I pack all my stuff back into my rucksack, shoulder it, and walk in. I’m in an old sump room in a part of the basement that no one’s been in for ever, so there’s no danger of the door being discovered any time soon. The building is just offices and stuff now so there’s no real security. I open the door into the main basement a peek just because I’m feeling all spy-y, but really, there’s no danger. Once you’re inside a building the chances of being caught are tiny. So many cleaner slaves with not even language in common that, if I carry a duster, I won’t even raise an eyebrow. And anyway, there’s always some sad bugger working a midnight shift, and there are a million different companies here, so I could be anybody.
Although, because of my black nails, bleached hair, and fuck-off eyes I might not quite fit in as an office girl.
I walk up the south staircase, the motion lights clicking on and off as I pass, until I reach the roof.
Slater studies the man sat opposite him by the fountain. He has slicked-back black hair, a face so white it looks as if blood never reaches it, and long fingers with one painted nail. He is wearing a matt black suit with a collarless black cotton shirt, and smoking a distinctive Sobranie cigarette, with its black stem and gold filter. The man is grinning at him. Slater can see the tip of a prison tattoo on the man’s neck, partially hidden by the shirt. Slater suspects it is a white rose; symbol for assassin within the Russian prison regime. Although the gardens are open to the public, Slater’s crew keeps them at a discreet distance.
‘You know,’ says Constantine, blowing out a plume of white smoke, ‘there are so few places to smoke in this city, yet so many Russians live here. It’s really quite a conundrum.’ He trails his finger idly in the fountain, his eyes never leaving Slater. Slater is put in mind of a snake. He wonders if he is supposed to be scared. He isn’t. He knows all about snakes. He’d skinned enough in his time.
‘Will you find her, Constantine?’ Slater says flatly. He does not like the theatricality of the man in front of him; he finds it showy, and on some level feels this man is taking the piss out of him.
‘Oh yes, I’ll find her.’ Constantine answers promptly, flicking his cigarette into the water, the hiss of it extinguishing hidden by the sound of the fountain. ‘The money you’re paying me, I’d find God himself and stop his clock if you wanted me to.’ And then his eyes catch something behind Slater.
‘In fact it will be a pleasure,’ he adds, with a wide smile spreading across his face.
The Kensington Roof Gardens are split into three main themes. Spanish, with vine walkways, and fountains, and Moorish arches. Tudor, with hidden doorways that lead nowhere, hanging roses, and little knotted loveseats, and English woodland, complete with ponds, and four pink flamingos. There are even 60-year-old trees up here, their shallow roots spread under only 10 centimetres of soil. Did I mention the flamingos?
This place is madder than I am.
It’s four o’clock in the morning when I step out onto the garden and I can see dawn cracking on the horizon. I stop and stare across London for a moment. There’s a slight breeze, and the scents from all the different plants make me feel slightly nauseous. It’s overloading me.
I turn it off and get on with why I’m here.
After my little soiree at the kebab shop I knew things would start to hot up, to move on. Once I’d decoded Bullet Eyes’ mobile, which took about no time whatso-fucking-ever, I started to monitor where all the little drones were going.
Obviously the main man needed to contract an assassin to stop me screwing up his business completely.
An assassin. Please. All ice cold, showboat arrogance, and mafia muggledom.
Or maybe they’d get somebody good. Whatever.
All the worker bees started checking this place out yesterday; exits, safety zones, how to protect their leader if someone tried anything.
They talk on their phones and think they are talking to a mate in the same room. They use their little street codes and have absolutely no idea someone could be listening in and understanding everything they are saying. Someone should just give them a bottle and put them to bed, they’re so infantile.
The meeting is going to happen tomorrow. Here.
Shame I’m not a different person, really, otherwise I would blow up the entire roof garden when they have their sit-down. It would look fabulous. A great big bomb taking out the building, debris raining down on the rich like it’s the end of the world.
But I couldn’t do it. It wouldn’t be kind. The flamingos even have names.
I take off my rucksack, open it up, and get to work.
‘Oh my.’ Constantine is staring past Slater, who is suddenly surrounded by his crew, and being hustled out of his seat. Slater shakes them off to see what Constantine is staring at. Projected onto the wall behind him is the video footage from the tube, showing Tuesday slicing her way through his workforce. Dub music seeps out from hidden speakers, the cranked-up reverb making tiny disturbances in the pool. Slater can sense movement all around him as others also turn and stare, members of the public unsure what is happening. The sequence projected onto the wall rolls on. Tuesday walking down the carriage, two wicked blades in her hands. Always in motion. No doubt in her movements. No waste in her actions. Eventually she gets to the end of the carriage, and drops the card on one of the bodies and stares up at the CCTV camera, her face bright and shining.
‘Very impressive,’ says Constantine, lighting another cigarette and flicking the match into the pool. He turns to Slater and grins at him. ‘She’s fun, isn’t she? For that little display I might even give you a discount.’
Slater is not listening. Slater is so fucked off he is ready to bite the head off the girl known as Tuesday. Not only is she fucking up his business, but she is dissing him in front of the staff. He takes out his phone and punches in a number.
‘Caleb? Meet me in my office … What?’ He stares at the phone, a muscle corded in his neck, a pressure worm of barely restrained violence. ‘Fucking yesterday. That’s when!’
Constantine takes a leisurely drag from his cigarette and continues to admire the girl projected on the wall. Through the smoke veiling his face Slater can see he is still smiling.
Even with the hijab, DI Loss can tell the young woman has fuck-you hair. In fact, she has fuck-you everything: from the DIY tee shirt with its feminist symbol – a circle with a small cross beneath it, the inside filled with the crescent moon of Islam – to The Cure poster on the wall advertising the seventies’ single,
Killing an Arab
; from the scuffed army boots and ripped 501 jeans to the Miss Undastood soundtrack ticking in the background; from the reinforced metal door with the hard-core deadlock bolt to the gorilla tape sealing all the cracks in the windows.
