Deadly Intent by Lynda La Plante

Belsize Park, ignoring Anna.
    By the time Anna had collected her Mini from the station car park and driven home, it was half-past nine. She had not eaten since the sandwich before the briefing, so dropped into a late-night shop on the way. Anna parked in her allocated space, then took the lift up to the top floor. Stepping out, she could hardly believe her eyes.
    Stacked up outside her front door were boxes and boxes of deliveries. Attached to the top one was a note, saying they had been unable to gain access, but that the security manager had agreed the items could be left. She wanted to weep.
    It was another half hour before she had dragged everything in from the hallway into the flat. She was too tired to begin unpacking and just wanted a hot shower and something to eat. She heated some soup and filled the fresh rolls she had bought with ham and cheese, then carried them into the bedroom. It would have been lovely to flop down on her bed and switch on the TV before crashing out, but the large plasma screen sat ominously in the drawing room, waiting to be connected. Wherever she looked were boxes; she knew there was no way she could start the marathon task that evening. She half wished she was back at her old flat.
    It got worse: there was no hot water. No matter how much she fiddled and twisted the dial, it remained icy cold. By this time, it was almost eleven-fifteen, too late to call the duty security manager.
    Anna had just closed her eyes when a foghorn bellowed. She shot up. It felt as if, her bed was being shaken by an earthquake. She opened the balcony window doors. It was terrifying; the whole apartment seemed to be moving. Anna's mouth gaped open: the massive bridge was closing, which was why the apartment was shuddering. As soon as both sides joined, and it reverted back to its usual position, the apartment became still.
    "Jesus Christ," she muttered, wondering if anyone else had felt it. Surely they must have, but she saw no one else on their balconies. As she returned to her bedroom, she knocked against one of the boxes, stubbing her toe. Back in bed, she bashed her pillow, but sleep didn't come easily; she was waiting for another foghorn blast.
It was her alarm that eventually woke her. She felt like hell. She was going to give it to the security manager.
Anna was still in a foul mood when she tried to get out of the garage. It didn't respond to her remote. She was swearing and cursing, when it opened of its own accord; she drove out and pressed for it to close, but it remained open. Even after she had had her breakfast in her cubicle of an office, she was still uptight. She typed up her report of the meeting with Julia Brandon and then put in a call to the security manager. His answer phone was on.
Gordon was not a morning person; he yawned so many times, it felt contagious. Cunningham had underlined that they were to question every single tenant on the estate, as one or another could have details or descriptions of the drug dealers. He didn't understand why they had such an early start. Anna pointed out that many of the residents went to work; the few they had not yet spoken to would still be at home, she hoped. It was to be another tedious round of knocking on doors and questioning the neighbors. Also, as instructed, they were to interview Mrs. Webster's son.
Gordon remained silent while Anna did all the inquiries. She was so irritated by his constant yawning that she snapped, "Did you have a late night or something? You seem half asleep."
"No, I crashed out early, but I shouldn't have eaten so much breakfast. It always makes me sleepy—well, that's what my mother says."
"Well, in future, do you think you could just listen to what your mother says and maybe have a bowl of cereal?"
"I hate cereal, all that chewing. I like scrambled eggs and grilled tomatoes."
"Gordon, I don't want to know."
"Sorry."
They went from floor to floor on the estate. This was usually a uniform job but, considering the seriousness