Lies Sleeping

15 The Coop

‘Do you think there is a God?’ said Carey, apropos of fuck knows what.

We were on a stake-out. And spending a couple of hours cooped up in a car often leads to some weird conversations. But this was the first time religion had ever come up.

‘You know, God,’ he said. ‘Creator of everything – the Bible – that kind of God.’

‘Not really,’ I said, and checked the mirrors to make sure we hadn’t been spotted.

Not that it was likely, given that we were parked down Poplar Place which was actually round the corner from our target. We’d taken the ‘last car on earth’, a ten year old Rover that was fully reconditioned under the bonnet but beaten to shit on the bodywork. It moved when you wanted it to but the aircon was buggered. Which why it was always the last car anyone picked for an operation. It didn’t help that it was another sweaty, overcast day, and even with the windows down Carey was suffering.

Our targets were the false houses in Bayswater that concealed not only the unsightly gash of the Circle and District Lines, but one of the hidden entrances to the clandestine tunnels that were the domain of the secret people that lived under West London. Fortunately we knew where most of the hidden entrances were. Unfortunately, so did Zachary Palmer – who was minting it as informal liaison between Crossrail and the Quiet People, as the secret folk were known, who were employed for their unique tunnelling skills.

Judging from the pattern when he evaded us, Zach used the hidden ways when he wanted to escape his surveillance team. As part of the ‘arrangement’ with the Quiet People the further flung of their secret entrances, not used for Crossrail, had been decommissioned. Me and Carey were stationed at the easternmost of the entrances which was still open, while Nightingale and Guleed were waiting in Notting Hill, which we figured was his most likely escape route.

‘So you don’t believe in God?’ said Carey.

Long experience with my mother’s erratic approach to Christianity has taught me to avoid this topic of conversation, but I wasn’t paying attention so I just told him I didn’t.

‘How can you not believe in God?’

There was something in Carey’s tone that made me pay attention.

‘I just don’t,’ I said.

‘But after what you’ve seen,’ he said. ‘After the shit we’ve seen?’

‘What kind of shit?’

‘You can do magic, Peter,’ said Carey. ‘You can shoot fireballs out of your fingers and your girlfriend is a river. That kind of shit. Like possessed BMWs and just all of it. All of that shit.’

‘That’s different,’ I said. ‘That shit is real.’

‘Most people don’t think it’s real. They think it’s all made up.’

‘Like overtime,’ I said, but Carey wasn’t biting.

‘If that’s true, then why not God?’

‘How does that follow?’

‘Because it does.’

‘No it doesn’t.’

‘OK, OK, maybe you just haven’t met God yet,’ he said and, before I could reply, my Airwave pinged.

It was Sergeant Jaget Kumar, the Folly’s liaison with the British Transport Police and our man in London Underground’s CCTV control room.

‘You’re not going to like this,’ he said. ‘But your target’s eastbound on the District Line.’

Nightingale broke in.

‘Zulu Foxtrot Two One One – go east now, see if you can get ahead of him.’

So much for secret doors, I thought, as I put the Rover in gear and peeled away with the light-bars flashing but the siren off. I considered going under the Westway at Royal Oak but decided to risk the traffic on the direct route and head up Bishop’s Bridge Road. We don’t speed in the Metropolitan Police, we ‘make progress’ where the traffic allows. Sometimes we made progress at seventy miles an hour, but not often enough to reach Edgware Road before Zach did.

‘Has he ever done this before?’ asked Carey, who was enjoying the breeze.

I said not.

‘He knows we’re following him this time,’ said Carey. ‘Why else change his pattern?’

Jaget reported that Zach was off the train.

‘Assume he’s going east on the Hammersmith and City,’ said Nightingale over the Airwave. ‘And try and get to Baker Street before he does. We’ll cover this end in case he doubles back.’

Fortunately Nightingale had said this early enough for me to slide off the Harrow Road and onto the Marylebone Flyover – although, as any London driver will tell you, that’s not always a step up.

‘He’s on the eastbound platform,’ said Jaget.

‘Skip Baker Street,’ said Nightingale. ‘Go straight to King’s Cross – we’ll come east and cover Baker Street.’

Guleed was in for a treat if Nightingale thought he could do Notting Hill to Baker Street in under fifteen minutes.

I had to make a decision. A couple of hundred years ago the Euston Road was practically London’s northern boundary. You’d clip along in your carriage with the fields and orchards of Middlesex to the north and the brand new Regency housing developments, luxury homes for the gentry – so no change there –to the south. It’s a crucial east-west route and as such has been widened, turned into a dual carriageway and had underpasses and flyovers added in order to cope with the traffic volume. The result has been a road on which the motorist can while away a happy hour or so of an afternoon while admiring the limitations of sixties urban planning.

