pipe and I pulled on his wrist as he gripped me. I heaved him over and we both lay on the flat roof, getting our breath back. I closed my eyes against the sun, and felt the heat of the roof burn through my sweatshirt and jeans.
I rolled onto my front, my clothing pulling at me as the tar tried to make it stay where it was. After checking that my Browning was still secure, and not covered in tar and grit, I crawled on my hands and knees toward the line of six skylights in the center of the roof. Even from here I could see they weren’t frosted and wire-meshed, just clear but grimy. Some of the panes had cracked, and many were covered in pigeon shit. It didn’t matter: it was a way in.
As I crawled, with Lotfi just behind, the hot pitch substance beneath the gravel slowly moved under the weight of my elbows, toes, and knees. Then its surface split, like the skin on old custard, and I sank a few millimeters into the black stuff.
I noticed that my shadow was more or less under me, and a quick look at a now tar-covered traser told me it was after twelve-thirty. The sun was high, but all the same I’d have to be careful as I stuck my head over the glass that I didn’t cast the world’s biggest shadow across the floor below. Shape, shine, shadow, silhouette, spacing, and movement are always the things that give you away.
I headed for the second skylight from the left, because there was glass missing from it. I was no more than a yard away when I heard a scream from inside, louder than the drone of the traffic and the blast of horns and air brakes.
Lotfi heard it too, and scrambled past me to get to the missing pane.
I put my hand up. “Slowly, slowly. Remember your shadow.”
He nodded and moved his head up gently, trying to get his face against the hole. His nose was doing all the breathing now, and his sweat-covered face was screwed up in anger.
I went to the left of him and, with tar-covered fingers, rubbed the grime slowly from the glass to get a better view.
Chapter 50
Years of pigeon shit hung from the steel roof supports like gray icicles. Then, down at ground level, among the old faded newspapers and lumps of rubble, I saw why Lotfi’s breathing was suddenly a lot more agitated. Romeo Two was on the concrete floor, naked and covered in blood, getting kicked to pieces by the two unknowns I’d seen come out of the store and walk to the rear, the ones who must have lifted Hubba-Hubba. They still had their black leather jackets over jeans. I couldn’t see any weapons on them.
There was movement from Romeo Two. He was trying to crawl toward the Lexus, parked next to the Merc van, which was two vehicles along, opposite the shutter at the far end of the building. Blood dripped off his mustache and mouth as the two unknowns just followed him, kicking, and having a good laugh. They pushed him down onto the ground, then kicked him again, turning him away from the vehicles. The engine revved up on the van and it drove slowly to the shutter. The passenger got out and pulled on the chain. He climbed back in and the Merc disappeared, while one of the black leather jackets lowered the shutter.
Below us, in the middle of the building, were two vehicle-inspection pits and two sets of concrete ramps. Romeo One and Hubba-Hubba were inside one of the pits, also naked. Ripped clothes were strewn around on the concrete, probably having been checked inch by inch for tracking or listening devices. Blood had dripped from their faces onto their sweat-drenched bodies. They were kept in the pit by what looked like a heavy old iron gate from a mansion, maybe bought from the brocante next door, which had been dragged over the top of it.
Hubba-Hubba sat cross-legged in one corner, his head down. His blood-wet hair was matted and glinted in the sunlight. I couldn’t see his face.
Sweat dripped into my mouth as I took in the scene. Goatee stood above them on the gate, shouting and poking them with a broom handle, as if baiting a couple of pit bulls before the Big Fight.
All the faces below me were Arab. Baldilocks was leaning against a concrete ramp in a baggy blue short- sleeved shirt and black pants. He took a long drag on a cigarette and swapped jokes with the fat van driver, who had a brown sweater stretched over his gut. I thought that he had been the one to spot Hubba-Hubba at the rear of the shop, as the Romeos prepared for loading inside. But none of this made sense. Why lift him, and why lift the Romeos?
Lotfi was inches from me now, his eyes fixed on the pit. Hubba-Hubba’s head was still bowed. He wasn’t reacting to the blows, just rolling with them, taking the pain. Romeo One was on his knees, begging Goatee for mercy. What he got instead was another burst of good news from the broom handle.
Lotfi turned to me, his face determined. “He’s waiting for me.”
I nodded. “Not long now, mate. Go beyond the skylight, see if there’s a trap door.”
He took another long, hard look at his brother before crawling backward and making his way to the other side of the roof. Maybe there was a fire door, with a steel escape ladder attached to an interior wall. It wouldn’t help us much: we’d be spotted at once coming down it. But at least it got Lotfi out of the way for a while. I didn’t want him worked up any more than he was already.
As I listened to the screams and shouts I looked around below me. The building was just one big open space, and had obviously once been used as a garage workshop. I was lying with my head toward the shuttered entrance at the far end of the building. There was nothing behind it now, apart from the Lexus. It looked as though it had been the vehicles’ holding area, before they were brought over to the inspection pits and ramps for repair in the middle. At the other end, the ground-floor window we’d found was hidden by two mobile construction trailers, which stood at right angles to each other in front of a rough, whitewashed cinder-block cube, no more than eight feet high, which jutted out of the corner. Unless Lotfi came up with something magical, the only way in was through the shutter, or that window.
Goatee stepped off the gate and barked an order at the boys by the ramp. Baldilocks and Van Man threw down their cigarettes, walked over to the pit, and dragged the ironwork gate to one side. When there was a big enough gap, Romeo Two was herded into it by the black-leather brothers.
Hubba-Hubba didn’t react as the newcomer fell in beside him and the gate was dragged back over. But the reunited Romeos yammered off to each other and did some more begging to the people above.
A cell phone rang. A couple of them reached into their pockets, but it turned out to be Goatee’s. He flipped it open, and did a bit of business as the other four congregated by the ramps. Cigarettes were passed around and lit as Goatee carried on his conversation in what sounded like French. There was even a little laughter from him as he walked toward the shutters.
Goatee had a big smile on his face, and waved his left arm gently back and forth as he talked. He was maybe in his early forties, with a short, very neat hairstyle that made him look even more like George Michael today. His body language was cajoling, and he kicked small imaginary soccer balls against the wall as he moved.
Lotfi appeared from the other side of the skylight on his hands and knees, shaking his head as he closed in on me. He stared down at Hubba-Hubba, then shifted his attention to Goatee.
“It’s a woman,” he whispered. “He says he’ll be home late, there is lots to do.”
And then, as if a switch had been thrown, the phone was thrust back into Goatee’s pocket and he strode back to the pit. The smile had gone.
The two Romeos were on their knees, beseeching him in rapid Arabic. I turned to Lotfi. “What are they saying?”
He put his ear to the hole instead of his eyes and plugged the other ear with his thumb as a jet passed overhead and vehicles raced about us, his face screwed up in concentration. While I waited for him to work it out, I moved the Browning to the back of my jeans and turned the fanny pack around, letting my front sink into the tar. It didn’t make much difference, I was already covered in the stuff. I felt as if I’d been crawling in hot volcanic mud.
“They don’t know who my brother is. They’ve never seen him before.”
I watched Goatee light a cigarette while he glowered at the two men gibbering on their knees below him, picking off some tobacco that was left on his lips.
“They’re saying they’re just here to collect money from three locations. One yesterday and two today. They
