They began her tour and Remy explained the owners were waiting to develop the two buildings together because they’d bought the whole site, but there was a campaign against tearing down the Edgar because it was full of artists’ studios and the building was regarded as a landmark with some architectural merit, so all the enterprises had only twelve-month leases. The two buildings were still managed separately, but she’d learned about access to the fire escapes and had explored the Edgar at night. She’d found a shower, which she used at the beginning of the weekend when the water was still hot and there was no one around.
‘Have you ever come across a woman called Ingrid here?’
‘Nope.’
‘She’s very tall, has brown hair and dresses well. She’s actually called Zoe, but she uses the name Ingrid Cole.’
‘Maybe in the Pit. Yeah, I’ve seen her there.’
‘What’s the Pit?’
‘It’s like a big room. It feels like it’s underground because there’s no daylight.’
She led him to a long room where several tables had been pushed together at the centre. On the wall was a large TV screen from which connector leads hung. Leads and cables were everywhere, chairs were pushed back and the waste bins overflowed with disposable white cups, pizza boxes and sandwich packets. He noticed a laptop charger that had been left behind. It was still warm. Beneath a long whiteboard, five cables ran through a hole that had been messily punched in the plasterboard wall. There were no signs of a router of any sort, or a phone line, and Samson assumed that this arrangement was used to disguise their presence. His eyes came to rest on the whiteboard. The writing had been wiped but he could make out some column headings. Among them were the words ‘PIT’ and ‘EAR’. Of the other three headings only the letters O R A, R N and S F R O remained. He photographed the board with his phone and when his flash went off realised that the board was still damp – it had only just been wiped.
He began investigating one of the waste bins to see if there were any discarded notes. It always amazed him what people consigned to the doubtful security of trash cans, but Remy held up her hand. ‘Shut the fuck up, will you! Someone’s in the bay.’ She listened with her head to the side then beckoned him to follow her through a door at the far end of the Pit. They went along a corridor and climbed a darkened stairway to an office, where a partner’s desk stood by a window overlooking the loading bay. The only light in the bay came from a small black van, waiting to exit. A figure was standing at the side of a shutter door to operate the switch that would bring the curtain up, but was evidently having some difficulty. The winding mechanism kept cutting out so the curtain would rise a little at a time. The driver joined him and they eventually got it high enough for the van to clear. The driver returned to the van and moved it forward so that his lights swept the tall, slender individual who waited by the controls to lower the shutter. A fraction of a second before he turned his face, Samson’s subconscious prodded him. By the time he saw the slightly crazy grin and a thumbs-up sign he already knew he was looking at the young man who’d once been known only by the codename Firefly – Naji Touma.
Chapter 11
Strains of Illyria
Samson didn’t call out. No point. Naji wouldn’t hear him through the glass as he ducked under the shutter. Besides, nothing would be gained by showing his hand now, although his mind teemed with questions for Naji, and, for that matter, Zoe Freemantle, both of whom, it was now evident, had been set up by Harland in an operation that was paid for by Denis Hisami. What also became plain to him, as he and Remy went down to the loading bay so he could leave the same way as Naji, was that the operation in the Pit was probably the cause of both Harland’s death and the poisoning of Denis Hisami. He said goodbye to Remy in the street, gave her a little more money and the phone number for a woman called Rebecca Dunbar, a university friend of Anastasia’s who’d set up a shelter for young women. He didn’t know if the number still worked, but he hoped Remy would try. Remy shrugged unenthusiastically and went off to look for something to eat. Samson turned west and started looking for a cab. As he walked, he dialled Macy Harp and left instructions to call back as soon as he could.
He always told cabbies to drop him near where the Grand Union and Regent’s canals meet at Little Venice so he could walk the few hundred metres to his building. In his street, he came across his tenants, Jericho and Derek, walking their new dog. Derek, who had an obsessive nature, was anxious to discuss the automatic lighting in the hallway, which wasn’t working, and the lock of the main door, which appeared to be loose. Samson said he would look into these the following day.
‘We thought you were in because we heard some movements,’ said Derek. ‘We knocked and didn’t get an answer so we left a note about the lights.’
‘It’s my friend,’ said Samson.
‘Well, there’s an invitation to Jericho’s premiere attached to the note, which is ultra, ultra polite. Promise!’ He looked at Jericho. ‘Unlike the note someone sent Mr Samson after a rush of blood to the head, but we won’t go into that now, will we, Jericho?’ His partner looked down rather hopelessly at the dog, which had wound its lead round his legs.
‘I’ll get the building manager to sort out the lights,’ said Samson, ‘but you know it’s not strictly my responsibility.
