Dark Winter (30 page)

The shop on the left had been called MTC. Its front was covered with sheets of chipboard; the green sign above said it had been a booking office. It must have gone to the wall about the same time as Joe’s: the number to call for the best ticket deals in town didn’t even have an old national prefix.

We joined the three backpackers who were leaning against Boots’ window to shelter from the rain, scratching their heads as they studied an
A–Z
and got hassled by drunks and drug-dealers. Immediately left, between us and the McD’s over the road, the CCTV camera was pointing towards the ship’s bow, and no doubt had a clear view of the roads each side of it. I looked down at Suzy and she shrugged her shoulders. ‘He isn’t here. So what? His phone comes up without a number. Fuck him, let’s get on with it.’

‘Give it a minute, he could be out there somewhere, making sure we’re clear.’

Topping the bow of the brick ship was a tall belvedere tower, looking a bit like a lead-covered Moulin Rouge without the sails. In its heyday it had probably been the pride and joy of King’s Cross, but now it looked just like the rest of the building, covered in grime and pigeon shit, completely dilapidated. The sooner they dug it out and got on with the gateway to Europe the better.

I could see straight up Birkenhead Street. The CCTV was about 250 metres away, swivelling into a new position. Neon flooding from the fast-food joints glistened on the wet pavement the other side of the road, casting a pool of light across the dodgy-looking characters hanging around outside the amusement arcade. The only place that didn’t seem to have a light on was the police station at the corner of Birkenhead. It didn’t necessarily mean it was closed: who knew what was going on behind the mirrored glass?

I got out my moan-phone as Suzy played the girlfriend and cuddled into me. Two policemen in yellow fluorescent jackets came past and decided it was time to wake up a bundle in Boots’ doorway and move it on.

The Yes Man was as charming as ever, and I could still hear a load of other voices in the background. ‘What?’

‘We’re here. The car’s static along the eastern side of the British Library and we’re at the station looking at the target. The source isn’t here. You want us to lift him after this, find out what he knows?’

‘Negative. There’s no need, he’s not going anywhere. What can you see?’

‘No signs of life yet. We’ll give him another five minutes. Wait . . .’ A group of teenagers with too much illegal substance in them shouted their way past us and the two policemen eyed them knowingly as I got back to the Yes Man. ‘If he doesn’t show, we’ll bin him. Wait . . . is the signal still there?’

‘Of course,’ he snapped. ‘Otherwise I would have told you. Don’t forget, I want sit reps.’

The phone went dead and I powered it down. The Yes Man had to rely on us calling him: he would never make the call in case he compromised us, but it was always best to turn the thing off just in case.

Minutes were being wasted. ‘Fuck it, let’s go.’

As the police started following the teenagers, Suzy nodded and put her arm in mine. We walked out of cover and into the rain towards Pentonville. We weren’t going to cross just yet, but stay this side for the start of our 360 of the target. We’d do two recces: the first to get a general overview, the second for a close examination of locks and other detail.

We crossed the junction to the left of the station, and waded through the McFlurry cups littering the pavement outside the closed McDonald’s. Apart from MTC, the hundred-metre stretch of building was covered at street level all the way down to King’s Cross Bridge with the purple-painted chipboard I’d stood by when we first followed the source and his two mates from Starbucks.

Suzy smiled away at me, as you would that time of night, after a few hours together in a pub and a romantic walk home in the constant but now gentle rain. I looked up to the sky. ‘We won’t be able to get in from this side. You seen the street-lighting?’

She nodded. It was the same height as the tops of the windows on the second floor. They were in shit state, but these huge windows would let in enough light to cast shadows everywhere. For anybody on those first two floors, the street-lighting would provide illumination, but they’d have to keep below the sills, even during the day – especially as I could see straight through the first-floor windows to Gray’s Inn Road. They’d certainly be on hard routine, no smoking, no lights, no cooking.

