Tuesday Falling (21 page)

At least on the surface. Loss is not so naive as to think people as cold-hearted and vicious as those in control of the East London estates were just going to shut up shop and walk away, all because of a girl called Tuesday.

No. They would be out searching for her, and anyone who knew her.

And now Five. The art terrorist. He was also fairly confident that she would know Tam, who had not only mentioned the cinema, but also the derelict hospital. That she was somehow connected to Tuesday, Loss had absolutely no doubt. When he looked her up on the NCDB he found that she had been arrested several times as a student, involved in various different protests: Gaza; corporate control; Militant Pride; arrested but never charged.

The arrests hadn’t shed any light on who she was. As part of her art degree, she had apparently wiped her personal history from the college records, creating the ‘Five’ persona as an expression of ‘art as real in an art-ificial world’. Her reasoning, according to her teachers, was she had wanted to show that modern life was an imitation, or construct, of a perceived reality that was the past. That modern-day living was, in effect, nothing more than an art project imitating a reality that in all probability never existed. She had written an essay on how easy it was, both legally and illegally, to not only change one’s identity, but to make it virtually impossible for anyone to discover the prime identity. As her final dissertation piece she had handed in a valid British passport containing her new name.

‘So, do you get her? Five?’ Loss asks as they turn the corner into Cardington Street, following the decrepit, hulking building round to its entrance. The day has become so dark that the cars have all switched on their lights and the automatic street lighting has activated.

Stone shrugs. ‘Not really. I like her, though. Don’t trust her, but like her. I like the fact that she just sees us as people. Not the enemy, not the ally. She’s just in her own world doing her own thing.’

‘Except, she’s not, is she?’ Loss protests. ‘She’s not just some experimental artist; I don’t know, Stick, or Banksy, or someone messing about with what we think. Putting creative things into the public space.’

‘Isn’t she? I thought that’s exactly what she said she was doing’, Stone pauses, then adds, ‘the dangerous thing is that, maybe she thinks that’s what Tuesday is doing too.’

They walk up the stone steps leading into the hospital entrance, and are unsurprised to find that there is a brand-new security door with a camera intercom. Loss presses the button, and waits. Stencilled onto the door in black and white ink is a stylized representation of the planets in their orbit around the sun. There is something wrong with the picture, but Loss can’t put his finger on what it is. He’s just about to ask Stone when there is a buzzing and the door swings open.

‘Jesus.’

Inside is exactly as one would expect the inside of a derelict building to be. Exposed wires everywhere, and the high odour of rat urine. Broken glass and pieces of ceramic tiles on the floor, and because the windows have been boarded up there is very little light. By the door, is a small table with a Nitecore flashlight, which Stone picks up. She turns it on.

‘Bloody hell. You could light up the moon with this.’

The beam is as bright as a helicopter searchlight. It picks up every detail in the lobby and throws it into nightmare, horror-film relief. To the left of the curving staircase, treads missing like broken teeth, is a door with ‘5’ sprayed on it in red. They pick their way over. From all around comes the sound of whispering and muttering, as if the place is filled with spirits. Stone notices tiny speakers placed around the lobby.

‘OK,’ says Loss. ‘This is officially very creepy.’

Under the large number on the door is a neatly stencilled notice: ‘please knock’. They knock.

‘Who is it?’ Five’s voice rings out from behind the door.

‘Oh she’s funny. I’ll give her that,’ mutters Stone. The police officers identify themselves, there is the sound of bolts being thrown, and then the door is opened. In front of them stands Five. She is wearing a black hijab, a long-sleeved canvas grandfather shirt with ‘Conceived in Heaven: Designed in Nature: Made in Britain’ written across it, and her ripped 501s. On her feet are a pair of brown military fur-lined boots. On her face is the ever-present grin.

‘Why hello, Detectives! How nice of you to drop by.’

‘Yes, er, Five.’ DI Loss hasn’t managed to acclimatize himself to the single-name format yet. ‘What with you asking us, and everything, it’s amazing. What happened with the Cinema, anyway?’ Five moves to the side to allow them in, shutting the door behind them. The whispering is immediately cut off. Loss and Stone find themselves in a space very similar to Five’s last room: vinyl records strewn across the floor; on the turntable, David Byrne’s ‘My Life in the Bush of Ghosts’ is playing quietly; an old poster of the band Tubeway Army advertising the single ‘Me: I disconnect from you!’ is on the wall, together with a frame containing strips of text in English, Hebrew, and Farsi, woven together to form a pattern.

