Chapter 10

Breaking and Entering in Hammersmith

June 31-July 1: Philadelphia, London

Back in Philadelphia, I stopped for a drink in the hotel bar and considered the encounter. Dworkin was as obsessed with Lovecraftian nonsense as Ashna had thought—so obsessed he had gone over the edge. Mental illness was no joke. I couldn’t blame him for something he couldn’t control. I felt bad for him but also relieved to have gotten away as easily as I did. Beyond his problem with reality, Dworkin also clearly had a big problem with Jewish people and probably most other people whose ancestors came from places other than northern Europe. That had been obvious. Equally obvious was the very high likelihood that Dworkin was not the thief who had stolen Wolhardt’s notes.

The more I considered it, the more I thought the person who broke into my place was probably the same person who broke into Wolhardt’s. A similar signature tied the incidents together—the rented van, the lack of worry about their actions being discovered. As a cat burglar, I had always prided myself on my deeds not being discovered for at least several hours but hopefully for days or even months after I had left the scene. I sometimes left carefully crafted fakes in place of the pieces I stole. I always picked locks if possible. I never set off an alarm if I could disable it. In contrast, the thief who had hit Wolhardt and me was clearly not trying to hide his tracks. He left obvious evidence of his break-ins. That didn’t rule him out but I could not imagine clumsy Dworkin as the intruder who had climbed to the top of my building and drilled the lock on my roof door to gain entrance. I also couldn’t imagine him willingly going to L.A. given his clearly stated dread and disgust. It had to be somebody else. Maybe the fourth person from the online forum. What was he after from my place though? And how did he even know I was involved?

I decided to get in touch with Ashna, fill her in, and see if she had anything new for me. I dialed her number using an encrypted voice calling app she had commanded me to download and waited for one ring, two. She picked up in the middle of the third.

“What the fuck, man? You know I hate talking on the phone.” Her voice sounded tinny with a hint of robotic echo chamber.

“Sorry. Easier to talk than text or email.”

“Fine. What’s up? Did you meet Dworkin?”

“You could say that. Although I think his idea of who he is and what is going on around him is not constrained by what we would call reality.”

“Got it. Bat shit.”

“Let’s keep it clinical and say psychosis. Not funny. He took a swing at me with a box cutter. He thought I was the swarthy emissary of some chthonic or maybe Semitic demons.”

“Box cutter?”

“Yes. Luckily he’s kind of clumsy. Anyway, I’m pretty sure he’s not the one. He definitely wants to solve the coded message in the variations if it even exists. He thinks it’s some kind of magical spell or incantation that will wake up an ancient, evil power. His spiel didn’t make a lot of sense.”

“Interesting. Okay. Well, glad you didn’t get cut, man. I like you despite the fact that you place actual phone calls to me sometimes. I have some news for you too. I figured out the identity of music nerd number three.”

“Cool. What’s the story?”

“Well, I wasn’t having any luck breaking into the email account. It’s one of those Gmail accounts where the address is really anonymous. Just random numbers and letters. No clues pointing to a real identity. And he has two factor authentication set up. But, I remembered what you said about the rental vans. So, I anonymously registered a domain that looks a lot like the real SFPD domain, set up an email server for it, and sent an email to the rental company saying a white van without plates but with their logo on it had been used as a getaway vehicle in a crime on such and such date and time. I told them I needed the identity of the person who rented the van. I also told them we had reason to believe the same person had rented a van in Los Angeles sometime in the last few weeks which had also been used for criminal activity. I made it look real official with a signature and a scary badge logo I stole from the SFPD site. Someone emailed me back half an hour later with the info. You see how eager these people are to bow down to authority? They should have demanded a warrant. Or at least called the SFPD to see if my made up name and badge number were real. Anyway, our man is named Nigel Bathmore. How’s that for a British name? You can’t get much better. It sounds so British he just has to be British and it turns out he is. They sent me a scan of his UK driver’s license. They also sent me the email address he used when he booked both vans and it’s the same as the one he used to register for the forum. I did some digging and verified his address. He lives in London. So, guess where you’re going next?”

“London,” I answered.

“Yes. London. I’ll send you his address. Maybe I can come join you in a couple of days. We’re almost done with the new release. I need to get back to it now. I have some shit code the intern wrote to debug. Six months at a coding boot camp and they think they’re software architects.”

“Thanks. Have fun. I’ll get in touch from London.”

“Don’t call me. Just text like a normal person.”

