protected her.’
‘Well, you have reason to feel very pleased with yourself, Arthur,’ declared May.
‘I would only feel that if we had been able to save the lives of her victims,’ Bryant admitted. ‘But there is still something left to do tonight.’ He rose and began pulling on Longbright’s spare overcoat, which was far too large for him. ‘Janice, you can take Kallie home, can’t you?’
‘Where are you going?’ asked May.
‘I have to return to St Pancras Basin, and you’re coming with me. Don’t worry, this time we won’t be getting wet, and at least we can put something right.’
50
* * *
DIASPORA
They used the river map to locate the entrance, a dank drainage shaft behind a bathroom-accessory warehouse at the back of King’s Cross. But gaining access proved impossible, because the iron hatch covering the shaft had been sealed under new tarmac. Night construction workers covered the area, so the detectives drove to the only other location they had listed, in nearby York Way.
This proved an altogether easier affair, consisting of a concrete stairway straight down into the basin. Unfortunately, the exit was in the centre of a secure construction compound, to which the detectives could only gain access by showing their police authorization.
‘The construction company must know about this,’ said Bryant as they descended the undamaged drain ladder. ‘It’s right on their site.’
‘Perhaps they haven’t been granted access yet. You know how long this sort of insurance documentation takes to approve.’
The great cavern of the basin lay before them. As John May crossed the dripping tiled hall, a distant susurration of alarm suggested that its inhabitants had heard the arrival of a stranger. ‘You know we could get into serious trouble,’ whispered May.
‘When you’re old, you can afford to take risks,’ Bryant whispered back. ‘It seems perverse to become more safety-conscious just when you have less to lose.’
They stopped before a row of slumped bodies. A young East European in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans rested on his haunches, keeping guard for the others.
‘Does anyone here speak English?’ May asked him.
‘David Beckham,’ smiled the youth. ‘Posh Spice. Lovely Jubbly.’
‘I blame tourism,’ sighed Bryant. ‘Those are the three phrases Egyptian boys use when trying to sell themselves as guides at the pyramids. I don’t suppose he knows any more English than that.’
The boy was put out. ‘I am Amir. I watch television, I speak English good, more words than many English people. I see English television. Absolutely Fabulous.’
‘Which means you don’t know how to get through passport control, but you know who Joanna Lumley is,’ moaned Bryant. ‘What a world.’
‘What he say?’ the boy asked May.
‘He’s being rude, take no notice. How many of you?’ May pointed at the others.
‘Maybe fourteen now.’
‘Are there any children?’
‘No, the children have gone with their mothers. Only men left. The youngest man is ten years.’
‘Arthur, I need a word with you.’ May pulled him to one side. ‘We have to tell the immigration authorities. They’ll take care of the boy. I don’t suppose they’re carrying any papers or passports. They’re economic migrants, not political refugees. Apart from anything else, they could be harbouring diseases.’
‘Please, John, you’re sounding like one of the more hysterical tabloids. Look at them. If we turn them over, they’ll be sent back or thrown into detention centres. We’ll have betrayed them. What have they had to go through, what have they risked just to get here, living in a sewer?’
‘How did you get here?’ May asked the men sitting up in their makeshift beds, watching the conversation in defeated silence.
‘Some by truck, some in private boats,’ Amir explained. ‘Police watch Dover but there are fishermen in Folkestone. We come here to meet another man who says he will help us, but he does not come.’
‘They’re tearing down all the arches and tunnels around King’s Cross, building the Eurostar terminal, and accidentally opened up the access to the St Pancras Basin from above,’ Bryant explained. ‘Obviously someone tipped off the police, so now they’re watching all the streets, and these people can’t use the way they came in.’
‘What about the drain behind Balaklava Street?’
‘It would have been too steep to climb back up all the way from here, and now it’s flooded again. You can use the local drainage network between the three streets in Kentish Town, or leave the basin via York Way. But there’s no way of bringing over a dozen people up on to a fenced-off construction site guarded by a copper. Soon the company will start demolishing the