Any movement would be easily spotted from the buildings on Gray’s Inn. The second- and third-floor windows on this side were a little smaller than the ones below, and I could only see enough of the two upper floors to tell it wasn’t an open space.

There was still no sign of life, no lights, no condensation, not even a window covered with net curtains or sheets of newspaper. Further down Pentonville there was a collection of two-storey buildings that were still being used; they made up the rear of the triangle, the stern of the ship. They probably dated from the sixties, and included a mock KFC and a radio shop. No doubt the owners had their fingers crossed that the developers would buy them out as well.

We crossed Pentonville and walked down to the base of the triangle, King’s Cross Bridge. Maybe there had been a bridge at one time, probably over a canal, but now it was about seventy metres of road linking Pentonville with Gray’s Inn.

We turned right, beneath yet another CCTV, and crossed Gray’s Inn as a police car and van, both full of uniforms, wailed behind us.

39

The CCTV camera in front of King’s Cross station was now pointing towards the British Library. Suzy grinned as she got to grips with another wad of nicotine gum. ‘Maybe they’ll take them down again when this place is all nice and shiny.’

‘About as much chance as Ken Livingstone getting a second term.’

The traffic splashed its way up Gray’s Inn as we checked the Boots shopfront again for the source. The target building made definite sense to me as an FOB [forward operations base]. The construction site probably wasn’t working at weekends, so there’d be no one overlooking from that side, even if they could see through the plastic sheeting. The shops this side of Gray’s Inn had office-for-rent signs sticking out from the floors above them, but it wouldn’t be too much of a problem to keep out of sight of anyone working in one of them over the weekend – especially if the ASU members confined themselves to a high room on the Pentonville side of the building.

I checked the bell pushes on the doors sandwiched between the shopfronts our side of the road. I wanted to try to see if any of the flats were residential, including the ones above Costcutter. Hardly any had a name on them, and those that did were scribbled on scraps of paper.

Even with CCTV everywhere, there were other factors that made it a good choice of FOB. In a hotel room there’d always be the risk of someone next door overhearing them prepare. With a rented room or flat, there are booking procedures, agreements, deposits, all that rigmarole to go through and potentially compromise. And they hadn’t had to force their way into someone’s home, take them hostage or kill them so that they could use the location; all they’d had to do was get in there and lie low.

I tried to imagine them inside, maybe in new sleeping-bags, eating more shit in trays. Did they pray before going on a job? Were they shitting themselves, or just totally focused? Were there any more women up there? Was their plan to kill themselves after the attack, or just move round the city for a few more days, contaminating fresh victims until they were incapable of going any further?

A couple of twentysomethings were making the best of their cans of Stella in the shelter of a shop doorway, with a young girl who looked like she was sleeping rough too. She was in ripped jeans, T-shirt and an old green nylon bomber jacket, and couldn’t have been more than a year older than Kelly. Her gaunt face was full of zits and her hair as wet and greasy as the pavement. She leant against an
Evening Standard
newsbox that headlined more SARS hysteria, as they swayed and she giggled. One of the guys said they should both get a blow-job after the favour they were about to do her. She took a swig from one of their cans. ‘Maybe.’ Her eyes were as big as saucers, the pupils huge and black.

‘You feeling OK?’ Suzy jabbed my arm.

The pain had returned to my stomach. ‘You know, those sandwiches could have been a bit dodgy.’

As we neared the top of the road by the ship’s bow, traffic was backed up at the lights, windscreen wipers thrashing. The shopfronts this side of the building didn’t have nice purple chipboard to disguise them. They mostly just had rusty shutters. I still couldn’t see any light coming from inside and, as far as I’d been able to see, all the doors that led upstairs were well and truly padlocked.

We approached the police station on the corner of Birkenhead. Suzy was still upbeat as we passed its CCTV. ‘You see, it’s not all bad news. At least that one only looks at the station.’

