Gavin Heath sat behind the wheel of his Peugeot Bipper Pro, carefully nibbling on his Italian tuna sandwich. Mancini’s cafe on Brecknock Road, 250 yards south of Tufnell Park tube station, was his usual stop-off, just over halfway through his eight-hour shift. Working for Column Security was boring but straightforward. Over the last three years, Gavin had worked his way up from a temporary summer job guarding a building site to becoming a supervisor on the North London circuit, touring a range of empty offices and shops between Kings Cross and Wembley. The job paid less than?12 an hour, plus he had to wear a stupid, fake uniform, but it helped pay for his Business Studies course at UEL — the University of East London.
Finishing his food, Gavin daintily wiped his mouth with a napkin and lifted his coffee from the passenger seat. Removing the lid, he blew on it gently before taking a cautious sip, as he watched the world go by. Tufnell Park was still lively at this time of night and he eyed a couple of pretty black girls laughing and joking as they waited at a bus stop.
When he’d stared at the girls for a few seconds too long, he let his gaze slip ten yards further along the road to Carleton House, which was his next port of call. Gavin studied the ugly, squat office block, stuck between a pawnbroker’s and a discount supermarket, and wondered why anyone would build a speculative office block here. It was completely the wrong part of town even before the economy had gone tits up.
Unsurprisingly, there had been no takers for this ‘premium’ space, and the developer had gone bust. To date, Carleton House had never been occupied, and Gavin thought there was a fair-to-middling chance that it never would be. Inside, it had never even been fitted out. Even though it was less than three years old, the place already looked well on the way to becoming derelict.
The radio on the dashboard crackled. ‘Gavin? How are things going?’
The caller was Jessica in Despatch. She was a nice girl and, not for the first time, Gavin wondered if maybe she fancied him a bit. She’d even asked him out for a drink once, but he’d declined. He didn’t want to get involved with anyone at Column other than doing his shift. Security was just a temporary thing. When he left it behind, he would leave it all behind.
‘Everything’s fine. I’m just at Carleton House in Tufnell Park.’
‘You haven’t called in.’ Jessica dropped her voice. He could imagine her leaning across the desk, breathing into her microphone. ‘That’s not following protocol.’ She giggled, somehow making the word ‘protocol’ sound vaguely rude. ‘And Clinton has gone off on one again.’
Clinton Roache, the office manager, was always complaining about people not following the company’s standard reporting procedures. Out on the road, you were supposed to check in with the office every hour.
Gavin checked the clock on the dashboard and sighed to himself. In truth, he had only checked in once in the course of his shift so far. ‘Okay, sorry. It’s all quiet but I’ll definitely report back in during the next hour.’
‘Thanks. . I get off at eleven.’
Gavin smiled, realising that she’d checked his rota.
‘I thought about getting a bite to eat. .’
‘I need to study tonight,’ said Gavin firmly. ‘I have a class in the morning.’ It happened to be true, not that it mattered. He had to deliver 1,500 words on The Causes of the Banking Crisis to his course assessor by 10 a.m. — a piece of cake.
‘Oh, fair enough.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No problem. Anyway, see you later.’
‘Yeah, see you later.’ The girl was a trier. It’s nice to be asked, he told himself. You should be kind to her. Putting the lid back on his coffee, he placed it in the cup-holder on the dashboard and slipped out of his van.
Shivering against the cold, Gavin buttoned up his jacket, yawning as he did so. Waiting for a gap in the traffic, he glanced up at Carleton House. Frowning, he realised that the third-floor lights were on. The night before, the whole building had been in darkness; he was sure of that. Who had put the bloody lights on? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to see if there was anything inside — copper, wood, even carpet tiles — that they could nick. Vandals were another possibility. Less likely, an estate agent had taken someone round on a viewing and just forgot to switch the lights off.
‘Shit!’ If someone had indeed broken in, it would ruin Gavin’s whole night; they would have to call the police and then he could be stuck here for hours. It would be a fight to claim the overtime, especially if Clinton made an issue of him not reporting in. Worse still, he could forget about getting his essay written in time for the morning.
Opening the van door, he planted one knee on the driver’s seat and hit the call button on the radio. ‘Jess, it’s me.’
‘Hiya.’
‘There hasn’t been anyone in to view Carleton House today, has there?’
‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘The lights are on.’
‘Hold on. Let me check.’
Slipping back into his seat, he pulled the door closed as he waited.
A minute or so later, the radio crackled back into life. ‘Gavin? I’ve checked the log. As far as I can tell, no one’s been in there today.’
Gavin scowled at his reflection in the windscreen. ‘Okay. I’ll go and check it out.’
‘Do you want me to call the police?’
‘No,’ he said hastily. ‘It’s probably nothing at all. I’ll call you from my mobile once I’ve taken a look.’
Gavin stepped out of the lift on the third floor and punched the security code into the pad by the door. When he didn’t hear the usual click of the lock releasing, he gently pulled on the handle. As the door opened, he tightened his grip on the aluminium casing of his Led Lenser P17 torch. Conscious of his elevated heartbeat, he stepped inside.
