lift. It also had a sign saying “Closed for Private Function.” But he wasn’t looking to go up anyway. He wanted to explore the lowest floors. Belsey moved for the stairs.
“Excuse me,” the guard said.
“Hi.”
“Who are you visiting?”
Belsey glanced at the list again.
“All-Star Talent Agency.” It was a bad choice. The guard raised an eyebrow.
“Your name?”
“They’re not expecting me.”
“Really.”
“I’ll give them a call instead.”
Belsey left the reception and walked around the concrete struts to a bar that occupied part of the building’s ground-level sprawl. Until a few months ago it had been a cheap and cheerful dive for students, and businessmen looking to prey on them. Now it had installed a girl by the door and was calling itself a private members’ club. Still his best chance of gaining access.
“I’m interested in joining,” he told the young gatekeeper. The girl looked him up and down.
“Have you emailed?”
“I don’t use email.”
This threw her a little. He glanced past. It looked quiet inside.
“Do you have any members?” he asked.
“It’s early.”
“I’d like to take a look around, see if it meets my needs.”
The girl was too detached for a confrontation. She squeezed a click counter and let him through “for a few minutes.” The bar was as he remembered it, only they’d stripped off the wallpaper and painted the furniture white. The barmaid was a stoned Spanish girl with a tongue piercing. Belsey waited for her to finish chalking up a list of cocktails.
“Strange question,” Belsey said. “Are you aware of any levels beneath the building?”
She shook her head.
“Do you have a basement?”
“Just the toilets.”
“Where are the kitchens?”
The girl pointed behind the bar.
Belsey got a whisky sour. He sunk into a sofa at the back, dialled the number for Land Registry and asked when Centre Point was built. They said 1963. He asked who the first occupants were and this took them longer.
“We don’t have anyone until 1973. Then several private businesses.”
“1973? I need to know who was in it first, after it was built.”
“It was empty. That is the first: 1973.”
“There was no one in it for ten years?”
“That’s right.”
He turned his mobile off and on. Internet returned. He typed Centre Point into his phone and found articles about the West End, redevelopment, bars, tourism. Then, several scrolls down, one entitled: “Mystery of Central London Eye-Sore.”
Recent weeks have seen proposals to re-landscape the notorious urban mess around the base of Centre Point. Yet what the glossy presentations fail to disclose is the mysterious past of this London landmark. The tower block has always been dogged by controversy. When it was built in 1963 it flew in the face of all planning regulations, leading members of the public to wonder why the government stepped in at the last moment to push it through. Suspicions grew when the building was subsequently left empty for the first ten years of its life.
Its special status, not only as central London’s first skyscraper but also as one of the very first buildings in the UK to be fully air-conditioned, led some to speculate as to its usefulness to the government in the event of a nuclear attack. Rumours also suggest that the building’s height served, at least in part, as a pretext for excavation, and that Centre Point goes down almost as far as it goes up, with at least ten floors of reinforced offices beneath the structure.
Either way, the priority appears to have been strength and security. Street-level landscaping was an afterthought, and possibly determined by the need to protect whatever lies below.
Belsey found a couple more articles along the same lines. He walked out and looked up at the building, up to the storm clouds it was threatening to puncture. He walked through the struts of the building to the site of the body dump. Someone had been back, since his visit
“Excuse me,” the guard said.
“Hi.”
“Who are you visiting?”
Belsey glanced at the list again.
“All-Star Talent Agency.” It was a bad choice. The guard raised an eyebrow.
“Your name?”
“They’re not expecting me.”
“Really.”
“I’ll give them a call instead.”
Belsey left the reception and walked around the concrete struts to a bar that occupied part of the building’s ground-level sprawl. Until a few months ago it had been a cheap and cheerful dive for students, and businessmen looking to prey on them. Now it had installed a girl by the door and was calling itself a private members’ club. Still his best chance of gaining access.
“I’m interested in joining,” he told the young gatekeeper. The girl looked him up and down.
“Have you emailed?”
“I don’t use email.”
This threw her a little. He glanced past. It looked quiet inside.
“Do you have any members?” he asked.
“It’s early.”
“I’d like to take a look around, see if it meets my needs.”
The girl was too detached for a confrontation. She squeezed a click counter and let him through “for a few minutes.” The bar was as he remembered it, only they’d stripped off the wallpaper and painted the furniture white. The barmaid was a stoned Spanish girl with a tongue piercing. Belsey waited for her to finish chalking up a list of cocktails.
“Strange question,” Belsey said. “Are you aware of any levels beneath the building?”
She shook her head.
“Do you have a basement?”
“Just the toilets.”
“Where are the kitchens?”
The girl pointed behind the bar.
Belsey got a whisky sour. He sunk into a sofa at the back, dialled the number for Land Registry and asked when Centre Point was built. They said 1963. He asked who the first occupants were and this took them longer.
“We don’t have anyone until 1973. Then several private businesses.”
“1973? I need to know who was in it first, after it was built.”
“It was empty. That is the first: 1973.”
“There was no one in it for ten years?”
“That’s right.”
He turned his mobile off and on. Internet returned. He typed Centre Point into his phone and found articles about the West End, redevelopment, bars, tourism. Then, several scrolls down, one entitled: “Mystery of Central London Eye-Sore.”
Recent weeks have seen proposals to re-landscape the notorious urban mess around the base of Centre Point. Yet what the glossy presentations fail to disclose is the mysterious past of this London landmark. The tower block has always been dogged by controversy. When it was built in 1963 it flew in the face of all planning regulations, leading members of the public to wonder why the government stepped in at the last moment to push it through. Suspicions grew when the building was subsequently left empty for the first ten years of its life.
Its special status, not only as central London’s first skyscraper but also as one of the very first buildings in the UK to be fully air-conditioned, led some to speculate as to its usefulness to the government in the event of a nuclear attack. Rumours also suggest that the building’s height served, at least in part, as a pretext for excavation, and that Centre Point goes down almost as far as it goes up, with at least ten floors of reinforced offices beneath the structure.
Either way, the priority appears to have been strength and security. Street-level landscaping was an afterthought, and possibly determined by the need to protect whatever lies below.
Belsey found a couple more articles along the same lines. He walked out and looked up at the building, up to the storm clouds it was threatening to puncture. He walked through the struts of the building to the site of the body dump. Someone had been back, since his visit
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