So I called Rich, who was surprised to hear that I was still on the job. “I dunno, Castor,” he said, only half joking. “After that business with Alice’s keys, you’re sort of a leper.”
I rubbed absently at one of the scratches on my arm. “Yeah, I’m feeling like one,” I said. “Keep losing bits and pieces of myself. Rich, remember when you told me about the Russian documents? You said they’d come from somewhere down around Bishopsgate. And you said that you were the one who found them. How did that happen, exactly?”
Like Cheryl, Rich seemed surprised that I was still harping on about the Russian collection. “It was a friend- of-a-friend-of-a-friend sort of deal,” he said. “One of my old lecturers at the Royal Holloway knew a guy whose grandad came here just before the Revolution. He had suitcases full of this stuff, and he didn’t even speak enough Russian himself to make sense of them. But I thought you said you drew a blank on all that stuff in the boxes. How can it be relevant now?”
“It probably can’t,” I admitted. “But the coincidence worries me. The ghost turning up so hot on the heels of the collection, and speaking in Russian.” And the weeping woman I saw when I was touch-sifting the stuff but I didn’t mention that. “Have you still got the address?”
“I might have. I don’t even know if the bloke is still there, though.”
“Doesn’t matter. I thought I might go over and take a look around. If there’s nobody there, I don’t lose anything except time.”
“Hang on a minute, then. I’ll go take a look.”
It took a lot longer than a minute; I was close to hanging up and dialing again when Rich finally got back to the phone.
“Found it,” he said cheerfully. “I knew it was around here somewhere. Most of the correspondence went through Peele, but I found the guy’s first letter to me. Number 14 Oak Court, Folgate Street. That’s right off Bishopsgate, up the Shoreditch end.”
“Thanks, Rich.”
“Let me know how it comes out. You’ve got me interested now.”
“I will.”
I hung up and headed east.
Nobody remembers the name of the medieval bishop who built the bishop’s gate and gave it its name. But then again, he was a lazy bugger and deserved to be forgotten. All he was doing was building himself a back door through the city wall so he could commute from his gaff in sunny Southwark to St. Helen’s Church without having to walk around to Aldgate or Moorgate—and maybe so he could have a pint at the Catherine Wheel on Petticoat Lane on the way.
There’s precious little of either sanctity or idleness about Bishopsgate these days. It’s all banks and offices and finance houses most of the way up from Cheapside, having been homogenized and beaten flat by the slow historical tidal wave of monopoly capitalism. But if you’re lucky or persistent, you can step off that old main drag into a maze of courts and alleys that date from when London’s wall still stood and her gates were locked at night in case unwelcome guests should come calling. Hand Alley. Catherine Wheel Alley. Sandys Row. Petticoat Lane itself. Old names for old places. That weight of time hangs over you when you walk them.
But Oak Court was postwar and carried no weight except for a few gallons of ink and paint squandered in uninspired graffiti. Three stories of yellow brick, with external walkways on each level and a blind eye here and there where a window had been covered over with rain-swollen hardboard. Three staircases, too, one at each end and one in the middle, separated by two squares of dead-and-alive lawn with a wrought-iron bench in the center of each. It was a dispiriting place. You wouldn’t want to be one of the people who had to call it home.
I climbed the central stairwell. The sharp stink of piss cut the duller but more pervasive scent of mildew, and the brickwork was stained brown-black close to the ground—stained and still wet, as if the building bore wounds that had only half healed.
Number 14 was on the top floor. I rang the bell and, when I heard no sound, knocked on the door as well, but the place looked deserted. At the bottom of the full-length glass panel, there was a sill of dust, and through it I could see an untidy avalanche of old circulars from Pizza Hut and campaign fliers from the local Conservative Party. Counting back to the general election, I decided it had been a while since anyone was in residence here.
I turned away and headed for the stairs. When I got to them, the force of very old habit made me glance back over my shoulder one last time to make sure that nobody had come to the door just as I left. Nobody had, but as I turned, I felt a familiar prickling of the hairs at the base of my neck—the familiar pressure of eyes against my skin and my psyche.
I was being watched—by something that was already dead.
I couldn’t tell whether my watcher was close by or far away. Out on the walkway like this, thirty feet above the street, I could be seen from a fair distance. But forewarned is forearmed. I kept on going down the stairs, and as I went, I unshipped my whistle and transferred it into my sleeve.
There was no sign of anyone down on the street. I headed back toward Liverpool Street, using windows where I could to glance behind me without turning my head. There was no sign that I was being followed.
As soon as I got around the corner, I broke into a sprint, made it to the next turning, and sprinted again, heading for a sign fifty yards away that said MATTHEW’S SANDWICH BAR. It was a narrow place, only just wide enough to take the counter and the queue, which was surprisingly long, given that this was the middle of a Saturday afternoon. I got through the door at a dead run and joined the end of the line, turning my back to the street. A window behind the counter allowed me to look back toward the corner without seeming to.
About a minute later, a man turned the corner, then hesitated and looked to left and right, at a loss. He was followed a second or two after that by a second man, who loomed over the first like a bulldozer over a kid’s bike. The first man was Gabe McClennan. The second was Scrub.
They looked around a little more, then conferred briefly. It was clear even from this distance that Scrub was angry, and McClennan was defensive. The big man prodded the chest of the smaller one with a thick, stubby finger, and his face worked as he presumably chewed Gabe out for losing me. Gabe threw out his arms, pleaded his case, and was prodded again. Then there was a little more subdued pantomime of pointing fingers and anxious, searching glances, including several back the way they’d come. Finally they parted, McClennan going on down Bishopsgate, while Scrub retraced his steps.
I gave them thirty seconds or so to get clear, then set off after McClennan. It wasn’t a hard choice. He wouldn’t be able to squeeze my skull into a pile of loose chippings if he turned around and saw me.
I caught sight of him almost immediately because he was still looking restlessly left and right as he walked along, hoping to pick up my trail again. In case he decided to look behind him, too, I hung back and made sure there were always at least a couple of people between us. His white hair made a handy beacon, so I was unlikely to lose him.
He walked the length of Bishopsgate. Every so often he turned off along one of the side streets, but when he saw no sign of me there, he doubled back onto the thoroughfare itself, heading south toward Houndsditch. When he got there, he hailed a cab and shot off toward the river.
I swore an oath and legged it after him, since there was no other cab in sight. At Cornhill I got lucky, as one pulled out onto Gracechurch Street right in front of me and stopped in response to my frantic hail. “Follow the guy in front,” I panted.
“Lovely,” the cabbie enthused. He was a tubby Asian guy with the broadest cockney accent I’d ever heard. “I’ve always wanted to do a number like that. You leave it to me, squire, and I’ll see you right.”
He was as good as his word. As we turned right onto Upper Thames Street and fed into the dense stream of traffic along the Embankment, he faked and wove his way from lane to lane to keep McClennan’s cab in sight. In the process he earned himself a few blasts of the horn and at least one “Drive in a straight line, you fucking arsehole!” but I could see the back of Gabe’s head framed in the window, and he didn’t turn around.
We followed the river through Westminster and Pimlico, and I began to wonder where the hell we were heading. I’d only followed Gabe on a whim, hoping that he might lead me to Rosa—which required a long chain of hopeful assumptions, starting with the one where Damjohn had taken Rosa out of circulation in the first place. If she’d just had it away on her own two heels, then I was wasting my time.
That conclusion looked more and more likely as McClennan’s cab took a right at Oakley Street and drove on up toward the King’s Road. It was stretching credibility past breaking point to believe that Damjohn might have an establishment up here. As far as my understanding goes, the brothels of Kensington and Chelsea are very much a
