Ashes to Ashes Page 4

  There were a few grunts.

  ‘And, actually, it’s sir!’ Patrick went on to yell at them.

  The remark that his target practice had been lousy and being punched in the stomach had obviously reached home.

  ‘I’m getting old,’ Patrick muttered to me when we had descended another ladder to reach floor level outside the tower. ‘As in completely knackered. Are you OK now?’

  ‘Sort of,’ I replied.

  I stood well back, very well back, when there was then a yanking out of the large metal pins with ring handles that held the platform together, followed by his putting his shoulder to it, a shout of ‘Fore!’ and the whole thing toppled over with a crash, taking quite a lot of other nearby stuff with it. There were shouts of alarm, followed by protests. I heard someone bleat that they were only doing their job, and the pair of us had got through without penalty, but it served them not. I went right away: when Patrick starts swearing I prefer not to be around.

  ‘It was crap but I enjoyed that,’ he said when he rejoined me.

  As soon as he switched on his phone after we had showered, changed and been given back the last of our personal possessions, it rang.

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ I heard Joanna’s voice say. ‘James said you were going to London and I thought it would be better to contact you than dial 999. Can you help me? I’m in a spot of bother.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Shut in a lock-up garage, possibly somewhere near Leytonstone.’

  THREE

  The signal was poor but we established – I eavesdropped – that she was standing on a wooden box by a small window, this being little more than an air vent. She was unhurt but, as she put it, ‘A bit ruffled.’ Patrick asked her if she could give him any other information about where she was but all she could tell us was that, following enquiries, she had gone to a housing estate not far from the railway station. The Leg o’ Mutton public house, closed and boarded up, was on the corner of the road that led to it and there was another pub – she couldn’t remember the name of it – close by. Not going into unnecessary details, she said she had, at some stage, been overwhelmed by sundry yobs, bundled into a car with someone’s coat over her head, driven for some time and then dumped into the garage. Through the filthy glass of the tiny window she could see another row of at least twenty other garages opposite, the whole area being deserted and heavily vandalized. She had tried hammering on the door but no one had come.

  Patrick promised to keep closely in touch with her as we headed to the area and flagged down a taxi after a quick pause to buy a couple of takeaway coffees and two doughnuts for instant energy.

  ‘Deserted and heavily vandalized,’ Patrick repeated, talking mostly to himself. ‘That suggests somewhere due for demolition and redevelopment. Bloody hell, that could be just about anywhere in east London.’

  ‘I don’t suppose she has a tracking app on her phone.’

  We asked and Joanna hadn’t.

  ‘Can’t GCHQ roughly pinpoint mobiles?’ I went on to ask.

  ‘Probably, but let’s utilize some of Hercule Poirot’s little grey cells before we hit the panic button.’ He flexed his shoulders, wincing.

  ‘Is that where the tree landed on you?’ I said.

  He did not answer, lost in thought, and we travelled for a while in silence.

  Joanna rang again. ‘Sorry, my battery’s going. I forgot to tell you that I can hear trains – quite close by.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Patrick said to her. ‘We’re halfway there already.’ Then to me, having ended the call, ‘Did they forget to take her phone?’ He stared at me more closely. ‘You’ve a large, greenish bump on your forehead.’

  ‘Someone dropped a body on me.’

  We asked to be put down at the Leg o’ Mutton pub and Patrick quizzed the taxi driver as to where redevelopment might be due to take place in the area. But although he knew the roads, he did not live in the locality. ‘Better ask someone what lives here, Guv,’ the man replied lugubriously. ‘It changes every five minutes. Folk get lorst finding their way ’ome when they’ve just popped out to buy a paper.’

  There was every chance that Joanna had merely been driven around in circles for a while so we found our way to the back of the housing estate, which consisted of several blocks of flats and a row of houses. It was all very drab and dreary, social housing of the old Soviet School of Architecture style. The only place for young children to play – of which there were a lot judging by the racket – were the walkways that acted as access. The open ground in the centre, once host to trees of which only the stumps remained, was obviously now the fiefdom of those older and used for playing football and riding bikes. We were subjected to hostile stares from a bunch of youths loafing around, smoking, and I was glad Patrick was with me. It bothered me a little that there had been no opportunity for us to change into different clothes – scruffy ones, that is – in order not to stand out as outsiders and possibly hazard Joanna’s safety in some way if she were here. What she thought of as heavily vandalized and deserted might be normal for the place.

  The rest of the people we came upon ignored us, and we followed a narrow roadway strewn with litter and broken glass which led around to the rear. We found two rows of garages facing one another. Every flat surface was loaded with graffiti, some garages with the doors ripped off or damaged. With just a few old cars in sight and more rubbish blowing about, this site could indeed be thought to be abandoned and awaiting demolition.

  Patrick shouted Joanna’s name in his parade ground voice, but there was no response, so we made sure by walking along both rows, banging on the doors where doors existed. Someone shouted obscenities at us from a fourth-floor window of the nearest block and a flock of pigeons took flight, but those were the only reactions.

  ‘She’s not here,’ Patrick muttered and tried to phone her.

  Nothing; her battery had gone.