‘The problem with abandoned buildings, detectives, is that you occasionally have to abandon them.’ Five waves her hand toward a sofa futon covered with books and sketchpads. Even from the door, Loss can make out the picture of the three monkeys in their traditional poses, each wearing a tee shirt with a symbol of a major religion on it. Loss is not going anywhere near it. Loss walks up to the picture on the wall, hoping it is safer.

‘What is this?’ he enquires.

‘The Serenity Prayer in three languages, woven together to make a point. Yours for 1200 quid.’ Loss looks at it for a moment. The way the strips cross over and under each other making a new design, almost a new language when viewed as a whole, for some reason creates an emotional response in him. He makes a mental note to look up the Serenity Prayer when he has a moment. He turns and faces the artist, who is grinning at him.

‘I’m sure I can arrest you, just for living here.’

‘Actually you can’t. I am officially a Building Angel.’ Five pulls out a laminated card from a pocket on her sleeve and holds it out to him between her slender fingers, waggling it back and forth. He nods at Stone, who walks over, takes the card, and examines it.

‘Looks legit, sir.’

‘Good. Now, can you tell me what a “Building Angel” is?’ Loss feels somewhat stupid as the two women look at him, obviously amazed that he hasn’t heard of Building Angels. Then Stone tells him, ‘Building Angels are people employed by equity firms, banks, people like that. The people who either own the buildings, or manage them. Surely you’ve heard of them?’ Loss shakes his head.

‘Well, to stop squatters, or tramps, or gangs or whatever, they employ a kind of security guard, called an angel. They set them up with a refurbished bit of the building, and let them live there for free, and in return, they kind of keep an eye on the property. Ring if anyone breaks in, that sort of thing. Really, are you sure you don’t know about this? I mean it’s not as obscure as the second post.’

‘What’s the second post?’ asks Five.

‘Don’t.’ Loss glares at Stone. ‘Don’t even go there.’ He turns to Five. ‘Fine. Whatever. You can live here. You can do your art experiments, mess about with our heads. I don’t care. I just want to find Tuesday. Stop what’s happening out there.’ He jerks his finger at the wall, indicating the city beyond the room. ‘Maybe find some answers. Why are we here, Five? Again. I’m fairly certain, no matter what you say, that you know who Tuesday is. What is it you want to say to us?’

‘Nothing really, detectives, It’s just that you said if I knew anything, then I should get in touch with you.’

‘So what is it? What do you know?’

Five turns on an award-winning, full-toothed smile, and fires up a cigarette. She sucks the smoke deep into her lungs, then blows it out in a long straight line.

‘How about where she lives?’

In the train window Lily-Rose’s face is half reflected back at her, and half not. It is an exact representation of how she feels.

Her mother is sitting beside her pretending to read a magazine, but she is not fooling anyone. Her hands are holding the copy so tight it is a wonder she hasn’t ripped it in two. Lily-Rose can’t help her. Not at the moment. It is all she can do just to not go to curl up under the seat and never come out.

Outside, London slips away like a dream, the train slicing through it at ever-changing heights, changing its perspective in clicks and clacks. Gradually the mobile phones start ringing. From all around her the fear starts to ramp up, as news begins to filter in.

‘What do you mean she’s shut down the tube network?’ DS Stone has just come off the phone to the Commander in charge of the Tuesday case. She and DI Loss are back at the British Museum, heading towards the tunnel, which Five has told them leads to Tuesday’s crib. Of course it does.

‘Well, somehow she’s hacked into the London Transport system and given instructions that no trains are to stop at Leicester Square, Piccadilly, Covent Garden, Goodge Street, or Tottenham Court Road.’

Loss can picture the chaos she has caused. Many London streets are already in semi-riot mode. Having the underground shut down will push everything into full-scale meltdown.

‘Brilliant. Two square miles of completely buggered London, then.’

