Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(43)

Which they did, with speed and reproachful looks. And I noticed they knew exactly who we were talking about.

‘Does anyone else go in and out of that floor?’ I asked.

Not that they knew of. And the unfurnished floor was not in common use – bought and paid for, but the client had yet to move in. Zach, who they knew as Mr Henry Hodgekins, made periodic visits and had his own pass. Later they’d furnish us with dates and descriptions and, reluctantly, financial information. But we didn’t have time for that now. We did show them a picture of Lesley and asked if it rang any bells. None, they said. But this was Lesley with her new changeable face – she could go in and out all day and they might never know.

‘What do you reckon?’ asked Carey, flushed but pleased with himself.

‘We’ve got to go after him,’ I said.

‘And if she’s up there? Or something worse?’

I keyed Nightingale on my Airwave and got Guleed instead.

‘We’re ten minutes out,’ she said.

I looked over at Carey, who shrugged and then nodded.

‘We’re going up,’ I told her.

‘Be careful,’ she said.

The security guard, whose name turned out to be Mitchell, came with us to facilitate access through the barriers and guide us around the fish tank, under the escalators and into the correct lift.

It was a fast lift, but we rode up with the nagging worry that Lesley was already riding down in the adjacent shaft. The walls were glass, so we would have got a good view of her thumbing her nose as she went by. We did get a really good view south over the City proper, framed by the Gherkin and the NatWest tower and cranes rearing like flagpoles over every new development. Through the new construction I caught sight of the river, the fake blades of the Ronson and the gap where Skygarden used to be.

I couldn’t quite get the angle to see St Paul’s. It was a way to the west, built on the hill on the other side of the Walbrook. I wondered if that was significant.

‘We should have waited,’ said Carey. ‘And locked down the place.’

Which is the age-old dilemma, when chasing a suspect into a big building.

‘We just have to hope she doesn’t know we’re coming,’ I said. ‘You ready?’

Carey pulled his X26 from his shoulder holster and checked the charge. Following the operation in Chiswick, Seawoll had insisted that Carey and Guleed were routinely armed. Carey, who could moan about an overtime bonus, had never complained once about carrying the bulky thing.

The lift slowed, pinged and opened its doors on to the thirty-fourth floor. The lobby beyond was small, windowless and dimly lit. With its durable peach coloured carpet, neutral coloured walls and sturdy hardwood fire doors it looked temporary – a placeholder.

Mitchell the guard indicated an electronic touch lock by one of the fire doors and pulled a key card from his pocket.

‘This should open it,’ he said.

Carey took the card from his fingers and shushed him when he tried to protest. I gently pushed him away from the door so he wouldn’t be in the line of fire or in our way, and nodded at Carey.

Carey pressed the card to the touch lock – and nothing happened.

He tried a couple more times and we both turned to glare at Mitchell, who cringed.

‘It should work,’ he hissed.

We pointed out, in low whispers, that it obviously didn’t.

‘It’s supposed to open everything,’ whispered Mitchell. ‘For safety.’

‘Well, obviously it doesn’t,’ said Carey.

Mitchell said if we would just give him a moment he’d fetch another card, and we let him scuttle back down in the lift.

Carey gave me an inquiring look, I nodded, and we switched off our Airwaves and our phones.

Then I blew the electromagnets that were holding the door closed.

Modern office security and fire doors are designed to fail into an unlocked position so that cubicle monkeys can make a run for it in case of a fire. Disrupt the electrical supply and you can unlock them without breaking a sweat or blowing all the microprocessors in the vicinity and accidentally triggering the sprinkler system.

But, in my defence, that only happened once and they’re planning to move New Scotland Yard to a new building in any case.

There was a quiet thud as the magnets let go and I cautiously pushed the door open.

Beyond was it was wide open – at least half the thirty-fourth floor’s available space, lit by the grey daylight slanting in through the glass cladding.

Zach was reclining on the red leather sofa that faced the door, a can of Red Stripe in one hand and what would turn out to be, after later examination, an enormous spliff in the other.

‘You took your time,’ he said before turning his head. ‘I was going to spark up without you.’

Despite this, me and Carey made a cautious advance – just in case it was a trap.

‘Oh, shit,’ said Zach, when he realised it was us. ‘And it was going to be sushi night too.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘What are you guys doing here?’

Carey strode forward and, before I could stop him, punched Zach in the face – hard enough to stagger him backwards.

‘Where the fuck is she?’ he shouted.

‘How the fuck should I know?’ said Zach, clutching his face and backing away towards the wide windows and their expensive view of north London.