David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good

by Andrew Grant

  The inside of this elevator car was about three times as tall as a standard one. A rail ran round the outside for passengers to hold on to, and above the door a panel displayed not only the floor information but also the speed. Gerard hit the button for the thirty-fourth floor and the lift started to climb. We picked up speed till four of the seven bars in the triangular pictogram speedometer had turned green.

  “We could go faster,” Gerard said, seeing me looking at the indicator. “But I don’t like to. It messes with my ears.”

  “That suits me,” Melissa said. “I have no ambition to hurtle up in the air like I’m in a Saturn V.”

  In less than a minute we slowed, then came to a stop. The doors opened and Gerard stood back for us to exit first. We stepped out into a tall, circular space, like we’d emerged from the hub of a wheel.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Melissa said, striding across to the wall of curving windows. “This view. I can see… everything.”

  “Do you know where you are now?” I said.

  “This was a surprise?” Gerard said.

  “It was,” Melissa said. “But I’ve figured it out now. I’d know this place anywhere, from the outside. I’ve never set foot inside before, though. It’s the BT Tower. We’re at the top, right?”

  “We are,” I said. “Do you like it?”

  “I do,” Melissa said, turning to look back towards the interior of the structure. “But why is it such a mess?”

  There was no furniture. Some of the ceiling tiles were missing, and in places pieces of carpet had been removed, too. Wallpaper was hanging off the curved walls, and the doors were missing from a pair of doorways on either side of the lift.

  “We’re in the restaurant,” Gerard said. “The place is being refurbished. They’ve got a plan to reopen it to the public. Doesn’t sound like a good idea to me. But it’s not like they asked for my opinion.”

  “Will it still be a restaurant?” I said.

  “Yes,” Gerard said. “That’s the idea. They’re looking for a celebrity chef to take the place on, apparently.”

  “Where will the kitchens be?” I said. The space seemed much smaller than you would have thought from ground level.

  “In there,” Gerard said, nodding to the left-hand doorway.

  I moved across and looked inside. The room was tiny. It was about six feet by ten, allowing for the rounded walls. And it was piled to the ceiling with junk. I could see chairs. Four different kinds. Tables. Cardboard boxes. Buckets. Packets of paper towels. Wine glasses. About fifty. Two mops. A broom. A stepladder. And thrown in on the top, a fluorescent yellow coat.

  “Really?” I said. “What will they be serving? TV dinners?”

  Gerard joined me and immediately shook his head.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s not this one. It’s the one over there.”

  “Does this place still revolve?” Melissa said, turning to gaze out over the city once again.

  “It does,” Gerard said. “That’s always been its most famous feature.”

  “Does it go fast?” she said. “I mean, does anyone get sick from it?”

  “No,” Gerard said. “It’s not like a fairground ride. It turns so slowly you can hardly feel you’re moving.”

  “Are we moving now?” she said.

  “Not right now, no,” Gerard said. “The motor isn’t switched on. But I could go and start it up.”

  “Really?” she said. “That would be amazing. Could you really do that?”

  “Give me five minutes,” Gerard said, turning and heading for the lift.

  “Wait,” she said. “Are you sure about this? You won’t get in any trouble?”

  “I doubt it,” Gerard said, over his shoulder. “And if anyone asks, I’ll just say a maniac from Royal Navy Intelligence made me do it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gerard returned at a minute before eleven and escorted us back to the Cleveland Street exit. That got us out of the building, but it didn’t solve my other problem. Ever since we’d left the pub I’d been hankering after a curry, and when Melissa jumped into a cab on Tottenham Court Road I didn’t suddenly stop being hungry. So I stood and watched her taillights disappear around the corner, and then made my way to a little restaurant I knew in Charlotte Street.

  I was pretty sure what I wanted to eat, but when I saw some of the things the other customers had chosen I decided to have a quick look at the menu before I ordered. The selection was fairly standard – the place was known more for quality than innovation – but as my eyes scanned the page I picked up on a couple of things that were new. They were tempting, but before I could catch the waiter’s eye to confirm my usual choice - chicken jalfrezi - my phone rang. It was my control. He was the second person I’d called from outside the pub on Albermarle Street, before we left for the Tower. And he had answers to both of the questions I’d asked him.

  Melissa had received no emails from GCHQ earlier in the day. And her mobile phone records showed she’d been nowhere near Leytonstone.

  I was still wondering what to make of this news when my phone rang again. This time it was Melissa, herself. She told me that Elvis had been caught, and was being held by the police outside St Joseph’s Hospital.

  “They took him back there?” I said. “Why?”

  “They didn’t take him back,” she said. “They found him there.”

  “He’d gone back to work?”

  “Not exactly. He was ‘on the job’ when the bobbies grabbed him, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’ve got to understand, the people in the hospital are pretty paranoid by now. As far as they know there’s been a fire, an explosion, a radiation leak, and a robbery. They’re seeing ghosts in every shadow. Hospital Security’s been overwhelmed with calls, day after day. But tonight, when their lines were jammed even worse than usual people started dialing three nines, saying they could hear screaming coming from the basement.”

  “Which turned out to be what? Elvis rehearsing?”

