‘Watch yourself,’ Cook warned, and Kathy grinned at Leon, her earlier reserve gone. He smiled ruefully back.
Their torches showed them to be inside a concrete tube, wide enough for half a dozen people to walk abreast, and extending as far into the distance as their torch beams could reach, the grey concrete walls and ceiling punctuated by grilles for incoming ducts. The murmur of hidden machinery was louder now, and as they moved on they felt a steady gentle breeze of warm air being drawn past them towards the main extract fans at the far end of the duct.
Kathy, thinking again of Wiff ’s disappearing act, said, ‘From what you said, this duct connects into every shop in the centre. It’s like an underground mall system. Couldn’t intruders use it?’ To her ear her voice sounded hollow, echoing in the air inside the tube with its acidic concrete taste.
Cook answered, ‘Yes and no. The air exhaust system, as I said, links all the spaces of the building from the rear of the shops through to the plenum. It’s low pressure so the ducts are quite large, and they penetrate all the fire divisions of the centre, so that potentially they could completely bypass the fire safety system which divides the centre into manageable compartments. A fire starting in one part of the centre could pass through the ductwork and send the whole place up in no time. So to avoid that possibility, the ducts are fitted with intumescent grilles every time they penetrate a fire division wall or floor.’
He pointed to the succession of grilles filling the holes along the ceiling of the tunnel.
‘An intumescent grille is like a sort of open honeycomb, coated with a material which intumesces-that is, foams up-when it gets hot. So, as soon as the hot smoke and gases from a fire pass into the ducts, the grilles foam up and seal themselves and the fire is contained. By the same token, the grilles would prevent a mouse, let alone a person, making their way through the ducts.’
They came to a corner where the plenum took a swing to the left. As they rounded the bend and the torch beams swayed across the dark space ahead, the engineer gave a muffled exclamation. Kathy followed the direction of his beam, and saw the black voids in the ceiling where a succession of grilles had been removed and stacked against the wall. Halfway down this length of tunnel, about fifty yards away, a stepladder was set up beneath one of these openings. As they walked towards it Kathy heard the faint muffled sound of each shop in turn coming through the holes in the ceiling: pop music, voices, mechanical humming. At the stepladder she caught the distinct pings and raucous electronic fanfares of the games arcade overhead.
The engineer went up the ladder, hauling himself up into the hole and disappearing for several minutes. When he returned he looked shaken.
‘I wouldn’t have believed it possible,’ he said. ‘Someone’s cleared a way right up into the unit.’
‘Could they get in and out?’ Kathy asked.
‘A small person, yes. Through the grilles. You can lift them out if you know how to do it.’
Another twenty yards and the plenum changed direction again, reflecting a crank in the plan of the mall above. Nearby was a short branch tunnel off to the right, and Kathy turned that way to check it.
She would have missed Wiff ’s den, tucked away to one side at the end, if the dog, which had followed her, hadn’t started barking excitedly. Wiff had transformed a corner of the duct into a teenager’s bedroom. Everything was there: a sleeping bag, clothes, posters, small pieces of furniture, a battery-powered light, junk food and drink containers all over the place. Most of the stuff looked new, many items still with security tags and price labels. From the variety of labels, he had looted many different stores in the centre to build his nest. Next to the sleeping bag was one of the Manchester United books she had seen him studying in the bookshop in the mall the previous Sunday morning.
‘Brock, here!’ she called.
As he joined her, followed by the others, she was suddenly aware of a rhythmic sound. She swung her flashlight towards its source and saw a clock with a happy Mickey Mouse face and a comforting tick.
‘All right, hands in pockets if you please, Mr Cook,’ Brock said.
The engineer stared at him blankly.
‘Don’t touch anything. It would be best if you would retrace your steps, and leave us to carry on the search down here.’
The man nodded and withdrew, his light beam and silhouette disappearing down the tunnel, while the handler and his dog moved on to continue their search in the other direction. Brock and Kathy stood against the duct wall as Leon and the SOCO team moved in.