‘Hello?’ he shouted, trying to ignore the lack of confidence in his voice. ‘This is Security.’ No response. He scanned the room. The place looked pretty much as he remembered it from his last visit — bare floors, unfinished walls, a few cables hanging from holes in the ceiling where the polystyrene tiles were missing. More or less what you would expect from thirty square metres of unwanted office space in a shitty part of North London.
There was clearly nothing to report. He was glad they hadn’t called in the police, and even more glad that the rest of his night hadn’t been ruined. It was time to leave. The light switches were situated on the wall to his right. He stepped over to turn them off. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small dark shape scuttle across the floor ten yards away, where the space dog-legged to the right. Gavin grimaced: the rats were easily the worst part of his job. A second scuttled across the floor in front of him, and it was then that he noticed the smell. Some dosser had obviously used the place as his toilet.
‘Hello? Is there anyone there?’
Caught in two minds, Gavin hovered by the lights. He urged himself to just switch them off and go, then he could finish his shift and get his paper written. On the other hand, what if the guy was still here, lying in his own shit after having downed a couple of litres of Double Diamond? The rats could have his toes off before he woke up. Maybe even his nose. He couldn’t have that on his conscience.
Cursing under his breath, Gavin walked deeper into the empty office space, keeping his eyes glued on the floor for more rats. Turning the corner, he looked up, checking the familiar orange North London vista through the windows. He nearly jumped out of his skin as a third rat rushed past him and joined the other two as they excitedly scrabbled around the body. One by one the creatures skated through the blood pooled by the hook that had been set into the floor, their feet and bellies smearing the concrete.
Gavin stood mute as his brain tried to process what he was seeing — the hook, the handcuffs, the blood. He swallowed hard, twice, to stop his dinner from creeping back up his throat. Clamping his jaw shut, he concentrated on breathing through his mouth. Once he had that under control, he stepped close enough to the corpse to scare off the rats. ‘Get out of here, you bastards!’ he screamed, wafting a boot in the general direction of their fleeing backsides.
Pulling out his mobile, he called into Despatch. Jessica answered on the second ring.
‘Jess,’ he said, almost calm now, ‘you need to get the police here ASAP.’
The three of them were sitting in the interview room that had been vacated by the Earl of Falkirk barely fifteen minutes earlier. Sipping his latest cup of tea daintily, Joe Szyszkowski eyed Carlyle with interest. Knowing what was coming, Carlyle thought that he should get his retaliation in first. ‘What we’ve got,’ he said, ‘is-’
Simpson held up a hand. ‘What we’ve got,’ she said sharply, ‘is another classic John Carlyle bull-in-a-china-shop episode. Do you know how many calls about you I’ve received this evening?’
Catching Joe’s eye, Carlyle had to suppress a schoolboy smirk. It was like being thirteen again, staring at the prospect of double detention and a letter of reprimand.
Simpson counted them off on her fingers. ‘I’ve had Singer from the Federation. Charlie Adam, of course, and Mazar Corrigan. .’
Carlyle gave her a quizzical look.
‘My oppo in SO14,’ Simpson explained. ‘Charlie Adam’s boss. And those were just the calls about Dolan.’
Joe stared deeply into his cup.
‘In terms of Falkirk-’
This time Carlyle held up his hand. ‘Okay, okay, we get the picture.’
Clasping her hands together, Simpson bent across the table. ‘So tell me what the bloody hell is going on here.’
Carlyle leaned back in his chair and stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘Falkirk is the guy who was in Green Park when I found the girl.’
Simpson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. He recognised me tonight. Which is why he tried to do a runner.’
Joe nodded in agreement. ‘That’s right.’
‘But,’ Simpson said slowly, ‘so far, you have no evidence linking him to child trafficking.’
‘There is a Child Exploitation and Online Protection investigation currently ongoing,’ Carlyle countered, deflecting the question, ‘that we think is chasing down the same group.’
‘Why is it,’ Simpson sighed, raising her eyes to the ceiling, ‘that you spend all your life chasing investigations that are the responsibility of other people?’
‘But. .’ Carlyle protested.
Simpson forced herself to make proper eye-contact with the troublesome inspector. ‘It is time,’ she said slowly, ‘to put this business aside.’
Holding Simpson’s gaze, Carlyle told himself to stay calm. Don’t raise your voice. Just talk your way out of this. His mind, however, was suddenly blank. When his phone started buzzing in his pocket, he took it out, playing for time. ‘Hello?’
‘Carlyle? It’s Rose.’ The voice on the line was tremulous.
‘Who?’
‘Rose — Rose Scripps, from CEOP.’
‘Yes, yes?’ Carlyle ignored Simpson’s impatient glare.
‘They’ve found Simon,’ Rose cried.
‘Who?’ Carlyle snapped.
There was nothing but a sob on the line.
‘Hello?’
‘They’ve found Simon,’ she said eventually. ‘Simon Merrett.’
‘Yes?’ Carlyle said, but gently this time. Realising where this was going, he was annoyed by his earlier churlishness.
‘He’s dead.’ She fought for a breath. ‘He was shot in the head.’