Chapter 10

STAMPING GROUND

WHITECHAPEL, LONDON–9:22 PM, FEBRUARY 25, 2011

If it had been anyone other than Charlie Faultless walking down this street dressed in the Paul Smith navy blue suit, the Patrick Cox shoes, and the Yves Saint Laurent shirt and silk tie, they probably would have been mugged by now.

But Charlie Faultless wasn’t just anyone. He had an air of menace—something about him that made it clear you’d be messing with the wrong fella.

The way he walked made you eye him up but stay well back.

He might not be tough. He might just look it. But a mugger had to make a split-second decision. And a swagger, a strut, and scary eyes that were different colors made all the difference when it came to making a choice—to mug or not to mug.

With Charlie Faultless, the right decision was to walk away and choose another victim.

Good call. Because the swagger, the strut, and the scary eyes weren’t just show—he could back them up.

Faultless wasn’t big. Five-nine, a hundred-and-sixty-eight pounds. Lean and sharp-edged, as if he’d been cut from flint.

But he was pit-bull tough. You kick off with him, he’d not let go till one of you wasn’t moving much—and it wouldn’t be him.

You could put him in an expensive suit, give him the handbook on how to behave in company, forge him into one of the best investigative journalists in the country, but Charlie Faultless still had the cold blood of a street fighter racing through his veins, the black heart of a villain beating in his breast.

And this was the place that made him. The Barrowmore Estate, E1.

It had been fifteen years. Nothing had changed. Graffiti and burned-out cars. Overgrown grass on a piece of open ground. Rusted swings and a climbing frame. Youths loitering, transmitting menace. The smell of booze and fags on the air. The stench of charred metal from the cindered vehicles and petrol and oil fumes from their gutted engines. The reek of dog shit from the hybrid beasts used as weapons by drug dealers. Satellite dishes festooned the tower blocks. Laundry flapped on the balconies. Snatches of arguments wheeled on the breeze.

He stopped outside a row of shops. Most of them had been boarded up. But there was a Costcutter convenience store, its windows protected by metal grilles. A burglar alarms red light winked above the door. Bracketed to a tree outside, a CCTV camera gazed down at the pavement. Along from the Costcutter, a takeaway offered fish and chips, pizzas, and kebabs. Further down stood a greasy spoon called Rays that offered a full English for a fiver and chips with everything.

Faultless looked around. The patch of open ground lay on the opposite side of the road. Litter was strewn in the grass. The smell of dog shit filled the air. It was obviously the place to go when your frothing, mad-eyed weapon needed a crap. Smell or no smell, it didn’t put off the trio of louts swigging beer on the acre of ground. Faultless eyed them. He gripped the strap of his Gucci shoulder bag. The three wise men might just fancy it—and the MacBook tucked inside.

You ain’t having it, thought Faultless. No one’s having it.

Not even the Hodder & Stoughton publishing exec Faultless and his agent just had a curry with in Brick Lane. If they wanted the MacBook, or, more specifically, the proposal it contained, they’d have to better the offer made by Macmillan.

Faultless turned away from the three youths and looked up the road.

The sight made him shiver.

You’re jumpy tonight, Charlie boy, he told himself. But he knew why.

The four tower blocks glimmered against the dark sky. They were each fifteen-stories. Fifteen floors of misery. They were built in a quadrangle, the centerpiece of Barrowmore. They were named Swanson House, Monsell House, Bradford House, and Monro House. Surrounding the tower blocks were more flats. Rows and rows of two-story, red-brick, pre-fab housing, raved about in the 1960s, railed against in the 2010s. Streets of these bland, clinical boxes—hailed as modern and stylish when they replaced the slums—snaked around the estate. The buildings were now damp and filthy. They were as soiled as the tower blocks looming over them, as grim as the warehouses lining the estates forgotten corners.

Staring up at the towers, Faultless thought about the regeneration projects that had redeveloped much of the East End. Money poured in. The tower blocks were demolished and replaced by low-rise housing. Cool Britannia swooped—artists, musicians, actors. Galleries opened. A busy, lively nightlife evolved.

It was bright, it was buzzing—it was a grand illusion.

Because if you wave a magic wand, your sleight of hand will never hide every secret.

Some places you’ll miss. Some secrets will stay hidden. Secrets like the Barrowmore Estate.

Faultless cringed. He nearly turned his back on the tower blocks and walked away—headed up the road that led back to Brick Lane and Commercial Street, back to civilization and sanity.

But he steeled himself. He had to do this. He had to cleanse his soul. He needed closure. He needed answers. He needed to repent.

“Hello, chief,” said a voice behind him.

He wheeled, ready to kick off, fizzing with tension. This was his old stamping ground, but he’d not been back since 1996—not since he’d been forced out. But time wouldn’t have healed the wounds he’d opened. It had probably made them fester.

And there was a good chance the Graveney’s would still be out for his blood.

“Twitchy, ain’t you, chief,” said the voice, from behind a veil of smoke.