‘This belongs to the boy I told you about,’ Kathy said. ‘In the games arcade. Wiff Smith. I’m sure of it.’
‘How long’s he been living down here, I wonder?’
‘Winston Starkey should know how long he’s been coming here. And Speedy and the other camera operators, you’d think they would have spotted him.’
‘Like a mouse, down here in the dark.’ Brock shook his head sadly. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘Brock, look at this.’ Leon was kneeling, his torch beam on something lying in a fold of the sleeping bag. He carefully pushed the cloth back to reveal the small glass bottle.
‘Can you read it?’
The printing on the label was tiny, and Leon had to crouch low to make it out. Finally he read, ‘Ketapet, ketamine hydrochloride, one hundred milligrams per millilitre, twenty-millilitre multidose vial. There’s a syringe here, too. Empty, but used, I’d say.’
‘Like Kerri,’ Brock said. ‘Just like Kerri. A mouse that’s taken a poison bait.’
He and Kathy watched silently as the others worked methodically across the area, taking photographs, recording items. One of the SOCOs looked up from examining an old blanket against the far wall. ‘What colour is the kid’s hair, Kathy?’
‘Black. Bit greasy-looking. Probably doesn’t bathe much.’
‘I’ve got blonde over here. Several strands, about six inches long.’
Kathy stared at the graffitied holly wreath with its YULETIDE GREETINGS silver message, listening to the door chimes dying inside the house. When Mrs Tait opened the front door a waft of fried liver and onions billowed out into the cold night. She told Kathy that Naomi was at her friend Lisa’s flat, and Kathy thanked her and continued along the deck.
As she was crossing the bridge connecting the deck to Jonquil Court, she became aware of some kind of argument ahead, a woman’s voice, angry and high-pitched, interspersed with laughter. When she reached the corner of the court she saw the woman, elderly, her shoulders stooped over a walking frame, head thrust forward belligerently towards a group of children dancing in front of her. In the stark glare of the deck lights, heavy bulkhead fittings protected by wire cages, her face and neck reminded Kathy of the leathery head of an old tortoise, a pet she’d had as a child. The woman was screaming, ‘Bugger off! I’m a copper in disguise! Bugger off or I’ll arrest you!’ This was causing a good deal of merriment among the kids, who were finding new ways to goad her to more and more ludicrous claims. ‘I thought you was a paratrooper, granny!’ one of them yelled, poking her in the ribs with a stick.
‘Hey, stop that!’ Kathy called, striding up to them.
For a moment they were undecided, then they saw the look on her face and began to scatter, calling back abuse at the old woman as they ran.
‘You all right?’ Kathy said to her. ‘Where’s your home, dear?’
But the old woman knew that danger lurked everywhere. ‘Keep away from me!’ she screamed at Kathy. ‘Keep away or I’ll arrest you! I’m a bleedin’ copper I am!’
‘Okay, okay,’ Kathy said calmly. As she carried on towards Lisa’s front door, she added, ‘Just get yourself home. It’s the safest place to be,’ and immediately doubted the wisdom of her advice.
Lisa answered her knock with a timid and somewhat reluctant invitation to come in. She was alone in the flat with Naomi, and when Kathy asked when her mother would be home, Lisa seemed uncertain. On the dining-room table was a stack of half-
opened sweets of various kinds: Yorkie and Bounty bars, tubes of Rollos and Smarties. Child comforters, Kathy thought, and they did look very young the pair of them, dark eyes in pale faces examining her cautiously as they all sat down.
‘I wondered what you girls could tell me about a boy who hangs out in the mall. His name’s Wiff, Wiff Smith.
You know who I mean?’
They both nodded mutely.
‘Well? What’s his story?’
They shrugged vaguely. Naomi said, ‘Dunno really.’
‘Where does he come from, any idea?’
They looked at the floor, heads shaking.
‘Does he go to your school? No? Does he have any relatives? Brothers or sisters? Any special friends? What about Winston Starkey, in the games arcade? No?’ Kathy sat back, watching them. ‘You’re not being much help, girls. Please think, will you? Anything at all.’
