Suddenly Rocco knew where he was: he was on a boat. And very close by was another boat – the one which had just been manoeuvring and causing the vibration and movement of water.

He was on the canal.

He rolled over and scrambled to his knees, immediately bouncing his head painfully off a hard surface above him. He winced and sank down, fighting nausea. Not a good idea, he thought, when you’ve had one bang on the head, to go and give yourself another.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He was in total darkness, so he had to rely on his remaining senses to read his surroundings. Think. He could tell the space he was in was confined, both by the height and the absence of echo in the atmosphere. It could be a locker of some kind; most boats, where junk was dangerous to leave lying around, had them for stowage of equipment.

He flexed his hands. His fingers were going numb. He felt for the ropes binding him, trying to assess what his captors had used. He tried to concentrate on the shape and texture. Standard thick rope … hemp, he guessed, and slightly oily to the touch. Not new, then. Did that mean the boat was old? A working vessel? Or one moored on the canal for renovation work? Old meant weak points and a chance to break free. Whatever. He was a prisoner for as long as Lambert wanted him unless he could get out.

He sank back and used his hands to explore the floor. Metal – and flaky with rust, just as he’d thought. He scrabbled backwards until he fetched up against a wall. Also metal – and cold. So, an old vessel, not modern materials. He rolled over and scrabbled the other way, walking his fingers across the floor like twin spiders in a mating dance. Another wall. At a guess little more than his own body length from the first one.

He turned at what he judged to be ninety degrees and scrabbled again, pushing himself backwards until he met another upright surface. This one was wood, with a hollow resonance. He rolled over and scrabbled away from it. This time his feet hit one upright and his shoulders another. His hands felt empty space.

Rocco considered it. Instinct told him it couldn’t be a hole. Holes were wasteful on boats and served no useful purpose. He leant back and felt the upright against his shoulder, trying to picture the space where he might be lying. He inched up on to his knees and moved to where he could feel the upright with his hands. Metal. Cold and unforgiving, sloping away from him.

Then he had it; he was in the bow, right up against the sharp angle where the bulkheads came together. It meant the wooden wall he’d come into contact with across the other side was either a wall or a door. Or both. Either way, it was the only way out.

He shuffled back across the space until he felt himself against the wooden wall. Then he relaxed, thinking about what he could do. To kick through the wall might be possible – he had plenty to brace himself against. But it would be noisy. If any of Lambert’s men were around, they’d simply come back and knock him senseless. And with his hands tied he would be helpless to fend them off.

He shut out those thoughts and listened. The spiralling noise he’d heard earlier had changed. It was now deeper in tone, and more of a gurgle, like water on the move through a narrow space.

Then the floor shifted violently.

At first he thought it was his imagination, the mind playing tricks on a brain denied light, perspective or shape. Then it came again, and he felt his body weight move, dragging his centre of gravity to one side – towards one of the bulkheads.

Moments later it shifted back. Only now he felt as if the slope of the floor was going another way. Towards the front of the boat. With it came a louder gurgling noise.

The boat was sinking.

Rocco rolled onto his back and brought his knees up to his chest, bracing his hands on the floor. There was no time for niceties; if this boat was sinking, it was because someone had meant it to. Which meant there was unlikely to be anyone still on board. Just him.

He kicked out with both feet, slamming them into the wooden surface as hard as he could. But there was a dull echo, which told him it was solid. Too solid. He tried again, winding himself up and imagining a point beyond the wall, to a space he wanted his feet to reach. He kicked again, this time slightly to one side, and thought he heard a small creak in the wood. Another kick produced a sharp splitting sound.

He paused and gasped for air. The effort of using so much energy in a confined space was beginning to tell on him. He was cold and numb and his head was pounding through being hit and the lack of fresh air. But he had to carry on or die here.

The floor shifted again, and this time the noise was all around him, as if the boat was flexing itself, ready to die. Rocco’s hands and buttocks felt suddenly icy cold, as if exposed to a bitter wind. He shook his head, trying to make sense if it. How could wind get in here, when he couldn’t get out? It took a few moments for his numbed brain to realise what was happening. It wasn’t cold air he could feel gathering around him.

It was water. And it was coming in.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Rocco bit down on a feeling of panic. The water was seeping in through gaps in the panelling. Wooden panelling. And wood was weaker than the metal hull. He still had time if he could do enough damage to the wall and get out.

Then a surge of water flooded around his hands and buttocks, the smell bitter and tainted with oil or diesel. The floor shifted again. This time he felt it going down. The boat was now weighted with water and getting heavier by the second.

With calm desperation, he changed tactics. He shuffled backwards until he could straighten his legs. Then he sat up and took several deep breaths and began to force his hands apart. Each movement produced an answering creak from the ropes binding his wrists. He wouldn’t be able to break them, but it might gain him an extra few millimetres of movement.

He tried again, his muscles knotting against his clothing with the effort. Another surge of water flushed around his waist and covered the bindings. The boat was sinking faster. He tried to recall how deep Claude had said the canal was. Two metres? Three? Five? Whatever, if this continued, the air here would be forced out around the top of his prison, to be replaced by water. He would drown within minutes.

Not in this lifetime, he thought angrily, and took a deep breath. He rolled until he was balanced on his upper back, supported by his forearms. Foul water sloshed around his face, oily and bitter. He blew out a gush of air, and at the same time pushed down with his wrists and jerked up with his knees.

His bound wrists slid over his buttocks and came to rest behind his knees.

And that, he thought grimly, was the easy bit.

He breathed in again, then exhaled, sliding his wrists down the back of his legs and lifting his knees until the binding stopped at his heels. He pulled his knees up as far as they would go, but that was it. The shoes. Take off the shoes! He kicked them off and tried again as more water bubbled around his chest. He could feel himself lifting off the floor as a momentary weightlessness took over. Without touch, he couldn’t control the movements of his body; without friction, he could exert no pressure to help himself. For a split second the bindings stuck on his heels again and he bellowed aloud with frustration, no longer worried about who might be listening. The blood was pounding in his ears and he was experiencing a floating feeling that had nothing to do with buoyancy.

With a final desperate push, he jerked his knees upwards and thrust downwards, his feet free of restriction.