Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(42)
Fortunately Nightingale had said this early enough for me to slide off the Harrow Road and onto the Marylebone Flyover – although, as any London driver will tell you, that’s not always a step up.
‘He’s on the eastbound platform,’ said Jaget.
‘Skip Baker Street,’ said Nightingale. ‘Go straight to King’s Cross – we’ll come east and cover Baker Street.’
Guleed was in for a treat if Nightingale thought he could do Notting Hill to Baker Street in under fifteen minutes.
I had to make a decision. A couple of hundred years ago the Euston Road was practically London’s northern boundary. You’d clip along in your carriage with the fields and orchards of Middlesex to the north and the brand new Regency housing developments, luxury homes for the gentry – so no change there –to the south. It’s a crucial east-west route and as such has been widened, turned into a dual carriageway and had underpasses and flyovers added in order to cope with the traffic volume. The result has been a road on which the motorist can while away a happy hour or so of an afternoon while admiring the limitations of sixties urban planning.
I got off it as soon as I could and went around the back of Euston Station by the secret route, known only to me and London’s cabbies, and ended up approaching King’s Cross down York Way. Zach hadn’t got off at Baker Street, but I was seriously beginning to wonder whether he was going anywhere or was just messing us about.
‘Farringdon,’ said Carey. ‘He could slip into the Crossrail works there and lose us.’
I relayed this via Guleed, who was making the occasional yip sound over the noise of a vintage, but beautifully maintained, inline six cylinder going flat out.
‘He says stay where you are until we’re in a position to cover King’s Cross,’ she said, and then paused while Nightingale said something indistinct in the background. ‘He thinks that if he were trying to lose us he’d have made the attempt at Baker Street.’
‘Where’s he going?’ asked Carey.
It turned out to be Liverpool Street.
As we shot down Bishopsgate I realised that the Broadgate offices of Bock, Loupe and Stag were passing on our right.
‘Haven’t we just been down these ends?’ I said.
‘It’s the City,’ said Carey. ‘Everyone down here has their hand in everybody else’s trouser pocket.’
Jaget tracked him off the train, up the escalators and out the Old Broad Street exit. By that time I’d managed to pull in by the taxi rank on Liverpool Street. Only Zach caught us by surprise by coming out our way and we had to duck down as he passed us on the other side of the street. I didn’t dare back out in the car because someone was bound to honk at us and catch Zach’s attention, so we threw the doors open and bundled out instead. Carey, since he’s interacted with Zach the least, took the lead as he turned right down Bishopsgate.
Zach looked cheerful and suspiciously well groomed.
‘He’s definitely expecting to get lucky,’ said Carey over his Airwave.
But where was this good fortune about to take place?
Like most of the City, Bishopsgate is in a permanent state of redevelopment. Which worked to my favour, since the scaffolding on the building next to the Church of St Botolph of the Turkish Baths gave us cover as we watched Zach cross over to the other side of the road.
We thought he was going for Houndsditch, a pedestrianised strip between Heron Tower and whatever it was they were building next door, and we hurried across to avoid getting left behind. But Zach surprised us again by veering through the revolving doors that led to Heron Tower’s main lobby.
I’m not going to say anything about Heron Tower except that I’m sure the architects did their best and that the makers of Meccano probably regard it as aspirational. It’s forty-six storeys high and has a couple of expensive eateries at the top, but they’re served by their own lifts with a separate street entrance. Zach obviously wasn’t going for those.
Carey went into the lobby while I followed cautiously ten metres behind.
Heron Tower has what the brochures call a concierge style lobby. Which is to say, just like every modern corporate building built this century, there’s a reception, security and barriers to stop the unwashed from penetrating the inner fastness. Exactly like Broadgate, only this time with the largest privately owned aquarium in the UK – stocked, I like to think, with piranhas so that failing minions could be suitably punished by their superiors.
Piranhas or not, the aquarium rose like a glass wall behind the receptionists, who were all young white women, sitting in a row and dressed in identical blue uniforms.
Zach was nowhere to be seen. I suspected he was already up the escalators or heading for the main lift bank – both were the other side of the security barriers.
Carey showed the receptionist his warrant card.
‘The scruffy white man who just came in,’ he said. ‘Where did he go?’
The receptionist, startled by his tone, hesitated, glanced at me and then, slightly panicked, to the approaching security guard. This guy was in a navy suit with an unfortunate orange tie, and was nearing us with the caution of a man on a minimum wage zero hours contract who planned to give his employers exactly what they paid for.
Carey whirled on him – he obviously hadn’t enjoyed the stake-out.
‘You,’ he said to the security guard. ‘Unless you want to be arrested for obstruction, get her to tell us where he went.’