arches. He stood waiting obediently with a few others for the green man, then realized the traffic was so clogged he could cross anyway. He was aiming for the paved area in front of a three-storey derelict building, shaped like the bow of a ship and splitting the main into two separate roads.
‘Stand by, stand by, he’s towards the island now.’
I could see him, no more than sixty metres away, and could just hear Suzy over the traffic. ‘I still have, still have. Held on the island. Intending the second road, still held.’
I headed across the junction left, past McDonald’s, to the crossing that led to the island. I didn’t have to watch him, she’d tell me what he was up to. I was looking ahead: Grey and Navy were taking the next option left further along the road, then disappearing.
‘Stand by, stand by, lights green, now crossing. He’s heading right . . . now on the pavement, he’s gone right. Still unaware.’
I looked back towards the source just in time to see him disappear inside an over-lit Costcutter, a 24/7. We both sparked up simultaneously. ‘Stop, stop, stop!’
I crossed on to the island and walked along the pavement to the left of the wedge-shaped building to get out of line of sight of Costcutter. Suzy still had eyes on. ‘I’ve got the trigger, and can give direction once he goes foxtrot.’
‘Roger that, mate. I’m on the dead side of the derelict building. The other two took the first option left past McDonald’s. Wait . . .’ I moved a little further along the road to get the street sign. ‘That’s Caledonian Road, Caledonian. I’ll wait for your stand by.’
‘Caledonian, OK.’
This had always been a sleazy, run-down area, a jumble of kebab, chip and burger joints, and corner shops selling porn. It was the home of down-and-outs, drug-dealers and their addicts, many of them prostitutes. The derelict building was boarded up, awaiting redevelopment, the chipboard sheets at street level covered with an already grimy artist’s impression of a brave new world.
I could just make out Suzy again, above the impatient revving of engines. ‘Stand by, stand by. That’s him foxtrot, he’s foxtrot. He’s gone left, blue carrier-bag, your right with a blue carrier.’
I went back to the ship’s bow. ‘I have, I have.’
I was about twenty-five metres behind him. ‘That’s him approaching the first junction left.’
We were now walking along the main once more, opposite the station, when he disappeared. ‘He’s gone left, unsighted to me.’
‘Roger that. I’m behind you, I’ll try and parallel.’
‘Roger that.’ Suzy was going to try to find a road that ran parallel to the one the source had gone down.
I got to the junction and waited by the small police station on the corner. It looked like a converted corner shop with mirrored glass. ‘Suzy, it’s Birkenhead Street.’
‘Roger that, Birkenhead. I’m behind you on Gray’s Inn – it dog-legs after a hundred. I’m now parallel to Birkenhead.’
‘Roger that.’
I crossed the road as if to go straight past the junction towards the flashing lights of the amusement arcade opposite the police station, and glanced left as arcade machine-gun fire and screams of death filtered through the doors. ‘He’s about half-way up Birkenhead. The street’s about two hundred. At the top there’s a T-junction. Must link left with Gray’s Inn.’
‘Roger that, I have a junction right. St Chad’s Street – St Chad’s. I’m going static, see if I can see him coming up to the T.’
I waited on the corner, wanting him to make a bit of distance before I followed. In any case, as soon as he reached that junction Suzy should know which way he was going. ‘OK. Roger that. I still have, on the left on Birkenhead.’
Birkenhead was a street of Edwardian houses that had been converted into seedy private hotels. They all seemed to have identical net curtains and condensation on the windows, the sort of place you’d bring one of the station hookers if you didn’t fancy an alleyway.
‘Stop, stop, stop! What the fuck is he up to? Just short of the T junction.’ He just stood there. ‘Wait, wait . . . lighting up.’
‘Roger that. I’m static by the snooker hall on Gray’s Inn Road and have a view all the way down St Chad’s.’
‘Roger that. Still static, he’s smoking.’
He stood with the carrier-bag in his left hand and his cigarette in the right. Why had he stopped so suddenly? Did he know he was being followed? If so, why didn’t he look round to check? Was he waiting for someone?
‘He’s still static, smoking. He’s head up, plane spotting or something. I haven’t got a clue what he’s up to.’ He wasn’t looking at the stars, that was for sure. The sky was the colour of mud.
Suzy came straight back. ‘It’s the CCTV. I can see a camera at the first junction, right on St Chad’s. The camera is starting to move, the camera is—’
‘Stand by, stand by. He’s foxtrot.’
I stayed where I was. ‘He’s at the junction left. He’s going left, towards you, he’s going left.’
Suzy cut in just as he disappeared from my view. ‘I have, I have. That’s him now towards . . . No, that’s stop, stop, stop! That’s keys out. He’s at a door, he’s going complete. I’ll walk past.’
‘Roger that. I’ll wait short of the junction and meet you there.’
I looked back at the railway station behind me, no more than fifty metres across the main, and could now see the reason why all three had held at the exit. At the first junction past WH Smith and Boots another CCTV camera was set high on a steel pole. It swivelled, then settled more or less directly facing the entrance to McD’s.
I crossed back over Birkenhead to the side of the street he’d taken. The source had gone left. He’d been watching the camera, waiting for the right moment to make his move, like an escaping PoW timing the progress of a sentry.
I could hear Suzy’s breathing in my earpiece as she moved along St Chad’s. I stopped about five metres short of the junction, next to a steel-barred gate, about seven feet high and padlocked, that guarded the gap between two buildings. Through it I could see the rear of a three-storey block of flats, which formed the corner of Birkenhead and St Chad’s, and also the back of the row of Edwardian houses that the source had gone into. Light spilled from the clear plastic sheeting of a small DIY conservatory on to a haphazard pattern of downpipes.
A light went on behind a droopy net in one of the top-floor windows, then the main curtains were pulled swiftly shut.
The camera began to turn with a gentle electric whine. I got my cell out and put it to my ear instead of using the hands-free, so anyone watching would see I had a reason for being there. ‘The camera’s on the move again.’
‘I’ve got it.’ There was a pause. ‘The house is thirty-three. It’s thirty-three. It’s the one nearest the block of flats.’
‘OK, thirty-three, got that. Just carry on round the corner and you’ll see me.’
The camera focused on Birkenhead, which meant I must have been exposed below the street-lamp. I smiled broadly as Suzy came into view and held out her arms. We kissed, cuddled, and turned off our phones. The camera stayed where it was as I leant against the gate to give her a good look at the rear of the target house.
‘Third floor.’ I felt her head move on my shoulder as she looked up. ‘See the crack of light between the curtains?’
‘Yes.’
‘It came on within a minute of him going into the house. It’s got to be him, and he must be alone. Let’s get clear of the camera. We’ll turn right on to St Chad’s.’
I held her hand as we walked across the road, under the camera. It didn’t swivel to follow us. We couldn’t see any more cameras ahead of us, just signs stuck on lamp-posts announcing that Neighbourhood Watch really worked.
She poked me in the arm. ‘Hey, why did you say he could have my number? What’s the matter with yours?’
‘I’ll tell you once we’re back at the flat.’
Suzy took out her pack of nicotine gum and nodded towards the red neon sign on a Chinese Methodist church