Ashna hung up. The bartender saw me put my phone down and wandered over. She placed her hands on the bar, bracing herself and leaning toward me, showing off the hard shoulders and biceps of someone who lifts beer kegs all day.

“Another for you?”

“Yes, and a menu please.”

She smiled and walked off in search of the menu. While I waited, I pulled out my phone and, for the third time in four days, began searching for plane tickets.

****

On the plane I read Cellini and slept fitfully. I had not yet come across much in Cellini’s autobiography that pointed to his supposed involvement with the occult. I did find one interesting passage where he related his alchemical skills:

“I also used to make a very fine sort of powder, in doing which I discovered secret processes, beyond any which have yet been found.”

I could only read a few pages before I had to give myself a break from Cellini. He was like one of those people who is always embroiled in something super intense and interesting and who carry the weight and chaos of their activities around, sharing a bit of it with whomever they meet. He was exhausting but also fascinating enough that I kept going back.

The flight from Philadelphia to Heathrow took seven and a half hours. I left at ten PM but arrived at nine thirty AM due to the time difference. My eyes felt gritty and my head felt hollow as I made my way through the airport.

Bathmore lived in an area of London called Hammersmith. I didn’t know London well. I had only been to the city once, many years before, and that was just passing through. My only connection with Hammersmith was the Clash song called White Man in Hammersmith Palais—not much to go on, just a song about a Reggae club. I had mapped it before I left though and since my strategy of getting a vacation rental nearby had worked well on the previous job, I tried it again. Unfortunately, I had not been able to find anything directly across the street like I had before but I was able to find a place several doors down—a garret apartment that the owners of the townhouse rented out for an exorbitant fee.

I took the connecting train from Heathrow to Hatton Cross station and then boarded the Piccadilly line for Hammersmith station. The Tube was not crowded. The other passengers were mostly bleary-eyed travelers like me who had flown into Heathrow and were now riding into the city. Some were business people, putting on game faces for their late morning meetings. Others looked like Londoners returning from trips. Not many tourists arriving in the middle of the week. The train rattled and clattered through its station stops until we reached Hammersmith. Dingy concrete and ceramic tile greeted me as I stepped off the train. The station had the utilitarian character of other places I had visited, all over the world, that many people per day passed through. I judged from the lack of fancy finishings that Hammersmith must not be a particularly touristy destination. Usually, underground stations near popular destinations or government buildings were the ones they saved the marble and polished brass and grand public art for. When I exited the station my suspicion was confirmed. Warm sun shone down on a hodgepodge of old, two and three story brick edifices intermixed with modern, steel and glass office blocks rising as high as twelve stories into the pale sky. The city air smelled of diesel exhaust and what I thought might be a fishy muddy whiff of the Thames only a few blocks away.

Following the map on my phone I walked a few blocks along major streets busy with busses and trucks, then turned down a calmer, narrower street that was lined on both sides with squat, late Victorian row houses. Flowers sprouted from window boxes and each house had a narrow, walled area in front where the garbage cans, bikes, and scooters were kept. Two small apartment buildings squatted amongst the row houses on the block, the first one I passed matched the address Ashna had given me. I scanned it as I walked by. It was fairly new construction but sought to match the houses on the street with a brick facade, paned windows, and chunky pediments. There seemed to be one main entrance. I glanced in as I passed and saw a small lobby with two rows of eight mailboxes. So, sixteen apartments in the building. I didn’t know which one was Bathmore’s. His unit number was fourteen so I guessed second floor. Probably even numbers on one side of a central hallway and odd on the other. No way to tell whether Bathmore’s faced the street or the rear of the building without getting inside.

I kept walking until I saw the address of the house I would be staying at. It was just like the others on the street. I rang the bell and a sharp nosed woman with a toddler on her hip answered after a short wait.

“Hello. I’m Justin. Checking in to the rental.”

“Oh! You’re a bit early but it’s okay. I’ll show you up.”

“Sorry, just got off the plane.”

“Don’t worry. The place is ready. I’ll just get the keys.” She turned and rummaged through the drawer of a table in the entry hall. The toddler peeked around her mother’s arm, giving me the eye. I smiled at her and she smiled back, her mouth sticky with strawberry jam from a piece of toast she was mammocking.

“Here they are. This way.” The woman edged past and led me around to a set of covered steps outside. The steps climbed up steeply to a small landing and a door near the top of the house where she paused, fumbling with the keys. Finding the right one at last, she fitted it into the lock. “I’m Murial, by the way,” she said, turning as she pushed the door open. “Come on in.”

