"Quintin, Jardine - Fallen Gods" - читать интересную книгу автора (Quintin Jardine)

frowned, briefly. "Mind you, it's not quite right to call them
cellars; with these houses they're more like basement floors, some of
them with several rooms. Their gardens are well below street level,
and they back on to the houses in the street behind; so they've filled
up, and the water's come in from there as well as from the front door
above."

"How deep has it been?" Martin asked.

Sharp scratched his chin. "The water was over four feet deep across
the Inch," he replied. "That means it was above ground-floor level in
the houses. So it must have been fifteen to eighteen feet inside them,
anyway."

"Bloody hell; I understand now what you mean about the mess. We'd
better see for ourselves, then. Go on, Harry; get the show on the
road."

He stood back and watched as Inspector Sharp went about his business,
speaking to each of the householders who had been brought to the scene,
then waving the waiting constables and sergeants, some of them smiling,
no doubt at the prospect of overtime, from the transport vehicles. They
were all wearing overalls, and green rubber boots. Suddenly, Martin
felt gripped by guilt; or perhaps it was only the eagerness of a new
commander to set an example.

"Inspector," he called again. Sharp turned back towards him. "Do you
have a spare set of waders, and boots, my size? Ten at a pinch, or
bigger. Oh yes, and a shovel."

"Probably, sir," he shouted. "Bobby," he yelled across to a sergeant,
who seemed to be supervising the helpers. "See if you can sort out
some gear for the DCC The officer nodded, and headed off towards the
minibuses; Martin decided that he would be as well to follow, to
simplify the process.

The waders and boots that were left in the limited carry space of the
vehicles were, not unnaturally, the dirtiest and scruffiest in the
police stockroom, fifty officers having had their pick of the rest. He
grabbed a set that looked as if they would fit him adequately, and
struggled into them, trying not to guess where and why they had last
been used.

When he returned to the terrace, he found Inspector Sharp speaking
earnestly to a second group of homeowners who had been brought to the
scene. There were five of them, and from the way they stood together,
he guessed that they were two couples and one single person, an old
lady who looked at least seventy-five years old. She was white-faced,
and her dull grey hair was tied back in a bun, from which a few wispy
strands had escaped, to wave on the morning breeze. She was dressed in