mind the image that flashed before me was of Powell. But then I remembered. Powell was sick. Really sick.

  ‘Oh. He has, has he?’ I said, my eyes looking towards the small field on the other side.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And I’m to take the other way, am I?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  I grunted and looked down the path. A member of the forensic team was getting some pictures of the mud just below the bottom of the stile at the other end. Nearby was a sign erected by the field’s ungracious owner that read: THE FIELD IS NOT HERE FOR THE BENEFIT OF WALKERS. Someone, probably the village wag, had crossed out the word ‘not’ with a felt-tip pen.

  I patted the dog one more time and strode towards the garden, sensing eyes watching me. I looked right, beyond the small neat garden and into the kitchen of the cottage, where a pale-looking boy, still dressed in his Spider-Man pyjamas, was staring at me. I gave him a wave and, as if against his better judgement, he waved back.

  4

  Meon Hill had
once been the site of an Iron Age settlement, and wide, corrugated ridges undulated all the way across it. Black hedgerows surrounded the fields, and at the top a handful of ancient oak trees clustered around the hill’s crest. I had glimpsed the hill rising on the horizon from time to time from my car, but I had never actually been there before. It was quiet and empty and somehow mournful too.

  I trudged across the ridges of the field; the mud clung to my boots in large wet clumps. I dug my gloved hands deeper into my pockets as I walked, already dreaming of warmer climes. The cold is something that I have never been able to get used to. It reaches deep into my bones, and, no matter how many layers of clothing I put on, the wind slips beneath them. Scarves, mittens, gloves and hats seem to serve no purpose at all for me. The cold shakes and rattles the teeth in my head so badly that sometimes I can hardly think or even breathe, and every winter without fail I always end up in bed with a damned lousy cold or flu for a week, no use to anyone. And in the winter it is always so dark out here in the country. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. But I’m not.

  I looked up. Dr Brewin had fixed yellow police tape around the oak trees at the top of the hill, and my step quickened when I saw it. For a moment the cold was forgotten, and I was suddenly eager to get on with it. But when I glanced up again a few moments later I saw Graves coming down the hill towards me. I stopped in my tracks and waited for him.

  Graves’s blond hair was just visible underneath a knitted hat, which he pulled firmly over his ears in a sudden gesture as he caught sight of me. Around his neck was a matching grey scarf, which he had tucked very precisely into the collar of his overcoat. He was wearing a suit. On anybody else the woolly hat with the black suit would have been ridiculous, but on Graves the combination seemed somehow to work, creating an impression that was elegant and yet roguish at the same time. Unable to help myself, I gazed down critically at my now rather threadbare trench coat and straightened my tie. Graves seemed immaculate and, I couldn’t help but think, kind of brand-new-looking too.