I got off it as soon as I could and went around the back of Euston Station by the secret route, known only to me and London’s cabbies, and ended up approaching King’s Cross down York Way. Zach hadn’t got off at Baker Street, but I was seriously beginning to wonder whether he was going anywhere or was just messing us about.

‘Farringdon,’ said Carey. ‘He could slip into the Crossrail works there and lose us.’

I relayed this via Guleed, who was making the occasional yip sound over the noise of a vintage, but beautifully maintained, inline six cylinder going flat out.

‘He says stay where you are until we’re in a position to cover King’s Cross,’ she said, and then paused while Nightingale said something indistinct in the background. ‘He thinks that if he were trying to lose us he’d have made the attempt at Baker Street.’

‘Where’s he going?’ asked Carey.

It turned out to be Liverpool Street.

As we shot down Bishopsgate I realised that the Broadgate offices of Bock, Loupe and Stag were passing on our right.

‘Haven’t we just been down these ends?’ I said.

‘It’s the City,’ said Carey. ‘Everyone down here has their hand in everybody else’s trouser pocket.’

Jaget tracked him off the train, up the escalators and out the Old Broad Street exit. By that time I’d managed to pull in by the taxi rank on Liverpool Street. Only Zach caught us by surprise by coming out our way and we had to duck down as he passed us on the other side of the street. I didn’t dare back out in the car because someone was bound to honk at us and catch Zach’s attention, so we threw the doors open and bundled out instead. Carey, since he’s interacted with Zach the least, took the lead as he turned right down Bishopsgate.

Zach looked cheerful and suspiciously well groomed.

‘He’s definitely expecting to get lucky,’ said Carey over his Airwave.

But where was this good fortune about to take place?

Like most of the City, Bishopsgate is in a permanent state of redevelopment. Which worked to my favour, since the scaffolding on the building next to the Church of St Botolph of the Turkish Baths gave us cover as we watched Zach cross over to the other side of the road.

We thought he was going for Houndsditch, a pedestrianised strip between Heron Tower and whatever it was they were building next door, and we hurried across to avoid getting left behind. But Zach surprised us again by veering through the revolving doors that led to Heron Tower’s main lobby.

I’m not going to say anything about Heron Tower except that I’m sure the architects did their best and that the makers of Meccano probably regard it as aspirational. It’s forty-six storeys high and has a couple of expensive eateries at the top, but they’re served by their own lifts with a separate street entrance. Zach obviously wasn’t going for those.

Carey went into the lobby while I followed cautiously ten metres behind.

Heron Tower has what the brochures call a concierge style lobby. Which is to say, just like every modern corporate building built this century, there’s a reception, security and barriers to stop the unwashed from penetrating the inner fastness. Exactly like Broadgate, only this time with the largest privately owned aquarium in the UK – stocked, I like to think, with piranhas so that failing minions could be suitably punished by their superiors.

Piranhas or not, the aquarium rose like a glass wall behind the receptionists, who were all young white women, sitting in a row and dressed in identical blue uniforms.

Zach was nowhere to be seen. I suspected he was already up the escalators or heading for the main lift bank – both were the other side of the security barriers.

Carey showed the receptionist his warrant card.

‘The scruffy white man who just came in,’ he said. ‘Where did he go?’

The receptionist, startled by his tone, hesitated, glanced at me and then, slightly panicked, to the approaching security guard. This guy was in a navy suit with an unfortunate orange tie, and was nearing us with the caution of a man on a minimum wage zero hours contract who planned to give his employers exactly what they paid for.

Carey whirled on him – he obviously hadn’t enjoyed the stake-out.

‘You,’ he said to the security guard. ‘Unless you want to be arrested for obstruction, get her to tell us where he went.’

Which they did, with speed and reproachful looks. And I noticed they knew exactly who we were talking about.

‘Does anyone else go in and out of that floor?’ I asked.

Not that they knew of. And the unfurnished floor was not in common use – bought and paid for, but the client had yet to move in. Zach, who they knew as Mr Henry Hodgekins, made periodic visits and had his own pass. Later they’d furnish us with dates and descriptions and, reluctantly, financial information. But we didn’t have time for that now. We did show them a picture of Lesley and asked if it rang any bells. None, they said. But this was Lesley with her new changeable face – she could go in and out all day and they might never know.

‘What do you reckon?’ asked Carey, flushed but pleased with himself.

‘We’ve got to go after him,’ I said.

‘And if she’s up there? Or something worse?’

I keyed Nightingale on my Airwave and got Guleed instead.

‘We’re ten minutes out,’ she said.

I looked over at Carey, who shrugged and then nodded.

‘We’re going up,’ I told her.

‘Be careful,’ she said.

The security guard, whose name turned out to be Mitchell, came with us to facilitate access through the barriers and guide us around the fish tank, under the escalators and into the correct lift.

