Soundproofing.
I felt a stir of disquiet, the cone of torchlight unable to illuminate anything else in the room below. Then I started down.
After five steps, my head level with the kitchen floor, I felt a subtle change in temperature, as if I was stepping into a freezer. There was a faint draught coming in from somewhere, and the distant sound of dripping, but nothing else. Once I was completely immersed, the kitchen just a square of light above me, I stopped and directed the torch down, into the spaces in front of me. It was a basement. Concrete floors, completely unfurnished. It was difficult to tell how big in the dark, but it must have been the length and width of the house. Every so often there were brick pillars – thick columns holding the building up – and attached to one of them I saw a metal plate flecked with rust, and a chain coming off to a pair of shackles. The shackles had a red dot on them. The same as the key from the kitchen. The key had never been for the lift shaft, just as the bodies had never been dumped there. It had all been a lie; an attempt to confuse.
I carried on down, pausing at the bottom.
Now I could smell something. Something worse than damp. I placed a foot on to the basement floor and slowly moved the torch from right to left. The beam glided past the mid-section of the room and – a split second later – something registered with me.
I moved it back.
In the darkness, barely illuminated by the torch, I saw something shift. I edged further in, keeping the beam high and my eyes fixed on the shadows. I passed one pillar, and then another. The second had started crumbling around its middle and, when I stopped for a moment, I could see why: it also had a metal plate and a chain attached to it – as well as another red dot on the shackles – just like the one close to the staircase. But this one had become almost detached from the wall.
As if someone had been pulling at it.
I felt a shiver pass through my chest, my body sounding an alarm, and then I refocused the torch on the shape.
It was a man.
He was on his side, ankle chained to a metal plate on the back wall, facing me but with his head tucked into the bend of his elbow. He was shivering. There were no marks on him, or at least none I could see. I dropped to my haunches and directed the torchlight away from him, off to the side where it wouldn’t be directly on him.
And I saw someone else.
Another man.
This one was also chained to the back wall, about seven feet further on. He wasn’t moving. I got to my feet, took a sideways step, and picked him out properly. There were bruises all over him, and it looked like his wrist might be broken. His arm was out in front of him, his hand a deep purple, angled away unnaturally. When my torch passed across his face, there was nothing in his eyes. No reaction. No colour. I recognized him instantly from the files Healy had shown me: Joseph Symons, the third Snatcher victim. He wasn’t dead, but he didn’t have long: I could see the soft rise and fall of his stomach, bones showing through his broken skin, and there was dried blood all over his groin.
Like Leon Spane, Smart had removed his penis.
I covered my mouth, nausea rising in my throat, and swung the torch back around to the man in front of me, trying to concentrate on anything but Symons. The man moved slightly, out of the crook of his elbow, his head propped on the upper part of his arm.
It was Jonathan Drake.
He gazed right at me, eyes distant, as if the fight had been beaten out of him. But he didn’t move, even though – for all he knew – I could have been Smart. I inched closer, using the torch to paint him in a soft yellow glow. On his back there were bruises everywhere, most either side of his spine.
‘Jonathan?’
Something sparked in his eyes.
‘My name’s David Raker. I’m here to get you out, okay?’
He blinked. Whimpered.
‘He’s not going to hurt you again.’
Drake shifted on the floor, coming towards me, but the chain locked into place at his ankle. I held out a hand, moving closer, and gently touched him on the shoulder. He flinched. He wasn’t in as bad a state as Symons – physically at least – but then Symons had been missing since 28 February. Almost four months. Drake had been missing six days. He’d suffered, but not like Symons.
‘It’s okay. No one’s going to …’
And then I saw the rest.
They were off to my left, in the opposite direction, chained to metal plates lined up on the outer wall. Some at the ankles, some at the wrists. There was about ten feet between each of them, and – when I could bear to look – I realized Smart had taken something from each of their bodies, just like he’d done with Symons. The one closest to me I knew straight away from the photo of him I’d seen in his file: Steven Wilky. When my torch caught his face, nothing came back; just a glazed stillness, his body curled up in the foetal position, his skin almost translucent, veins showing through like a road map.
Beyond him it got worse: the tiny figure of a man – a boy, really – head shaved, both hands locked together like he was praying. As I left Drake and inched through the darkness, past Wilky and on to the boy, I knew – even before I got to him – that it was Marc Erion. He was tiny and incredibly thin. Just bones. No fat at all.
I swallowed hard, and directed the torchlight beyond Erion to the other two bodies. Both were naked and shaved. Nearest to me, a man was half sitting up at the wall, arm attached to a metal plate above him. His breathing was soft and moist, like there might be blood in his lungs, and there were deep cuts all across his chest, his face beaten to a pulp. But I knew who it was. On the middle finger of his right hand was a silver ring with a rune on it.
Pell.
They’d never been working together. Pell had been nothing more to Smart than another victim. Another piece of misdirection. I’d been chasing Pell, thinking he was the Snatcher, while the real killer had him locked up in his basement with five other men.
I took another step forward.
Beyond Pell was the last of them. Like the others, he was naked, every inch of him shaved, but there was no blood on him. No bruising. He was thin, drawn, but while he was chained at the ankle, Smart had made an effort to keep him pristine, as if he saw him as something better. Something special. Something worth taking a risk over.
I’d found Samuel Wren.
76
Five minutes later the house was crawling with police and forensics. Craw made me give my account of what happened, of all the events leading up to the point at which we found ourselves, and then asked me to wait in the semi-darkness of the living room, surrounded by photographs of Smart’s father, and Smart as a boy. After an hour – after she’d been to the old Underground station, and down into the basement of the house – she came in, sat down and said nothing. We could both hear Davidson in the kitchen, telling someone to be careful with evidence, and when I looked at Craw I saw a kind of resignation in her, as if she was sick of this case, and maybe sick of her job. Men like Smart were a reset button: you thought you’d seen everything that people were capable of doing to one another, and then someone like him came along and you realized there was always someone worse.
I traced Smart’s face in one of the nearest photographs. There was nothing unique about him. He was just a man. No distinguishing features. Nothing to make your eyes linger on him as he passed you. And that was what had made him so effective.
‘Do you think he was trying to misdirect us?’ she asked.
‘With what?’
‘With the padlock on the lift shaft. Marking it with a red dot like that.’