pulled out a Billie Holiday recording. From the kitchen he heard a dull thud as a can of beer hit the floor followed by a muffled curse. Wright slotted in the CD and pressed the 'play' button.
'Goodnight, John Boy,' shouted Reid as he ambled down the hall to the bedroom.
'Goodnight, Grandpa,' Wright replied unenthusiastically. He was starting to think that Superintendent Newton was right, that he had indeed been living with Reid for too long. Even the jokes were becoming stale. He pulled the cushions off the sofa and unfolded the bed where he'd slept for the past five months. It was small and uncomfortable, but cheaper than paying for a place of his own.
He went to the bathroom, cleaned and flossed his teeth, then took his quilt and pillow from the airing cupboard. As he returned to the sitting room, Billie Holiday was singing 'Lover Come Back To Me'. Wright threw the bedding on to the sofa and sat down to remove his shoes. He looked around the cramped room and a wave of hopelessness washed over him. His wife, his son, his house, his car; he'd lost everything. He'd been working for more than ten years and all he had to show for it were the two suitcases of clothes he'd taken from the house and the ageing Ford Fiesta he'd driven away in.
�>
STEPHEN LEATHER Wright went back over to the shelving unit and picked up a harmonica. He sat down on the edge of the sofabed and played along with the recording, the mournful notes echoing down the hallway.
The elevator wasn't working, and by the look of the rusting gate, it hadn't been used for several years. Jody Meacher took the stairs one at a time, resting for breath every couple of dozen steps. When he reached the third floor he took off his overcoat and draped it over one shoulder. By the time he was on the fifth floor, he had to mop his forehead with a Jarge white linen handkerchief. The man he was looking for lived on the ninth floor, but Meacher doubted that he was ever fazed by the long climb. Len Kruse was a fitness fanatic and probably raced up all nine floors at the double. %
Meacher transferred his black leather briefcase to his left hand, pulled out his gold pocket watch and flipped it open. It was five o'clock in the morning. Meacher had driven from Washington to New York. He hated driving but he didn't want to use an official car and there was a good chance he'd be recognised if he travelled by train or plane. The fewer people who knew he was in New York, the better. He leaned against the whitewashed wall and exhaled deeply. At his feet was a discarded used condom, glistening wetly like a trout that had just been pulled from a stream. Meacher grimaced and carried on climbing. He smelled stale urine and put his handkerchief over his mouth as he walked by a yellow stain on the wall.
There were no numbers to indicate the floors, but Meacher had been keeping count during his ascent. He pushed open a door and stepped into a corridor. The smell wasn't much better than in the stairwell. The corridor had a low ceiling with dim lights every fifty feet that did little to illuminate the drab walls and black-painted doors, every one of which appeared to have a minimum of three locks, and strips of metal along the jambs to prevent them being forced. Meacher walked slowly THE TUNNEL RATS 47 down the corridor, his heart still racing from the exertion of the climb.
He found Kruse's apartment at the end of the corridor, on the left. He stuffed his handkerchief into his trouser pocket and knocked gently on the door. Meacher waited. The paint was peeling off the ageing wood and a small glass lens stared blankly back at him. There were three locks in the door: a Yale and two high security locks. Meacher knocked again.
'It's open,' said a voice.
Meacher pushed the door. It squeaked open.
Kruse was sitting on a wooden chair in the corner of the room, his back ramrod straight and his hands resting on his knees. He was naked except for a pair of khaki boxer shorts, and his eyes were
'Goodnight, John Boy,' shouted Reid as he ambled down the hall to the bedroom.
'Goodnight, Grandpa,' Wright replied unenthusiastically. He was starting to think that Superintendent Newton was right, that he had indeed been living with Reid for too long. Even the jokes were becoming stale. He pulled the cushions off the sofa and unfolded the bed where he'd slept for the past five months. It was small and uncomfortable, but cheaper than paying for a place of his own.
He went to the bathroom, cleaned and flossed his teeth, then took his quilt and pillow from the airing cupboard. As he returned to the sitting room, Billie Holiday was singing 'Lover Come Back To Me'. Wright threw the bedding on to the sofa and sat down to remove his shoes. He looked around the cramped room and a wave of hopelessness washed over him. His wife, his son, his house, his car; he'd lost everything. He'd been working for more than ten years and all he had to show for it were the two suitcases of clothes he'd taken from the house and the ageing Ford Fiesta he'd driven away in.
�>
STEPHEN LEATHER Wright went back over to the shelving unit and picked up a harmonica. He sat down on the edge of the sofabed and played along with the recording, the mournful notes echoing down the hallway.
The elevator wasn't working, and by the look of the rusting gate, it hadn't been used for several years. Jody Meacher took the stairs one at a time, resting for breath every couple of dozen steps. When he reached the third floor he took off his overcoat and draped it over one shoulder. By the time he was on the fifth floor, he had to mop his forehead with a Jarge white linen handkerchief. The man he was looking for lived on the ninth floor, but Meacher doubted that he was ever fazed by the long climb. Len Kruse was a fitness fanatic and probably raced up all nine floors at the double. %
Meacher transferred his black leather briefcase to his left hand, pulled out his gold pocket watch and flipped it open. It was five o'clock in the morning. Meacher had driven from Washington to New York. He hated driving but he didn't want to use an official car and there was a good chance he'd be recognised if he travelled by train or plane. The fewer people who knew he was in New York, the better. He leaned against the whitewashed wall and exhaled deeply. At his feet was a discarded used condom, glistening wetly like a trout that had just been pulled from a stream. Meacher grimaced and carried on climbing. He smelled stale urine and put his handkerchief over his mouth as he walked by a yellow stain on the wall.
There were no numbers to indicate the floors, but Meacher had been keeping count during his ascent. He pushed open a door and stepped into a corridor. The smell wasn't much better than in the stairwell. The corridor had a low ceiling with dim lights every fifty feet that did little to illuminate the drab walls and black-painted doors, every one of which appeared to have a minimum of three locks, and strips of metal along the jambs to prevent them being forced. Meacher walked slowly THE TUNNEL RATS 47 down the corridor, his heart still racing from the exertion of the climb.
He found Kruse's apartment at the end of the corridor, on the left. He stuffed his handkerchief into his trouser pocket and knocked gently on the door. Meacher waited. The paint was peeling off the ageing wood and a small glass lens stared blankly back at him. There were three locks in the door: a Yale and two high security locks. Meacher knocked again.
'It's open,' said a voice.
Meacher pushed the door. It squeaked open.
Kruse was sitting on a wooden chair in the corner of the room, his back ramrod straight and his hands resting on his knees. He was naked except for a pair of khaki boxer shorts, and his eyes were
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