We crossed towards the arcade. The source’s no-show was pissing me off. ‘Let’s do a circuit before we go back round for the locks recce. I want to go past the source’s house anyway to see if he’s in. I just don’t trust that fucker.’

We looked up Birkenhead to check what the CCTV at the T-junction of St Chad’s was up to. It had turned away from the direction of the source’s flat, and now pointed to the right of the junction.

Suddenly Suzy stopped and turned, as if to kiss me. ‘It’s him, coming down on the left.’

I glanced up. The source was making his way towards the station. I turned back with her. ‘We’ll get him at the junction.’

Turning left at the arcade, we stopped and she gobbed out her gum before we cuddled. Seconds later he appeared, raincoat collar up, arms folded. He hesitated when he saw us, then quickly crossed the road. As the flashing lights played across his face I could see he was as pissed off as I was. But that didn’t matter. Suzy got in first as he took his final three or four steps to get under the cover of the arcade. ‘You’re fucking late – we wanted eyes on over there from—’

‘Do not be stupid, I cannot afford to do these things. The whole world is watching.’ His eyes darted about him as if he expected to see a face at every window. ‘I had to leave for a while, there was too much activity in the streets. I was just coming to meet with you.’

Suzy gave him her lovely-to-see-you smile. ‘You see anything?’

‘No, nothing. What do you people expect of me? I discovered King’s Lynn for you, what else do you want?’

It sounded like bullshit to me. ‘This ASU is right on your fucking doorstep and you know nothing about it?’

His bloodshot eyes screwed tight. ‘There are many things that aren’t known. I don’t care what you think, I care little for you or your country, but you two had better understand one thing. If there are any JI in there, they have nothing to fear, they’re happy to become martyrs. They will attack with whatever is in those bottles. I know these people – I’ve been fighting for fifteen years.’

Suzy leant towards him. ‘You don’t like us much, do you, so what are you doing here?’

He pursed his lips and took several deep breaths as his eyes dropped away from us. ‘Because you people tell me I have no choice.’

Neither of us answered. I remembered the Yes Man on his cell in the flat saying he had no choice. They had him by the bollocks somehow. I knew the feeling.

He sighed, looked up, then gave a smile. ‘I will die fighting.’ And with that he walked away.

Suzy and I watched as he disappeared up Birkenhead, then followed. We got to the driveway behind his flat as a crack of light pushed its way through the closed curtains on the top floor.

The zit-faced girl and the two twentysomethings emerged from a dark area further down St Chad’s, staggering, not concerned about the rain – or us – as they squabbled over the contents of a small plastic bag. The girl giggled as they passed, recognizing us, and ran her tongue over her scabby lips.

We crossed into the shadows in case the CCTV decided to turn in our direction. The place where the three had emerged seemed to be an entry-point into a Jaguar garage, and as we passed a soft but urgent voice called out to me, ‘Oi, mate, you want some?’

I peered into the darkness as a lighter clicked and he lit up. He was a white guy, cocky-looking, about the same age as the two drunks who had just left him. He was in ripped jeans and a rain-soaked leather jacket. He’d been so off his head the last time he saw us we weren’t registering at all.

‘Want some what?’ I knew I’d asked the question, but the voice didn’t sound like mine.

The dealer didn’t notice. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and gestured with his hand. ‘Whatever – whites, brown, take your pick.’ He spoke with a lisp. ‘Come in here – get off the road, just in here. It’ll be all right.’

I let go of Suzy and turned to face him. She seemed to know what I was about to do before I did. ‘No, not now,
not now
 . . .’

40

She stayed on the pavement as I walked into the shadows. The dealer pulled himself off the wall and shuffled from one foot to the other. ‘What you want, then, mate? I got whatever. I got whites, I got brown, you name it.’

I was about three feet away from him, my eyes fixed on his head. He glanced over at Suzy, a bit worried now. ‘Here, tell her to—’