  “Ha. No. It was a woman. He had her in a tiny room at the end of one of the corridors. It was barely big enough for a mattress. And the entrance was completely hidden. The police would never have found it without the racket she was making.”

  “Was he attacking her?”

  “No. She was there voluntarily. Or so she claims. I’m not sure I believe her, though, given that Elvis was fully decked out in sequins and flares.”

  “You saw that with your own eyes?”

  “No. Fortunately not. His clothes had been taken away as evidence by the time I arrived. But I did get a full description.”

  “Poor bloke. Sounds like his delusion’s getting worse.”

  “On the contrary. It seems he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s made it into a second job, apparently. I’m told people pay him to sing at pubs and parties. Then, if he plays his cards right, he brings one of the audience members back to his lair. His underground love den. And my impression? The place sees quite a lot of action.”

  “And no one knew it was there?”

  “No. Not even the caretaker. There are miles of passages down there - literally - and that end of the corridor is a complete warren. And there aren’t even any plans or records, any more. There were all destroyed in the war.”

  “Didn’t they make new ones?”

  “Of the hospital itself? Yes. And the major parts of the basement. But not the extremities. I guess that’s why the staff have such a free rein down there.”

  I thought about the maintenance guys I’d found smoking in the old equipment room, and could see how what she’d heard could be true.

  “So what’s happening now?” I said.

  “It’s make or break time,” she said. “I’m about to talk to The King, himself, and I thought you’d like to be in on that if you can get down here in time.”

  The figure I saw slumped in the back seat of a police car outside the hospital’s main entrance looked like a shrunken, deflated v
ersion of the guy I’d fished out of the basement smoking room the previous day. The oversized crime scene overalls he was wearing didn’t help, but when Melissa opened the passenger door and let me in, I sensed the change in his demeanor was more psychological than physical. Bearing in mind his reaction to the policeman he’d seen coming out of my room, I guessed he was never going to feel at home in one of their squad cars. And if he didn’t feel at home, he wasn’t going to be any use to us.

  “Can you scare up a coat from one of the coppers, do you think?” I said to Melissa.

  “Maybe,” she said. “Why?”

  “For Elvis to wear,” I said. “I think the three of us need a cup of tea. There’s a twenty-four hour cafe round the corner, but he’ll freeze walking there in that outfit.”

  It took Melissa eight minutes to return with a giant yellow high visibility jacket clutched in front of her. It took us four minutes to reach the cafe. And less than twenty seconds for the sight of us to clear the rest of the nocturnal customers out of the place.

  We took the table furthest from the counter, our need for relative privacy trumping my desire to avoid the worst of the cracked, food-encrusted lino-covered benches. The crone who had the pleasure of working the nightshift stood and scowled at us for a few moments, apparently weighing her annoyance at our choice of location against a wish to not aggravate anyone connected to law enforcement. Eventually a solution struck her, and she bellowed across the room to us without moving an inch.

  “What can I get you, my darlings?” she said, in a surprisingly gruff voice.

  “Three teas, please,” Melissa said.

  “Be right with you, my lovely,” the crone said, batting her way through a dilapidated fly screen and disappearing into their dingy excuse of a kitchen.

  “I don’t like tea,” Elvis said, when she’d gone.

  “You want something else?” Melissa said. “You tell her.”

  Elvis stared at his fingernails for a moment.

  “Tea’ll be fine,” he said.

  “Good,” Melissa said. “I thought it would be. You can’t beat a nice cup of tea. Specially to get a bit of a conversation going.”

  Elvis dropped his stare back to his nails and remained silent.

  “You’re not big on hints, then,” Melissa said.

  “What?” Elvis said. “The tea’s not here yet.”

  Melissa let out a long, slow breath, like she was a teacher dealing with a class of delinquents.

  “You’re right,” she said. “But let’s pretend it is. Let’s imagine it’s sitting right here in front of us, right now, and that you’re going to show your gratitude by telling us all about what you saw on the night of the fire alarm.”

  “What fire alarm?” he said.

  “The one at the hospital. Where you sometimes show up for work.”

  “When was this?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Yes, you do. You told Commander Trevellyan all about it. Now I want you to tell me.”

  “Commander Trevellyan? He said he’s a lawyer. What’s this all about?”

  “Well, he also does legal things for the Navy. Sometimes. Anyway, that doesn’t matter right now. What’s important is you telling me about the night of the fire alarm.”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Yes you can.”

  “I wasn’t even there. I didn’t see anything. I just made up what I told him cause I thought that’s what he wanted to hear.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes. I swear.”

  “David?” Melissa said.

  I stood up and started to fasten my coat.

  “Where are you going?” she said.

  “Back to the restaurant I was at,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m still hungry, and I don’t fancy eating here. Would you?”

  “Well, no. But what about Elvis?”

  “Yes, poor Elvis. When you’ve got him situated, please let him know how sorry I am.”

  “For what?”

  “His injuries.”

  “What injuries?”

  “The ones he’s going to sustain, trying to run away. Again. But then, those hard stone pavements can be very slippery at this time of year. Accidents will happen. I mean, can happen...”

