invites.’
‘Whatever works. I’d hate to have to handcuff you to a Heras fence.’
‘Not going to happen.’ Dan laughed into Noah’s neck. ‘But I get where they’re coming from, don’t you? Hardly anyone nowadays has a sense of place. You must see it all the time, kids on the streets with nowhere to go, not giving a shit about private property or Keep Out signs. They’ve got nowhere, so they make everywhere theirs. Go where they please, do what they want.’
‘Your urban explorer friends aren’t kids and they aren’t poor. Most are in work, and well-off. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t have the cash to finance the exploring.’
‘How’d we get on to this?’ Dan kissed him again. ‘Oh, right. Battersea Power Station, phallic chimneys, you being hot …’
Someone was buzzing to be let into the building.
Sol stuck his head around the sitting room door. ‘Supper’s here.’
‘I’ll get it.’ Dan peeled away. ‘You can warm the plates.’ He headed out of the flat.
Sol shook his head at Noah, tonguing the inside of his cheek. ‘You’re not even out of your suit, man. What’d your boss say?’
‘She’d say, “Is your kid brother still hanging out at your place, Noah, and did he nick your Oyster card?”’
‘Needed stuff from home.’ Sol fished in the pockets of his jeans. ‘Cheers, yeah?’
‘Next time, ask for cash.’ Noah pocketed the card. ‘I need this.’
‘Chill.’ Sol went in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Beer?’
Dan came back with carrier bags smelling of fried rice. ‘Let’s eat.’
They were decanting the food on to plates when Noah’s phone buzzed. ‘Boss?’
‘May Beswick.’ Marnie stripped the words back to a knife edge. ‘We’ve found her.’
Dead.
Noah could hear it in her voice.
May was dead.
He put down the foil dish of rice, turning away from the table. ‘Where?’
‘Battersea Power Station. How quickly can you get here?’
12
London leaned in through long windows to look at what was done here. Its shadows stained the floors and walls, and the glass gravel in glazed pots where fat cacti sat. The same shadows stained the girl’s feet and legs, lying in the gutter of her stomach like dirty water.
Noah stood in the penthouse flat with the power station’s famous chimneys at his back, seeing a dead daughter and sister. A murdered girl.
London looked indifferently on May Beswick. Wiped out her face, pressed her hands to her sides, made it hard to read the black scratch of words across her body. She looked very little, lying on the bed. She was sixteen years old. Naked except for a pair of white cotton knickers and the writing. Her body was covered in writing. Black ink, from the broad nib of a marker pen.
Ugly. Slut. Dog. Bitch. The same words, over and over. Up her legs and down her arms. Across her stomach and chest. Higher, right up to her sternum. Bitch. Slut. Dog.
In the open palms of her hands. Whore .
The words shouted, filling the room, throbbing in Noah’s skull as if someone had turned up the volume in here. Everything shouted. The colours, the smell, her stillness. The way she lay on the bed with her pale-blonde hair brushed neat on the pillow.
Round cheeks and a wide forehead, but she was no longer the girl in the photograph who’d haunted his sleep for the last twelve weeks. He could hear brush strokes in her hair, the slow settling of the blood at the backs of her legs. He clenched his hands and his jaw, focusing on the crime.
The words were neater on the left side of her body. If she was right-handed, she could have written them herself. It was hard to look at her, but he had to look. That was his job, the only excuse he had for being here, staring at a dead teenage girl. The picture broke up and became just so much static. He heard rather than saw it, a high-pitched scrabble adding to the noise in his head.
‘We need Forensics. Fran Lennox …’ Marnie was speaking into her phone. Her mouth marked a line on her
‘Whatever works. I’d hate to have to handcuff you to a Heras fence.’
‘Not going to happen.’ Dan laughed into Noah’s neck. ‘But I get where they’re coming from, don’t you? Hardly anyone nowadays has a sense of place. You must see it all the time, kids on the streets with nowhere to go, not giving a shit about private property or Keep Out signs. They’ve got nowhere, so they make everywhere theirs. Go where they please, do what they want.’
‘Your urban explorer friends aren’t kids and they aren’t poor. Most are in work, and well-off. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t have the cash to finance the exploring.’
‘How’d we get on to this?’ Dan kissed him again. ‘Oh, right. Battersea Power Station, phallic chimneys, you being hot …’
Someone was buzzing to be let into the building.
Sol stuck his head around the sitting room door. ‘Supper’s here.’
‘I’ll get it.’ Dan peeled away. ‘You can warm the plates.’ He headed out of the flat.
Sol shook his head at Noah, tonguing the inside of his cheek. ‘You’re not even out of your suit, man. What’d your boss say?’
‘She’d say, “Is your kid brother still hanging out at your place, Noah, and did he nick your Oyster card?”’
‘Needed stuff from home.’ Sol fished in the pockets of his jeans. ‘Cheers, yeah?’
‘Next time, ask for cash.’ Noah pocketed the card. ‘I need this.’
‘Chill.’ Sol went in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Beer?’
Dan came back with carrier bags smelling of fried rice. ‘Let’s eat.’
They were decanting the food on to plates when Noah’s phone buzzed. ‘Boss?’
‘May Beswick.’ Marnie stripped the words back to a knife edge. ‘We’ve found her.’
Dead.
Noah could hear it in her voice.
May was dead.
He put down the foil dish of rice, turning away from the table. ‘Where?’
‘Battersea Power Station. How quickly can you get here?’
12
London leaned in through long windows to look at what was done here. Its shadows stained the floors and walls, and the glass gravel in glazed pots where fat cacti sat. The same shadows stained the girl’s feet and legs, lying in the gutter of her stomach like dirty water.
Noah stood in the penthouse flat with the power station’s famous chimneys at his back, seeing a dead daughter and sister. A murdered girl.
London looked indifferently on May Beswick. Wiped out her face, pressed her hands to her sides, made it hard to read the black scratch of words across her body. She looked very little, lying on the bed. She was sixteen years old. Naked except for a pair of white cotton knickers and the writing. Her body was covered in writing. Black ink, from the broad nib of a marker pen.
Ugly. Slut. Dog. Bitch. The same words, over and over. Up her legs and down her arms. Across her stomach and chest. Higher, right up to her sternum. Bitch. Slut. Dog.
In the open palms of her hands. Whore .
The words shouted, filling the room, throbbing in Noah’s skull as if someone had turned up the volume in here. Everything shouted. The colours, the smell, her stillness. The way she lay on the bed with her pale-blonde hair brushed neat on the pillow.
Round cheeks and a wide forehead, but she was no longer the girl in the photograph who’d haunted his sleep for the last twelve weeks. He could hear brush strokes in her hair, the slow settling of the blood at the backs of her legs. He clenched his hands and his jaw, focusing on the crime.
The words were neater on the left side of her body. If she was right-handed, she could have written them herself. It was hard to look at her, but he had to look. That was his job, the only excuse he had for being here, staring at a dead teenage girl. The picture broke up and became just so much static. He heard rather than saw it, a high-pitched scrabble adding to the noise in his head.
‘We need Forensics. Fran Lennox …’ Marnie was speaking into her phone. Her mouth marked a line on her
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