Silence.
‘We’re worried that something may have happened to him, like Kerri,’ she said, and that brought their heads up, eyes widening. ‘We’ve found where he lived.’
‘Where?’ Naomi whispered. ‘Where was that?’
‘Under the mall at Silvermeadow, in the basement. It seems he had a sort of den hidden down there. Did you know about that?’
They did; she saw it in their eyes shifting away.
‘He told us… he said he lived there, under the centre. We didn’t believe him. Not at first.’
‘But later?’
Naomi nodded. ‘He said he knew things, saw things.’
Kathy leant forward. ‘What things?’
But her interest seemed to frighten them. They looked away, at the Yorkie bars and the blank TV screen in the corner of the room.
Then Naomi asked another question: ‘Why do you think something’s happened to him?’
‘We’re not certain, but we think he’s been given a drug.’
‘Which one?’
The question, asked very rapidly, brought Kathy up short.
‘It’s called ketamine. People also call it K, or Special K. Have you heard of it?’
But even as she asked, Kathy saw that they had, for Lisa had burst into tears, and Naomi looked stunned.
‘Come on now,’ Kathy said, a firmer note in her voice. ‘Tell me. Tell me what you know. It’s important.’
‘Kerri…’ Naomi began hesitantly. ‘She was trying K.’
‘Yes?’
Naomi nodded reluctantly.
‘Where did she get it from?’
‘We didn’t know. Someone was selling her stuff.’
‘You have no idea who?’
Naomi hesitated and looked sideways at Lisa, who was absorbed in her hankie. ‘No, but… I think…’
‘Yes?’ Kathy had to work to control her frustration and sound calm.
‘Wiff was his legs.’
‘His legs?’
‘That’s what she called him, his legs. Wiff did the running around for him.’
Kathy had a sudden vivid image of Winston Starkey in the role of Fagin, sending out his army of little waifs to sell his drugs. ‘You must have had some idea though, who he was working for? Come on, Naomi. Was it Starkey? The man who runs the arcade?’
The girl shook her head and stooped, struggling with some immense difficulty.
‘He sees everything. He knows everything…’ she whispered. ‘That’s what Wiff said. He watches us. He’ll hurt us if we tell on him. Wiff warned Kerri, he told her not to tell anyone or the man would kill her. Wiff was scared of him too. Everyone is.’
‘Naomi,’ Kathy said intently, ‘Kerri is dead, and now Wiff is missing. You must help us to stop this man before it’s too late. What else did Wiff tell you?’
‘Wiff said he has protection. I think it may be one of those men,’ she whispered. ‘You know, in the black uniforms. Security. Someone in security. He knew Wiff was there, in the basement, but he let him stay.’
‘Security?’ Kathy froze. The guardians of the entrance to the plenum.
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve no idea who?’
The girl shook her head. Lisa looked from Naomi to Kathy and renewed her weeping.
Kathy took out her notebook and waited. Harry Jackson sat at the desk in his office in the security centre, head bowed. She had expected denial and protest at the integrity of his staff being questioned, but instead he had turned away and lowered his head as if some private nightmare was turning into reality. Brock stood in front of him in the centre of the room, hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat.
‘Couple of days ago,’ Jackson began heavily, ‘I’d have said no, no way. Then Bruno came to me. He’d overheard a couple of kids talking in his shop. They were discussing getting hold of some stuff for the weekend. They wanted Ecstasy, to take to some big gig that was on. At first he thought they were talking about amphetamines, because he heard the word “speed”, but then he realised they were talking about where they were planning to get it from. From a big supplier called Speedy. I told Bruno he’d got it wrong. It couldn’t be our Speedy. Hell,’-he gave a flat laugh-‘he can’t even walk. How could he be in business?’
‘How does he get around?’ Brock asked.
‘He’s got a van, specially modified, paid for from his compensation from his accident. He can get in and out and drive it himself. And he’s got a bungalow, no steps, where he looks after himself. His de facto left him with their little boy when he had the smash. But how could he run a business? He never even went out into the malls where the kids were.’
