SLADE GETS THE UBER TO drive slowly past the old police station, still not sure if he’s going to go anywhere near it yet.
He studies the building as they cruise past, four stories of ugly brick and concrete occupying a whole block of prime London real estate. The Dubai-based property development company that bought it has already submitted plans to knock it down and turn it into thirty-two superdeluxe flats. In the meantime it lies empty.
Except it clearly isn’t.
Flags and other sheets of mismatched material hang across many of the windows like makeshift curtains, and as they swing round the block for a second pass a young, petite woman in what looks like a nurse’s uniform slips out of the big black front door and bundles herself into a parka as she hurries away down the street.
“Pull up ahead of that girl,” Slade tells the driver, and the car stops a few feet in front of her.
Slade slides out of the back seat, a friendly smile fixed on his face, and steps up to the young woman. “’Scuse me, miss, did I just see you come out of that building over there?” The woman looks up at him suspiciously. “It’s just I was given this address to drop off a package for a guy called Adam.” He holds up his bag as if it contains something. “I thought I must have it wrong because that building looks empty, but then I saw you coming out.”
“Oh.” She relaxes a little. “Yeah, no, it’s not empty. There’s about forty of us living in there. We’re property guardians. We live there and pay cheap rent and stop squatters from moving in.”
“Oh, right. Sounds like a good deal.”
“It’s all right, apart from the shared toilets, they’re pretty rank.”
“I bet. So do you know Adam?”
“Er, yeah, I mean I’ve spoken to him a few times. I don’t know if he’s in or not, but you could go and ask. There’s still people in there if you want to knock. Sorry, I gotta go, I’m going to be late for my shift at the hospital.”
“Yeah, of course, no worries. Thanks.”
She hurries away and Slade turns around and heads back to the old police station.
Health workers at one of the capital’s major hospitals having to effectively squat in a disused police station because they can’t afford London rents. If he worked for a different newspaper and gave a shit, there was probably a story in that.
He reaches the big double doors and the ghost of a memory surfaces of standing in front of them when he was about seven or eight. The building seems smaller now, shabby and pathetic. He reads the sign fixed to the door:
VANGUARD
WARNING!
GUARDIANS
IN OCCUPATION
He looks for a doorbell, finds none, then hammers on the door with his fist.
Guardians! Made it sound like the place was protected by a squad of cape-wearing superheroes. He hears footsteps approaching, then the door opens and a man with a pale, narrow face peers out.
“I’m looking for Adam,” Slade says.
The man continues to stare blankly back at him.
“Are you Adam?”
“No,” the man says. “Adam’s not in.”
“Right. Well, can I come in and leave him a message?”
The man stares at him for a long beat as if he hasn’t heard the question, then says, “Only licensed people are supposed to come into the building. It’s one of the rules.”
“Yes, of course.” Slade glances back at the sign on the door. “I actually work for Vanguard. That’s why I need to talk to Adam. It’s about his license. If you could just let me in and point me in the direction of his room, I can leave him a message.”
“Don’t you have his phone number?”
“Yes, we . . . er . . . the number we have on record doesn’t work. That’s what I need to talk to him about. He’s not in trouble, I just need to sort out his paperwork.”
“Right.” The man nods and seems to consider this carefully before finally pushing the door a little wider. “OK then.”
“Thanks.” Slade musters a smile and steps quickly through the door before Slowpoke can change his mind.