  ‘OK, we’ll ask around.’

  We made our way to the railway station and Patrick talked to the three taxi drivers parked outside, putting on an American accent and saying that he was a scout for an international property company. One in particular was keen to take us on a tour of the district, telling us that he was a local man and knew of two possibilities in nearby Leyton – semi-derelict areas which were once local authority housing and quite close to each other, now designated for redevelopment. He seemed to be quite excited about it.

  At a frustratingly slow pace through heavy traffic and travelling west we had a whispered conversation, discussing what Joanna had said about the nearness of a railway line. We were assuming she meant surface trains and not the rumble of a Tube line somewhere beneath her. I learned from my working partner that due to rails being welded now, trains no longer clatter and bang, except over points, and very little rolling stock retains slam doors. This must mean that Joanna could mostly hear either the whine of electric motors or diesel engines somewhere between two stations.

  ‘I can take you to the other place too,’ said the taxi driver eagerly when we had arrived at the first.

  ‘How far is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Around a quarter of a mile further along the road we came in on.’

  ‘We’ll walk, thank you.’

  Here, it looked promising, the actual flats having already been demolished and that part of the site mostly cleared. Lock-up garages in an L-shaped formation remained on the far side, together with a few small piles of rubble, the usual dumped rubbish and a burned-out car. Plastic bags blew around in the light breeze and were draped in the scrubby vegetation that had sprung up, a sapling ash tree almost obscuring a notice board that detailed plans for the regeneration of the area with affordable housing, shops and children’s play areas. I found myself wondering how local people could afford to buy even a cheap house when some of them looked as if they did not even have the money for a couple of days’ groceries.

  We hurried. It was almost four in the afternoon by now and it was impera
tive that we found Joanna soon. Having been up very early to set off for London, I personally was beginning to flag. I did not ask Patrick how he felt – I don’t under these circumstances – but knew he was tired as he was limping slightly, a tell-tale sign. However, the more tired and stressed he is the more bloody-minded he becomes, so there would be no question of his giving up.

  We repeated calling and knocking on all the garage doors.

  Nothing, no answer.

  A train rumbled by, nearby but out of sight.

  ‘The other site might be just along the line if it’s along the road,’ Patrick observed, and set off.

  We arrived and it was immediately obvious that this was different, the whole place still standing, concrete anarchy with over- and underpasses, most of the windows of the one-time homes smashed, curtains hanging down like so many rags on the outside walls. The fly-tipped rubbish here, which spread right out to the edge of the road, was on an industrial scale. Some had been set alight and still smouldered, including plastics melted into revolting heaps which now resembled suppurating flesh and gave off choking fumes. At some stage an attempt had been made by the local authorities to fence off the area with concrete posts and strong wire netting but what remained – the rest no doubt having been stolen – had been smashed down. There were several more burned-out cars here and another that had not yet suffered that fate, the ground around it glittering with broken glass and used hypodermic needles.

  ‘For God’s sake, look where you’re putting your feet,’ Patrick said, adding, ‘I don’t like the look of this place at all. Stick close to me. Don’t go off on your own.’ He gazed at me for a moment. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘I can see that,’ I said.

  We stepped over a section of the damaged fencing and, after a few yards, paused to look about us. The entrance road, almost blocked by rubbish, veered around to the right and disappeared into an underpass which might have been constructed to channel traffic away from what looked like the remains of a children’s play area. Patrick gave it the thumbs down and headed across the overgrown grass, bearing left to skirt the buildings towards the rear. We were soon thwarted by a wall at least twenty feet in height that was at right angles to us, abutting the side of the nearest block at one end and some kind of utilities outbuilding at the other. It was impossible to go around it as the fencing was intact here.

  It would have to be the traffic underpass after all.

  The breeze was channelling quite strongly towards us through it and, although it was only around fifty yards in length and we could see daylight at the other end, the centre was very gloomy. It stank of rotting domestic rubbish and God alone knew what else, but I said nothing – there was no point in stating the obvious. No point in my saying anything at all.

  We had not come to London kitted out for this kind of activity and had left the car, which carries things like torches and other useful bits and pieces, at SOCA’s old HQ in Kensington, the building still in use. This meant that we had no means of lighting our way and had to rely on our eyes and ears alone. The latter soon told me that there were rats in the darkest part of the tunnel, a rustling, pattering sound. We carried on, rubbish not much impeding our progress now, as if the fly-tippers had not ventured this far. I glanced behind me to see if we were being followed just at the moment when Patrick paused and I cannoned into him, causing him to swear under his breath from taut nerves.

  ‘You said to stick close,’ I hissed.

  He drew his Glock and carried on. We reached around halfway, walking in almost complete darkness, and I was sure that the rats were scuttling just in front of our feet. Then my foot touched one and it squeaked. Somehow I resisted the urge to kick out at it. The smell was ghastly. Had something died down here or was it just stagnant air?

  ‘They taste good roasted,’ Patrick murmured.

  ‘You haven’t eaten rat,’ I gasped.

  ‘Yup. When you’re on a training exercise in the middle of nowhere and hungry, you eat anything.’