Stone isn’t finished. ‘Also, only the emergency lights are running, and all the announcement boards are saying one word: “Tuesday”.’

‘Very arty. Sounds as though it’s something Five would do. When we get back out of here, I want her arrested!’

‘On what charge? All she’s said is that when she lived on the street she used to come down to the tunnels for shelter.’

‘Bollocks. I don’t care what we arrest her for. How about inappropriate use of Daleks? Or crimes against modern art?’

‘I think that’s the nature of modern art, sir,’ says Stone, smiling gently.

The skeleton lift arrives, and the two detectives step gingerly onto it.

‘The Commander said to me that if we find anything down here we’re to report it directly to him. He also told me to keep a quiet eye on you.’ She raises an eyebrow, and Loss is almost certain she has been practising the movement in front of a mirror.

‘Nice to have our esteemed boss’s complete faith. Have you found out any more information about my daughter yet?’

Stone digs out her phone again, and punches up her emails. ‘Well, as you discovered, while Suzanne was working at the hospital, she and a few other doctors also helped out at the St Martin’s Refuge. A place for street kids; children who ran away from home and lived rough. It’s closed down now.’ The image of the burnt-out Refuge they have just left slips behind his eyes, and he blinks it away.

‘I didn’t even know Suzanne was working at the Refuge. We’d had an argument a year or so before, and we’d hardly been in contact,’ he murmurs.

Stone continues, more gently, ‘The reason your daughter got involved, it seems, was because she was getting a lot of referrals to the hospital from the Refuge.’

‘Why was that?’ The lift stops with a shudder, and they step out with relief.

‘It was one of the few places equipped to deal with pregnant teenagers. In fact it had quite a reputation for it. A lot of these children were in the shadow of the drug gangs, and were used for prostitution. Either openly, or groomed into it.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘When you’re low and unprotected, anything looks up, I guess. Anyhow, that seems to have been the set-up. The girls would come into the refuge, and then be sent to the hospital to be checked out.’ She pauses, then seems to gird herself to go on. ‘Now here’s a weird thing. Your daughter was murdered three years ago. She was coming back from a night at the refuge, and was brutally attacked and killed. Nothing was taken, and it was assumed to be a random killing, as you know. But it seems that same night something strange happened at the refuge. Some girl’s baby was killed, and its body was stolen. I couldn’t find any more information on it, but I’ve got some people digging. Do you know what date your daughter was killed?’

They arrive at the door to the closed-down tube station. The tech team had strung festoon lighting from the entrance down to the door leading to the connecting tunnel between the museum and the old tube station, but no further. The area is so vast that the force is liaising with the Army. As there is a major incident ongoing in central London, DI Loss guesses they won’t be here any time soon. He turns and looks hard at his DS.

‘What a fucking thing to ask, Stone. Of course I know the bloody date. The twenty-third of June. I wish I didn’t. I wish there was no date to know. Why?’

Stone returns his stare. She looks at him, clear-eyed and unapologetic. ‘She died on the twenty-third, just after midnight, but was attacked on the twenty-second, which was the day that the baby at the refuge was taken.’

Loss is blank, not comprehending what she is telling him. ‘So what?’

‘It was a Tuesday.’

The expression on Constantine’s face is unreadable as the blinged-up Hummer pulls up at the kerb outside Number One, Hyde Park, and the side door slides open.

‘What the fuck are we now, The gangsta A-Team?’ He climbs in and the door slides shut as the van sets off towards the West End. Inside the vehicle is more guns than you’d find in a rap video and the crew have taken enough amphetamines between them to waken a corpse. Constantine sighs inwardly. They have a radio set up in the back, tuned to the central police channel, and he is not at all surprised to hear from it that the thin blue line is to open to allow them through.

He had explained to his employer how he’d extrapolated all he could find out about Tuesday, and her possible connections to Slater’s business operations, from the recent events. He’d examined all the information he could access, and used several sophisticated algorithms to establish whether there were any correlations.

‘Her name isn’t Tuesday, or at least I don’t think it is. The first time we see this name in connection to your boys is three years ago, written on the dude who rubbered the policeman’s daughter. It was written on his palm with a marker pen. Like it was a memo or something.’