“So Patch was homeless?”
“When nobody came forward to take on a three-legged dog, I offered, knowing he was unlikely to want long walks, and we could hobble along as two old cripples together. The arrangement has worked up to now, although I’ve got slower as he has speeded up. I think I benefit the most. Use it or lose it, they say, don’t they? He gets me out of here twice a day. Just as important, I needed company.”
“He looks contented, too. Tell me about the tunnel he fell into. Has anyone been down since?”
“If they have, I’d be surprised. It’s considered dangerous and a cover has been placed over the shaft. It was probably abandoned before 1850. Most of them were.”
“Did the boy who rescued Patch say anything about the state of it?”
“We didn’t get much from him. You know what teenagers are like.”
“There must be a proper entrance like the one you were talking about.”
“Jackdaw? Not necessarily. Some of the smaller mines were only accessible by ladder down a shaft.”
“How did they get the stone up?”
“With horse-operated cranes.”
“Bigger than a ventilation shaft, then?”
“Certainly, but it will have been filled in, or covered, for safety reasons.”
“May I have a look?”
Seymour handed the framed map across.
Diamond studied the relative positions of the railway tunnel entrance, the field where Belinda’s shirt had been found and the copse where Patch had fallen down the shaft. The placing was close enough to bear out his theory. “I must see this for myself. Do you know of anyone who’ll take me down?”
“Into the tunnel?”
“I’ll wear a hard hat.”
“You’d need more than that.”
“Whatever, I’m serious.”
“What would be the point? The young lady won’t have fallen down the same shaft as Patch did. I told you, it’s been capped.”
“If the workings are any size, there must be other shafts, even though no one has found them above ground. The obvious way to locate them is to look from inside the tunnels.”
“There’s some logic in that. When would you hope to do this?”
“Today, if someone can escort me. What happened to the boy who rescued Patch? Is he still around?”
“He’s a young man getting on for eighteen now, works as a farmhand. Comes here sometimes and takes Patch out.”
“How do I contact him?”
“If there isn’t an animal in trouble down there, he won’t be interested.”
“Could be a woman in trouble.”
“That won’t impress him.”
“Will a twenty-pound note?”
“That’s another matter. I’ll see if I can find his phone number.”
In the large town of Reading, Spiro felt more confident and safer. He’d spent the first night sleeping rough under a bridge and become cold and depressed and loathed the place, but during the next day he sold the bike for fifty pounds to a teenager and his young brother, all done with sign language. He bought fresh, dry clothes from a charity shop and treated himself to fish and chips and suddenly Reading was the next thing to heaven.
Later in the day, he sat in a window seat in a coffee shop in Broad Street watching a bearded guy across the street who was lying propped against the door of an empty shop with a blanket over his legs. On the pavement, where passers-by would notice, was an open guitar case and occasionally some sympathetic shopper would drop a coin into it. No other bedding was visible in the doorway, no cardboard, and no guitar, for that matter. The usual thing for any street person who possessed a guitar was to earn some cash by busking. Had the instrument been stolen, Spiro wondered, or was the case only ever used for begging? Of more immediate interest, did the guy know of a place to doss down at night?
Late in the afternoon, Spiro returned and the doorway was still occupied by no-guitar man. As dusk approached and the streets emptied, the guy got up, stretched, pocketed his takings, zipped up his collection box, slung it over his shoulder and walked up Broad Street at a surprisingly brisk rate, as if he was going somewhere. Spiro had to trot to keep up, hopeful that he might be led to a food van of the sort he and Murat had found essential to survival in Bath.
No-guitar man turned a corner, reached a roundabout, used the crossing and started up another street. The shops gave way to messy industrial units, tool-hire places and scrap yards. Here on the fringe of town there was no sign of a food van.
Abruptly the man dodged the traffic, crossed the street and walked into a pub. Disappointing. He’d be spending his day’s takings in there, Spiro decided. This wasn’t what he’d hoped for. But something struck him as unusual. Typical of other pubs he’d seen, this one had the hanging sign of a coat of arms where it could be seen as you came along the street, but the building wasn’t covered in boards advertising the treats inside, only some big lettering that he supposed was the name of the place. A stark, white exterior. No boxes of geraniums or hanging baskets. Then he noticed an A-board near the front door.
He went over — and of course couldn’t understand what was written on it.
He was about to move on when a young woman came out of the pub, treated him to a warm smile and spoke to him. She was inviting him inside.
Spiro spread his hands and shrugged and managed to let her know he didn’t speak English.
She took that as a done deal and opened the door for him, so he went in and was even more mystified. The bar had no pumps for serving beer and there wasn’t a single bottle on the shelves behind.
His new friend said, “Tea or coffee?” and even with his limited English Spiro understood and chose tea. Behind him, at tables, customers were drinking from mugs, not glasses. No-guitar man was eating a sandwich.
She didn’t want payment for the tea, which was the usual coarse brew the English served everywhere. Spiro was used to Albanian mountain tea, known as ironwort, velvety on the throat and subtle in flavour, taken without milk, but he appreciated the kindness. He took his to an empty table and watched what was going on and by degrees decided this must be an alcohol-free pub that catered for homeless people. Even more remarkable, he could overhear Albanian being spoken at another table.
The dialect was Gheg, making them northerners. Spiro was a Tosk speaker, but it didn’t matter. He tuned in and knew what was being said by the man and woman, both about his own age. Mostly the woman did the talking and she was on about food, some meal she’d enjoyed the night before, and how she’d slept like a baby afterwards. Places were mentioned and Spiro hoped he would remember them because it seemed churches were open where Christian people served meals and supplied beds for the night to unfortunates like himself. His good opinion of Reading was being confirmed.
Tempting as it was to go over and speak to the Albanians in his own language, he resisted. There were sure to be questions. He remained terrified of word getting back to the Finisher. Instead, he swallowed the rest of his tea and went back to the hostess or whatever she called herself and spoke the name of one of the churches he’d heard was a good night shelter. She understood at once and produced a town map to show him where the church was.
Revived (the tea had its merits if you could stomach it) and confident, he left the pub and strolled back in the direction of Broad Street. Plenty of the evening remained before he needed to claim his bed for the night, but as he would be a first-timer, he resolved to get there early and make himself known.
He was vaguely aware of a few people on the corner across the street and didn’t take much interest who they were until one of them called out to him, not by name, but in a tone that left no doubt he was being addressed. What a friendly town this was.