It was a fast lift, but we rode up with the nagging worry that Lesley was already riding down in the adjacent shaft. The walls were glass, so we would have got a good view of her thumbing her nose as she went by. We did get a really good view south over the City proper, framed by the Gherkin and the NatWest tower and cranes rearing like flagpoles over every new development. Through the new construction I caught sight of the river, the fake blades of the Ronson and the gap where Skygarden used to be.

I couldn’t quite get the angle to see St Paul’s. It was a way to the west, built on the hill on the other side of the Walbrook. I wondered if that was significant.

‘We should have waited,’ said Carey. ‘And locked down the place.’

Which is the age-old dilemma, when chasing a suspect into a big building.

‘We just have to hope she doesn’t know we’re coming,’ I said. ‘You ready?’

Carey pulled his X26 from his shoulder holster and checked the charge. Following the operation in Chiswick, Seawoll had insisted that Carey and Guleed were routinely armed. Carey, who could moan about an overtime bonus, had never complained once about carrying the bulky thing.

The lift slowed, pinged and opened its doors on to the thirty-fourth floor. The lobby beyond was small, windowless and dimly lit. With its durable peach coloured carpet, neutral coloured walls and sturdy hardwood fire doors it looked temporary – a placeholder.

Mitchell the guard indicated an electronic touch lock by one of the fire doors and pulled a key card from his pocket.

‘This should open it,’ he said.

Carey took the card from his fingers and shushed him when he tried to protest. I gently pushed him away from the door so he wouldn’t be in the line of fire or in our way, and nodded at Carey.

Carey pressed the card to the touch lock – and nothing happened.

He tried a couple more times and we both turned to glare at Mitchell, who cringed.

‘It should work,’ he hissed.

We pointed out, in low whispers, that it obviously didn’t.

‘It’s supposed to open everything,’ whispered Mitchell. ‘For safety.’

‘Well, obviously it doesn’t,’ said Carey.

Mitchell said if we would just give him a moment he’d fetch another card, and we let him scuttle back down in the lift.

Carey gave me an inquiring look, I nodded, and we switched off our Airwaves and our phones.

Then I blew the electromagnets that were holding the door closed.

Modern office security and fire doors are designed to fail into an unlocked position so that cubicle monkeys can make a run for it in case of a fire. Disrupt the electrical supply and you can unlock them without breaking a sweat or blowing all the microprocessors in the vicinity and accidentally triggering the sprinkler system.

But, in my defence, that only happened once and they’re planning to move New Scotland Yard to a new building in any case.

There was a quiet thud as the magnets let go and I cautiously pushed the door open.

Beyond was it was wide open – at least half the thirty-fourth floor’s available space, lit by the grey daylight slanting in through the glass cladding.

Zach was reclining on the red leather sofa that faced the door, a can of Red Stripe in one hand and what would turn out to be, after later examination, an enormous spliff in the other.

‘You took your time,’ he said before turning his head. ‘I was going to spark up without you.’

Despite this, me and Carey made a cautious advance – just in case it was a trap.

‘Oh, shit,’ said Zach, when he realised it was us. ‘And it was going to be sushi night too.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘What are you guys doing here?’

Carey strode forward and, before I could stop him, punched Zach in the face – hard enough to stagger him backwards.

‘Where the fuck is she?’ he shouted.

‘How the fuck should I know?’ said Zach, clutching his face and backing away towards the wide windows and their expensive view of north London.

I grabbed Carey’s arm before he could hit Zach again. He shrugged off my hand but stepped back, his hands raised, palms up to show that he was finished. I was gobsmacked. You have to be a bit aggressive to be a police officer, it’s the nature of the job. But I’d never seen David Carey so much as shout at a suspect before. He always said he was too lazy to hit someone.

I pointed at the brass bed that sat incongruously in an open space and told Zach to sit on it. I looked at Carey to see if he was going to be trouble, but he just shook his head.

‘You watch him,’ I said. ‘I’ll do a quick search.’

And it was a quick search, since it was standard open-plan office floor into which what looked like a pied-â-terre’s worth of furniture had been deposited. Then arranged into a wall-less imitation of a flat, with separate spaces for kitchen, bathroom, lounge and bedroom. It was creepily like a stage set or something out of a surreal episode of the original Star Trek.

The furniture was all high end and I suspected that if I called up the John Lewis catalogue on my phone I’d find every single item. Except maybe the trio of creepy white busts with half-formed faces that lined the top of a dresser. Wig holders, I realised.

‘She used to put her masks on them,’ Zach explained later.

Somebody was going to have to track the furniture in case Martin Chorley had been sloppy enough to use his own bank account to buy it. Likewise one of our forensic accountants would trace the ownership of the office space back to whatever shell company Martin Chorley had bought it with. How many of these front organisations could he have? And how many could he lose before his operation ground to a halt?

As many as he needs, I thought. Not to mention other underhand details that we haven’t even thought of yet.

‘Can I least finish the spliff before the handcuffs go on?’ said Zach.

‘Only if you give me some,’ said Carey.