The place looked fine—more or less what I expected from a garret apartment in a middle class borough of London. The pictures online had, as they always do, made it look larger. Mid-morning light filled the tiny living room, angling in through a window overlooking the street. A tiny kitchen with a window overlooking the neighbor’s roof was next, then an even smaller bedroom and bath. The furniture gave off a strong thrift shop vibe. The floor was hardwood painted a bizarre shade of green and mostly covered by rag rugs.

“Staying a few days?” Murial hovered in the doorway.

“Yes, just in town for business.”

“Great. Well, let us know if you need anything. We’re just downstairs.”

She left and I got myself situated. The view of Bathmore’s building was not terrible actually. It was up the street but I could see the main entrance. I had a feeling that just watching the building was not going to give me much data though. I needed to get inside and search Bathmore’s apartment and I needed to do it soon. I got a glass of water from the little stainless steel sink in the kitchen, pulled a chair up to the window, and sat, thinking and watching the entrance to the building. An elderly woman left with one of those rolling carts every elderly woman in Europe seems to have, going to visit the shops on the high street. A young man arrived, trudging like he was coming home from an overnight shift. I empathized with him. My overnight shift had involved a lot of sitting on an airplane but I was feeling the time change and lack of sleep.

A moment or maybe an hour later I started from a half-sleeping daze, unsure for several seconds where I was. Someone was walking away from the building entrance. I focused my eyes. A man, mid-height, dark hair, with a long, prognathic British face. It was Bathmore. Ashna had forwarded me his driver’s license photo. I roused myself, grabbed the key the landlady had left, and darted down the stairs. By the time I got down to the street, he was gone. I followed anyway, walking in the direction he had been headed. At the end of the block I reached Hammersmith road. I guessed he was headed to the tube station so I turned and walked that direction, scanning the street ahead. The sidewalks were crowded with office workers heading out for their lunch breaks. I couldn’t see Bathmore in the throng. Up ahead, a Starbucks occupied a corner retail space. I looked in the windows as I passed but saw no sign of him. I had lost him and I wasn’t sure following him would help much anyway. I gave up and turned right at the next intersection.

It was a quiet residential street I found myself on, parallel to and one road over from the one I was staying on. Halfway down the block there was an apartment complex with a driveway leading around to a lot in the back. I could see the rear of Bathmore’s building in the break between the apartment block and the next row house. A wall separated the properties but Bathmore’s building backed right up to it and, furthermore, a fire escape ran up the middle of the building with emergency exit doors at each floor. I hesitated for a moment. Careful planning had always been my method. But ever since Valerie’s missing painting had shifted my trajectory, setting me on my current course, I had found myself in more situations requiring immediate, unplanned action. I knew Bathmore was out and had just left. Assuming he hadn’t just run out for a coffee or groceries, I should have some time to search. Planning was good but I was never much of a waffler or hesitator either. The desire to just get it done defeated my more conservative impulse and I started up the driveway.

Vauxhalls, Volkswagens, and weird Ford models not available in the states were scattered around the lot. A row of trees grew along the wall. Casually, sensing more than intellectually knowing that no attention was currently turned my way, I moved behind one of the trees and quickly scaled the wall. It was brick and concrete block with easy hand holds. At the top I balanced for a moment then jumped the narrow gap, feet hitting a rung of the fire escape and hands wrapping around the edges. I clung to the ladder, feeling the reverberation of my landing humming in my palms. Once the vibration died out, I made my way up to the roof. It was unlikely that anyone in the other building would be looking out their window just at that moment. It was even more unlikely that they would call the police even if they did. People were alarmingly likely to give unusual situations the benefit of the doubt, resistant to get involved.

The top of Bathmore’s building was flat and had a four foot parapet around the perimeter. In the center was a four by six foot enclosed space with a door and a steeply raked roof. It had to be where a set of stairs terminated, giving access from inside the building. I tried the door but it was locked. I had a set of picks in my wallet. I kept them in a thin metal business card case behind a few of my cards. The TSA hadn’t found them yet and were not likely to in the future given their almost total failure rate at detecting hidden items in tests carried out by federal agents. They weren’t the best picks but would do in a pinch. I took them out and worked the lock for a few minutes. The sun was hot on my back and I started to sweat. Finally, the tumbler turned and I pushed the door open. As I had suspected, a set of stairs led down, switched back, and down again, all the way to the ground level. At the second floor landing I could see a door probably leading to the main hallway.

