itself in his subconscious. Was this Hell? He tried to dismiss the thought, and kept walking.
He turned the corner to Cromwell House and immediately knew which one was number five. The patch of earth at the front was decorated with strewn junk food cartons, discarded automotive parts and other forms of human waste. Shrivelled, stunted trees sprouted from patches of yellow grass, dying, starved of light and nutrients, wilting in the shadows of the concrete monoliths. The windows of the flat were boarded up and the door seemed to be made from reinforced battleship steel. Shit, he thought. Crack house.
Larkin checked the street. There was no way into the flat and he doubted the occupants would be in a hurry to answer his questions. That was why the report hadnât made such a fuss about the lead. With this kind of environment it was more of a dead end. Needing time and space to think of his next move, he had noticed a cafe opposite. It sat in a one-storey row of mostly boarded-up, graffitied shops. The ones that were still open had grilled and barred fronts, the cafe no exception. It looked more like a testing ground for various strains of germ warfare, but Larkin had no alternative. He called at the newsagents, picked up a couple of tabloids for camouflage and entered.
He had seen them come and go; sidling up to the door, doing a coded knock, slipping folded money in, getting a poly-wrapped bundle in return. Some were even allowed inside. Occasionally a big flash car would pull up, Beamer or Merc, stereo bleeping and thumping fit to crack the tarmac, and a couple of young black guys dressed like wannabe gangsta rappers would get out, go inside then back in the car and away. Sometimes a young kid, who didnât look to be in double figures, would ride up on a pedal bike, shove something through the slit in the door and zoom off again. Once, a young mixed-race guy, well-built with muscle, wearing a leather bomber, trainers, oversized jeans, with dirty blonde cropped hair, emerged from the flat. Despite the February cold, he wore nothing underneath the bomber, which was unzipped as far as his flaunted six-pack. His posture said he knew how to handle himself. Standing four-square and squat at his side on a leash and harness was a Staffordshire bull terrier, muscle-packed back-up. He looked up and down the street, his attitude expecting either armed police or paparazzi to come running, and when none did, strode off, leading with his dick.
Larkin had read his way through the papers twice, eaten a full English that was surprisingly good, and drunk three cups of coffee that, while not winning any awards, were comfortably the right side of poisonous. He wanted to keep watching, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the sole worker in the cafe, a small, aged West Indian, eyeing him suspiciously from his perch behind the counter. He seemed to be the only person working there, but Larkin kept catching glimpses of shadowy figures in the darkened kitchen area which was cordoned off from the front of the cafe by an old beaded curtain. Larkin didnât know what they were doing in there, but he doubted they were dishwashers. The last thing he wanted was to outstay his welcome in an area like this. The night was begining to cut in, so Larkin decided to pay his bill and leave. Heâd plan his next move later.
Larkin moved to the counter, took out some cash from his pocket. The West Indian was dressed in a dirty shirt covered by an apron so multi-coloured with unidentifiable stains it resembled a mid-period Jackson Pollock. He never took his eyes from Larkin all the time he rang up the money in the cash register. Leaning across to give Larkin his change, he spoke.
âHavenât seen you in here before,â he drawled in a rich Jamaican accent.
âNo,â said Larkin.
âYouâre not from round here.â The manâs left hand played under the counter. Larkin speculated what was there: a gun, baseball
He turned the corner to Cromwell House and immediately knew which one was number five. The patch of earth at the front was decorated with strewn junk food cartons, discarded automotive parts and other forms of human waste. Shrivelled, stunted trees sprouted from patches of yellow grass, dying, starved of light and nutrients, wilting in the shadows of the concrete monoliths. The windows of the flat were boarded up and the door seemed to be made from reinforced battleship steel. Shit, he thought. Crack house.
Larkin checked the street. There was no way into the flat and he doubted the occupants would be in a hurry to answer his questions. That was why the report hadnât made such a fuss about the lead. With this kind of environment it was more of a dead end. Needing time and space to think of his next move, he had noticed a cafe opposite. It sat in a one-storey row of mostly boarded-up, graffitied shops. The ones that were still open had grilled and barred fronts, the cafe no exception. It looked more like a testing ground for various strains of germ warfare, but Larkin had no alternative. He called at the newsagents, picked up a couple of tabloids for camouflage and entered.
He had seen them come and go; sidling up to the door, doing a coded knock, slipping folded money in, getting a poly-wrapped bundle in return. Some were even allowed inside. Occasionally a big flash car would pull up, Beamer or Merc, stereo bleeping and thumping fit to crack the tarmac, and a couple of young black guys dressed like wannabe gangsta rappers would get out, go inside then back in the car and away. Sometimes a young kid, who didnât look to be in double figures, would ride up on a pedal bike, shove something through the slit in the door and zoom off again. Once, a young mixed-race guy, well-built with muscle, wearing a leather bomber, trainers, oversized jeans, with dirty blonde cropped hair, emerged from the flat. Despite the February cold, he wore nothing underneath the bomber, which was unzipped as far as his flaunted six-pack. His posture said he knew how to handle himself. Standing four-square and squat at his side on a leash and harness was a Staffordshire bull terrier, muscle-packed back-up. He looked up and down the street, his attitude expecting either armed police or paparazzi to come running, and when none did, strode off, leading with his dick.
Larkin had read his way through the papers twice, eaten a full English that was surprisingly good, and drunk three cups of coffee that, while not winning any awards, were comfortably the right side of poisonous. He wanted to keep watching, but out of the corner of his eye he could see the sole worker in the cafe, a small, aged West Indian, eyeing him suspiciously from his perch behind the counter. He seemed to be the only person working there, but Larkin kept catching glimpses of shadowy figures in the darkened kitchen area which was cordoned off from the front of the cafe by an old beaded curtain. Larkin didnât know what they were doing in there, but he doubted they were dishwashers. The last thing he wanted was to outstay his welcome in an area like this. The night was begining to cut in, so Larkin decided to pay his bill and leave. Heâd plan his next move later.
Larkin moved to the counter, took out some cash from his pocket. The West Indian was dressed in a dirty shirt covered by an apron so multi-coloured with unidentifiable stains it resembled a mid-period Jackson Pollock. He never took his eyes from Larkin all the time he rang up the money in the cash register. Leaning across to give Larkin his change, he spoke.
âHavenât seen you in here before,â he drawled in a rich Jamaican accent.
âNo,â said Larkin.
âYouâre not from round here.â The manâs left hand played under the counter. Larkin speculated what was there: a gun, baseball
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