  ‘I knew that you had to fend for yourselves and snared rabbits, but—’

  ‘The group I was with once found a sheep caught in a barbed-wire fence. We killed and ate that. Did it a favour really.’

  ‘What, ate all of it?’

  ‘I seem to remember that we left the wool, skin, hooves, guts, bones and head. There were twenty of us, mind.’

  ‘How on earth did you cook it?’

  ‘In smallish biggish chunks on sticks over a hot fire. It was as tough as hell but better than nothing.’ We had reached the end, stepped out into the light and he stopped and added: ‘Be ready for anything.’

  The access road spilt into three, one for each block, and during the next ten minutes or so of very cautious exploration we discovered that there were three rows of garages set apart towards the rear. In our sight, that is – there could be more. The whole place was like the set for a futuristic, soulless town in a sci-fi movie. And people had lived here?

  Again, we repeated walking along the length of the first row, calling and banging on the doors. Only some of them were intact – around half had been kicked in. No Joanna. We went to the second group, a minute’s walk away, and, when it was in view, saw two men ahead of us who dashed from our sight.

  ‘Did you reload?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied.

  ‘If anyone starts coming at us in a meaningful fashion, even if they’re not armed, and you have to fire to protect yourself, aim high the first time and we’ll try to scare them off. I just wish I knew what the hell was going on here.’

  ‘You could involve the local police,’ I suggested.

  ‘Last resort. We don’t want some young probationer getting hurt if they’re daft enough to initially send just an area car.’

  As he finished speaking a shot ricochetted off one of several abandoned large wheeled rubbish bins nearby.

  ‘OK, we’ve done this already today, haven’t we?’ Patrick whispered when we had taken cover behind one of them. ‘But our only aim is to find Joanna.’ He grabbed my arm, listening. Then I heard what he had – footsteps.

  As quietly as possible, we made our way along the rear of the bins. There were four of them; I went to the last and flattened myself against it as Patrick had a quick look around. He then caught my eye and raised a warning forefinger. Several very long seconds elapsed.

  In a tone that he might have thought was a whisper but wasn’t and, slurring his words, a man said, ‘Dougie, you go that end, Will and I’ll tackle this one. Don’t kill them. We’ll just show them that trespassers aren’t wanted here.’ Then, loudly, ‘Yes, you two, you might have heard that. Come out now and we won’t hurt you.’

  Patrick leapt out and the Glock fired twice.

  I followed, ready to shoot. Bugger aiming high.

  The three were in a huddle like wagons encircled against a Sioux attack. While not bristling with arrows, one was grasping his right hand from which blood was slowly dripping, a damaged handgun on the ground, and another was staring at a hole in the tarmac at his feet, his trainers heaped with bits of road.

  ‘Armed police,’ Patrick murmured. ‘Sorry I didn’t have time to issue a warning. In exchange for plenty of information about what gives in this bloody hole I might not take you into custody. But first of all I want the location of the young woman who is locked up in a garage somewhere here.’

  ‘He’ll kill us if we get arrested,’ said the man who had first spoken. From appearances – and I wasn’t feeling particularly charitable right now – his IQ might have been a couple of notches higher than those of his chums – around the same as your average gerbil, that is. He did not look quite sober.

  ‘OK,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll do you a deal. If you don’t tell me everything I want to know I’ll shoot bits off you that won’t necessarily prove fatal. How’s that?’

  ‘You’re not allowed to do things like that!’ shouted the one with tarmac on his feet. It wasn’t the first time this comment has been hur
led at my working partner.

  ‘My boss is quite a few miles from here,’ Patrick responded nastily, not the first time he had replied thus either.

  ‘She’s down there,’ revealed the one who had not been on the receiving end of anything, yet, jerking his head vaguely over to his left.

  ‘More garages?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Show me,’ Patrick ordered crisply. ‘Do you have the key?’

  ‘He has,’ mumbled the man, pointing at the injured boss man.

  ‘I’ll kill you, Dougie,’ that individual ground out, obviously in pain. He thought about it and then his left hand went towards his pocket.

  ‘Slowly!’ Patrick rapped out. ‘Or I might get nervous.’

  Very slowly, the key was handed over.

  ‘Right, you two, Will and Dougie,’ Patrick continued, ‘get in a bin each and stay there. This lady here is a very good shot and if she even sees a finger over the top you’ll lose it. Same goes for heads.’

  Muttering, the two got into the bins. I rather got the impression that there was water in the bottom of them and Dougie was permitted to change his when he protested that people had been using it as a lavatory.

  Having given him his handkerchief to bind around the damaged finger – it did not appear to be particularly serious – Patrick went off with the man in charge while I stationed myself at a reasonable distance from the bins, my back to a wall, in case one of them decided to jump out at me in jack-in-the-box fashion. The unhappy thought going through my mind was that the entire area might be heaving with most-wanteds and other undesirables, some of whom might be observing what was going on from high above me, and may even be in possession of long-range weapons.

  I waited.

  The wait began to stretch into a period of time during which I felt I could easily write a chapter of my new novel, an idea for which had just come into my head. It featured a condemned housing estate where criminals ruled and the police dared not go.