  “Wait,” Elvis said. “What do you mean? I didn’t run anywhere. I didn’t get any injuries.”

  “Not yet, maybe,” I said. “But the night’s young. There’s plenty of time.”

  Melissa called her contact at the Met to come and collect Elvis as soon as he’d finished babbling. She showed no emotion when she walked with them to the door of the cafe, but when she turned to make her way back to our table I could see she was feeling the same way as me.

  “We didn’t make any progress at all, did we?” she said, as she slid onto the bench opposite me.

  “None to speak of,” I said. “But realistically, what were expecting?”

  “What I wanted was an ID. What we got was a vague description of two guys dressed as firefighters. He didn’t even see the one hit the door to the vault. He just assumed it. Great insight.”

  “Did you believe what he said?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “I did too, and that’s the second time I’d heard it. What’s interesting, is he does make it sound like it all happened by accident. The way the one guy was yelling at the other, like he hadn’t known to stay away from the door.”

  “True. But there are any number of explanations for that. We should have known better than to rely on a witness.”

  “I was hoping he’d have remembered something, like a mark on the fireman’s suit or a scratch on his helmet. Some useful detail we could have narrowed the field with.”

  “That would have been excellent. No such luck, though.”

  “We shouldn’t complain. At least he didn’t break into song.”

  “You’re right. But it was a good idea, bringing him here. I bet we wouldn’t have got a word out of him in the back of that police car. I wonder though, whether you’d have been so hospitable, if you’d known about the other thing.”

  “What thing?” I said.

  “Remember your boots?” she said. “The original ones, that were stolen?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Elvis had them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I mean, are you sure they’re mine?”

  “I’m certain. I know the make, size, colour, everything, remember.”

  “So, seriously? Elvis is the boot thief?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Those poor boots. They didn’t deserve that. He wasn’t wearing them, was he?”

  “No.”

  “Thank goodness. Now, just tell me one more thing. Please. He didn’t have them with him in his sex hovel, did he?”

  “No. It’s OK. They were in another room, nearby.”

  “How do you know it was Elvis who took them, then?”

  “He confessed. The police say they might never have found the stash, otherwise.”

  “He had a whole stash? What else was there?”

  “It was amazing, apparently. Piled high, like his own private bank vault. He had all kinds of things. I’ve seen a preliminary list. Stuff he’d taken from the hospital. Pieces of furniture. Blankets. Crockery. Doctors’ coats. Nurses’ uniforms. Medical things, like crutches. Bandages. Medicines. Office supplies. Boxes of paper. Old files. A photocopier. Pieces of wood. Rocks. A lawnmower. Things that had fallen off cars, like door mirrors and radio aerials. Pretty much anything you can think of.”

  “Including my boots.”

  “Yes. They were there, near the door. Under a hazmat suit he must have somehow pinched from the emergency crew.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Melissa kicked off the next morning’s work by dividing the stack of papers she was holding into three and sharing them out
between Jones, herself, and me.

  “Do you know how Sir Arthur Conan Doyle defined genius?” she said, as she straightened the piles.

  Jones shook his head.

  “I have no idea,” I said, although I was pretty sure it had nothing to do with paperwork.

  “He thought it was an infinite capacity for taking pains,” Melissa said. “And boys, I know this isn’t going to be fun. These interview summaries aren’t light reading. The Met aren’t famed for the tightness of their prose style, and from the ones I’ve seen the fire brigade aren’t very original with their answers. I’m sorry about that. But if it helps to look at it this way, what I need from you today is a big dose of genius.”

  “No problem,” Jones said. “Painstaking is my middle name. One thing I’m not sure about, though - what do you expect us to find that’s been missed before?”

  “Anything that doesn’t ring true,” Melissa said. “Any contradictions. Discrepancies. Anything we know can’t be true. We’re running out of options, and if our fresh eyes could just spot something - one single clue - to help us find who caused the original damage to that door, it would be huge.”

  The whole exercise smacked of desperation to me, whether it was aimed at finding a gem hidden in the reports, or preventing us from pursuing more fruitful avenues elsewhere. At best it seemed like a fool’s errand, but I told myself that wasn’t my problem. I concentrated on what my control had been at such pains to spell out. My job was to look for signs of guilt. But to focus on the people inside the room. Not outside, in the fire brigade or the police. Specially bearing in mind Melissa’s unexplained absence, yesterday.

  Jones scooped up his allocation of papers and took them to the far corner of the long rectangle of desks that filled the meeting room Melissa had requisitioned for us. He sat down and started working his way straight through from top to bottom, keeping up a steady pace. He certainly looked conscientious, but I noticed he couldn’t keep his gaze from wandering to the window in between pages.

  Melissa took a seat at the centre of one of the rectangle’s long sides and spread her copies out in front of her, face down, like a child shuffling cards. She picked them up to read, one at a time, apparently at random. Then she started to form a series of piles, some separate, some overlapping. I was curious to understand her method - unless she was just trying to create the appearance of a system - but before I could reach a conclusion her phone rang. She talked for just over two minutes, standing up half way through and nodding as she listened. Then she hung up and turned to look at us, her head tipped to one side and a half curious, half suspicious expression on her face.