this morning, this time with the tools to clean up properly. All traces were now gone: no ends of police tape, no debris; the graffiti had been painted over again, obscuring the letters absolutely.
He walked further round the base. A ramp at the side went down to the entrance of an underground car park. The entrance was sealed by electronic gates through which he could see the ramp continuing, lit by a single yellow light, corkscrewing down between white-painted breeze blocks. The camera watching over this had a familiar sign beneath it: Stronghold . It gave the same phone number as the camera beside the Belsize Park shelter.
Belsey tried the gates just in case. He pressed a buzzer on the wall beside the entrance. He waited five minutes for a car to come in or out. None did.
He returned to the bar. A few more customers had arrived. He picked up the whisky sour he’d been enjoying, then put it down. He touched the glass again. He lifted the drink to the light and there were no lip marks. No ice had melted. The drink was colder than he’d left it. He looked around.
He shared the bar with a thirty-something couple on an awkward date, three men loudly celebrating, two women who looked like models. Dance music pumped half-heartedly. The sky flashed.
Belsey walked out into a thunder clap loud as a bomb. It set off car alarms. There was sudden laughter, howls. Someone slammed into him—“Sorry mate”—a gang of kids high on weather, off to steam the late-openings. Belsey checked that he still had his wallet. Clouds opened with a ripping sound. He stared up through the rain at Centre Point. Then back through the streaming windows at his drink.
He checked his jacket for the disc from Camden CCTV and it was gone.
16
IT WAS 7:15 P.M. BY THE TIME HE MADE IT BACK TO THE station. A crowd had gathered in the small office behind reception. It included Kirsty Craik.
“Sarge, I need to talk to you,” Belsey said. It was quite a get together in the little room. People stared at him. Everyone was there, civilian staff, even custody officers. They stood around a small table as if paying their last respects.
“Nick,” Craik said. “Look.”
A package of pale blue tissue paper had been torn open. He thought at first it contained a wig. The hair was dark, long. It was in good condition, glossy beneath the neon bulb; a full head’s worth. It spilled from the paper onto the white tabletop. No one touched it.
Belsey put on a pair of latex gloves from a box at the side. He picked up the paper and a small white card fell out. In neat black biro someone had written: To DC Nick Belsey .
“Where did it come from?” he asked.
“Left in reception, ten minutes ago,” Craik said. Belsey placed the card beside the strands and crouched to the level of the tabletop. The hair had been chopped unevenly. He rubbed a couple of strands between his fingers and a familiar dark dust came off.
“Someone actually entered reception?”
“Yes.”
“Who was here?”
“I was,” Wendy Chan said. She was back at the reception monitor now, checking the tapes.
“What happened?”
“He walked in, said it was for you, said you’d know what it was about and left. He was white, with a hood up. I’d say thirty to forty.”
“Grey hood?”
“Yes. Grey hood, and gloves, I think. We’ve checked the tapes and there are no clear shots. What is this, Nick? Who is he? Someone winding you up?” Her voice was weak and hopeful.
“Anyone see which way he went?”
“He was gone before we realised what had happened,” Chan said.
“Have patrols been alerted?”
“Yes.”
Belsey moved past the crowd, back into the rain. The street was empty. He drove to the Belsize Park shelter. No sign of any recent activity around the turret. A little further down the hill there was action, a small, soaked crowd around the tube station. Gates had been drawn across the entrance. Tempers were fraying. A couple of damp Transport Police constables
He walked further round the base. A ramp at the side went down to the entrance of an underground car park. The entrance was sealed by electronic gates through which he could see the ramp continuing, lit by a single yellow light, corkscrewing down between white-painted breeze blocks. The camera watching over this had a familiar sign beneath it: Stronghold . It gave the same phone number as the camera beside the Belsize Park shelter.
Belsey tried the gates just in case. He pressed a buzzer on the wall beside the entrance. He waited five minutes for a car to come in or out. None did.
He returned to the bar. A few more customers had arrived. He picked up the whisky sour he’d been enjoying, then put it down. He touched the glass again. He lifted the drink to the light and there were no lip marks. No ice had melted. The drink was colder than he’d left it. He looked around.
He shared the bar with a thirty-something couple on an awkward date, three men loudly celebrating, two women who looked like models. Dance music pumped half-heartedly. The sky flashed.
Belsey walked out into a thunder clap loud as a bomb. It set off car alarms. There was sudden laughter, howls. Someone slammed into him—“Sorry mate”—a gang of kids high on weather, off to steam the late-openings. Belsey checked that he still had his wallet. Clouds opened with a ripping sound. He stared up through the rain at Centre Point. Then back through the streaming windows at his drink.
He checked his jacket for the disc from Camden CCTV and it was gone.
16
IT WAS 7:15 P.M. BY THE TIME HE MADE IT BACK TO THE station. A crowd had gathered in the small office behind reception. It included Kirsty Craik.
“Sarge, I need to talk to you,” Belsey said. It was quite a get together in the little room. People stared at him. Everyone was there, civilian staff, even custody officers. They stood around a small table as if paying their last respects.
“Nick,” Craik said. “Look.”
A package of pale blue tissue paper had been torn open. He thought at first it contained a wig. The hair was dark, long. It was in good condition, glossy beneath the neon bulb; a full head’s worth. It spilled from the paper onto the white tabletop. No one touched it.
Belsey put on a pair of latex gloves from a box at the side. He picked up the paper and a small white card fell out. In neat black biro someone had written: To DC Nick Belsey .
“Where did it come from?” he asked.
“Left in reception, ten minutes ago,” Craik said. Belsey placed the card beside the strands and crouched to the level of the tabletop. The hair had been chopped unevenly. He rubbed a couple of strands between his fingers and a familiar dark dust came off.
“Someone actually entered reception?”
“Yes.”
“Who was here?”
“I was,” Wendy Chan said. She was back at the reception monitor now, checking the tapes.
“What happened?”
“He walked in, said it was for you, said you’d know what it was about and left. He was white, with a hood up. I’d say thirty to forty.”
“Grey hood?”
“Yes. Grey hood, and gloves, I think. We’ve checked the tapes and there are no clear shots. What is this, Nick? Who is he? Someone winding you up?” Her voice was weak and hopeful.
“Anyone see which way he went?”
“He was gone before we realised what had happened,” Chan said.
“Have patrols been alerted?”
“Yes.”
Belsey moved past the crowd, back into the rain. The street was empty. He drove to the Belsize Park shelter. No sign of any recent activity around the turret. A little further down the hill there was action, a small, soaked crowd around the tube station. Gates had been drawn across the entrance. Tempers were fraying. A couple of damp Transport Police constables
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