I climbed quietly down to the landing and listened for a moment. Hearing nothing, I pushed the door open and strode out into a corridor carpeted in green with a burgundy floral motif. Frosted glass sconces threw light up at the ceiling and the doors to the apartments were dark wood. Each door was recessed about two feet to create a little entryway. Two doors down I came to number fourteen. It had a bolt lock and a knob set lock. I tried the door and could tell by the give in it that only the knob was locked. I crouched, fitted my tension wrench into the lock, raked the pins, and almost immediately felt the cheap lock give way. I heard a door open down the hall just as I pulled Bathmore’s closed behind me. A man’s deep voice, muffled through the walls. Footsteps. Then the door to the stairwell swinging closed.

I locked both the knob and bolt locks then turned and surveyed the apartment. The place smelled stale, like unwashed clothing and linens and trash in need of emptying. I was in a short entry hall. A door led into a bathroom on my left. To the right a doorway opened into the kitchen. I poked my head in and saw dishes piled in the sink and take out containers on the counters. A bit farther and the hallway opened into a living room with windows facing out toward the apartment complex I had cut through from the next street over. There was one more door on the left which I imagined must lead to the bedroom. The best place to start looking would be wherever Bathmore kept his papers. Most people had a desk or a filing cabinet. If he had Wolhardt’s notes, the most obvious place would be with his other papers. I doubted I would be that lucky, but it was worth looking.

I walked forward and checked the living room. Sofa, coffee table, armchair, television, sand colored wall to wall carpet in need of vacuuming. No art on the walls. A green tiled breakfast bar and a pass through to the kitchen. Across the room a sliding door led out to a small balcony. I opened the door and looked down. Below was an identical balcony and then, farther down, the narrow walkway behind the building and the wall I had climbed. I turned, leaving the door open. If Bathmore returned I could be out the door and over the balcony railing before he had the bolt unlocked. Crossing the room again, I opened the bedroom door. The stale smell was stronger here. The blinds were drawn. I couldn’t see much so I flipped a switch on the wall. A ceiling light glowed then brightened, revealing an unmade bed with gray flannel sheets and, against the wall under the window, a desk with a decrepit looking PC, a file cabinet, and a pile of papers next to the keyboard. I crossed the room and started with the pile of papers. They were mostly bank statements and bills: utilities, credit cards, the usual. One bill caught my eye and I paused on it. It was for a leased office space. The cost was £248 per month and the bill was for the current month plus two months past due. A handwritten note was scrawled at the bottom of the page:

Mr. Bathmore, You must pay the past due amount at once. Otherwise, we will be forced to begin eviction proceedings.

I snapped a photo of the page and put it back in the pile. I tapped the keyboard on the computer and its hard drive whined as it spun up. The screen flickered, then showed a windows login screen. I didn’t want to spend time trying to hack into the computer so I clicked the sleep icon and the computer fell back into its idle state. Next I went through the file cabinet quickly. There was a file folder marked ‘employment’. Inside I found a signed contract for a position as personal assistant at a company called Greenbriar Industries dated from several years before. I took a picture of the document and returned it. I found a copy of Bathmore’s diploma for a bachelor’s degree with a dual major in music and mathematics from Oxford University. There were other folders full of paystubs, paid bills, personal letters, and old papers from college. I didn’t have time for a full analysis so I left them alone. Remembering something, though, I went back to the stack on top of the desk, dug through, and found Bathmore’s most recent credit card statements. He had several credit cards and all were nearly maxed out. Two of the statements showed activity up until two weeks before. As I had suspected, there was a group of charges from locations in and around Los Angeles at about the time Wolhardt’s notes were stolen. I put everything back and began searching for secret hiding places. I looked under the bed, in boxes on the top shelf of the closet, behind the hanging clothes, bottoms of dresser drawers. I searched every location I could think of but found nothing except dust bunnies and a two pence coin. Bathmore seemed to live a Spartan existence. He had very little in the way of personal possessions and what he did have was generic. Even the food in his refrigerator seemed to lack any personality. I had spent too long already in the apartment so I gave up, closed the balcony door, and slipped out the front. Bathmore’s place was a desultory crash pad. I had a feeling that the notes were not there. Call it intuition or a hunch—I had put my faith in intuition many times in the past and had not been disappointed. Something about the psychological portrait that could be deduced from Bathmore’s flat told me he wouldn’t do anything important there. The discovery that he had an office space was intriguing. If I was going to find the notes, I was fairly sure it would be in Bathmore’s office. I just needed to break in before he got evicted.