‘It seems he had help,’ Brock said. ‘The boy, Wiff, was his legs. Maybe there were others.’
‘While he watched them at work on his screens,’ Kathy added.
‘Christ.’ Jackson shook his head, rubbing his face in disbelief.
‘Where is he now, Harry?’
‘He left hours ago. I came down here after I spoke to you on the phone this afternoon, and he was on duty then. I got talking to him about which parts of the building you lot had searched last weekend. He wanted to know why I asked, and I said you were thinking of doing a new search, into places you’d missed last time.’
‘He seemed interested, did he?’
‘Yeah, very.’
‘Then what?’
‘I went back upstairs, then returned down here about five p.m. Speedy had gone-home they said. Finished his shift early. I was a bit pissed off, because half our people are down with flu, and I’d wanted him to work late.’
‘Was he alone down here when you spoke to him about the new search?’
‘Yeah. The next lot weren’t due on for half an hour. Want me to try him on the phone? I can say I’m checking tomorrow’s roster.’
‘Yes, why don’t you do that.’
Jackson checked the number on a list pinned over his phone, then dialled. He listened for a while to the number ringing, then hung up. ‘Not even an answering machine.’
‘Do you have the number of his vehicle? What about relatives? Friends? Next of kin?’
Jackson got up and went over to a filing cabinet and began to thumb through a file.
Kathy said, ‘How about I get over to his home and start asking the neighbours?’
Brock nodded. ‘Take Lowry if he’s around.’
She ran up the service stairs and along the corridor to unit 184, but he wasn’t there. In fact no one was there except the immovable Phil, bent over his schedules. She told him where she was going and went on out to her car.
Kathy turned into the street and slowed the car down to walking pace. All the houses were bungalows, set back behind hedges and ornamental trees. She picked out a number and worked out which one must be Speedy’s. It was in darkness, no lights showing at any of the windows. With barely a sound she crept the car to the kerb outside the house next door, and switched everything off. Almost immediately she noticed the corner of the curtains in a lighted window of the neighbour’s house inch open, and a suspicious face spy out at her.
So much for th
e inconspicuous arrival, she thought.
She got out of the car, pulled her coat tight around her against the wind, and walked to the gate of the neighbour’s house and up the front path. The curtain flicked down. Her finger had barely touched the button of the doorbell when the door came open on a chain.
‘Yes?’
Kathy saw nothing, then dropped her eyes two feet and saw an elf-like face. She showed her warrant card.
‘Oooh! It’s the police, Walter!’ the little woman called over her shoulder. ‘I think.’ She turned back to Kathy and squinted at her fiercely. ‘How do I know you’re not a fraud?’
‘I’ll give you a telephone number to ring, if you like. The Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard.’
‘Oooh! Scotland Yard! What do you want?’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Tell me what you want to talk about first.’
‘Your neighbour, Mr Reynolds.’
The door opened in a flash.
‘What has he done? You know he was a biker once? A Hell’s Angel.’ She said the name with hushed relish.
Kathy stepped into a hallway heavy with the smell of fried fish, and was led by the little woman into the front room from which she had been observed. An equally tiny man was in there, working intently with a pile of matchsticks, from which he was constructing a huge model of a sailing ship.
‘Good evening,’ he said without interest, and without looking up from his task.
It occurred to Kathy that it was almost big enough for the pair of them to climb on board the ship when it was finished, and sail away.
‘I just wondered if you’ve noticed any movement from next door this evening,’ Kathy asked.
‘Movement?’ the woman said, eyes gleaming, as she switched off a small TV set in the corner. ‘Drug dealing, do you mean?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Oh, it’s what you read in the papers, isn’t it? Everybody does it these days.’
‘Have you noticed anything?’
‘Well, we did see Speedy coming home in his van. When was that, Walter? About five, or six?’
Walter grunted noncommittally. He was preoccupied, checking his matchstick construction against drawings and photographs spread out on the table.
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