DI Loss and DS Stone are in an abandoned cinema off the main road in Hackney. Or at least Loss thought it was abandoned. Now he is not so sure.
‘Nice picture.’ Stone is looking at a framed poster on the wall depicting a picture of the Koran, stylized to resemble the cover of
The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy
, underneath which is written:
‘Don’t panic: Everything’s Islamic.’
The young woman in front of them lights a cigarette: a real cigarette, and Loss feels a momentary pang of jealousy.
‘Ta,’ she says, sucking down the smoke. ‘Yours for 1200 quid.’
The woman is about twenty-five, and Loss is having trouble with cultural references. She has a strong Northern accent and, with the hijab, appears to be Muslim, but everything else about her screams rebel. There are several laptops in the room, all switched on, and there are books, papers, an old record player with vinyl discs scattered around it like fall-out, and clothes strewn everywhere. Although the place smells clean it is about as messy as it possibly can be and remain just the right side of an artwork. It reminds Loss of Suzanne’s room, just before she left home.
‘Have a seat, if you can find one,’ says the girl, who tells them her name is Five. Loss perches precariously on the edge of a sofa filled with contemporary art magazines and sketch books. In one of the sketch-books he can see a half-finished drawing of a mosque, a line of turban-wearing Daleks leaving it. Loss knows he’s in trouble. He looks enviously at Stone, who is leaning against a wall and appears to be enjoying herself. He clears his throat.
‘So, er, Miss …?’ He raises his eyebrows, and the girl raises hers back at him. Stone makes a noise that Loss thinks is definitely verging on a snigger.
‘Just “Five”, mate,’ the girl says. ‘And to put you out of your misery, I’ve got an older sister called “Four”, and a younger brother called “Six”.’ Five sits cross-legged on the floor, completely at home in her own space. Loss can’t tell if he’s being laughed at or tested.
‘Last name?’ he asks.
‘Persian, and way too complicated to bother with,’ Five replies merrily. ‘Unless you’re arresting me, and then you’ll need a translator, cos I’ll only speak Farsi.’ Loss definitely feels he is being laughed at. Mainly by his DS. He decides to get straight to the point. He waves a hand at one of the laptop screens.
‘Your blog, yes?’ On the screen is a picture of the Crossquays Estate, obviously taken in the last few days, with, graffitied across the walkway in massive letters:
‘Tuesday’s Dreaming’
.
Five looks at the screen.
‘Mine, yeah. Have you read it?’
‘Yes we’ve read it. Really, that’s why we’re here.’
‘No it’s not.’ Five stubs out her cigarette in a saucer by her knee, grinning up at him. The hijab has some writing on it, but Loss doesn’t recognize the language it is written in.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I
said
, Inspector, “No it’s not”. Now I know I’m from Leeds and everything so you might find it hard to understand me, but surely my accent isn’t that broad.’ Five still hasn’t stopped grinning at him. The hip hop coming from the speakers finishes, and is replaced with some early trance. Portishead, maybe. Or Tricky. Loss can’t tell. His daughter would know. He sighs and gathers himself together.
‘No. No it’s not that broad. Where were you educated, Five?’
‘Ah! That’s more like it. Tell me, Inspector, is this official or unofficial?’
‘As he’s not technically on any case at the moment’, Stone pipes up ‘I’d say he’s probably officially unofficial.’
‘Excellent answer,’ says Five, winking at Loss. ‘Well in that case, I studied art at St Martin’s College.’
‘And since you graduated?’
‘This and the other. Freelance work, mainly. Posters for charities and that. And my blog, of course.’ Five lights another cigarette. She is not wearing lipstick, but her eyes are heavily made up.
‘And before St Martin’s?
Five appears to be the happiest person in the world. Her grin gets even wider. DI Loss cannot believe how many teeth she has.
‘University of life, mate.’
‘According to your blog, you spent some time living on the street.’
‘You know how it is, Inspector Loss. Trouble at home. Anonymity of the big city is an attractive alternative. Nothing new. Then I pulled myself together and went back to school. Good, eh?’ In one fluid movement Five gets up from the floor and walks over to a flashing screen. She taps a few buttons on the keyboard and the screen goes blank. ‘Sorry,’ she says. Loss is beginning to wonder if there is something wrong with the muscles in her face, she is smiling too much. She doesn’t explain why she is sorry. Neither does she explain why she shuts down her computer.
‘Also, according to your blog, you’ve met the girl who calls herself Tuesday.’ Five comes back and sits on the floor again, facing Loss.
‘Poetic licence. I’m an artist, yeah? I interpret the world around me.’
‘So are you saying that in fact you haven’t met her.’
‘Bang on.’ There is a pause while everyone thinks about this, and then Stone says, ‘And so what about the picture?’ Five turns and looks at her. Loss thinks her smile fades just a little bit, but he can’t be sure.
‘What picture?’
‘Well, you see, we asked our technical people to look at your blog, and they told us that it had another IP code embedded in it. A kind of door, so to speak. They said it led to a single internet page, which had a picture on it.’
‘Oh, that picture,’ says Five. ‘I thought you meant the one of me eating a bacon sandwich.’
‘No, we mean the one where you appear to be sitting on the steps of some building with your arm around the girl who’s brought London to the brink of civil war,’ he continues .
Five looks at them for a while, and then says, ‘Photoshop.’
‘Photoshop,’ says Loss, deadpan.
‘Or Pixer. I can’t remember which,’ says Five.
‘Pixer,’ says Stone, disbelief buttering her voice.
‘Pretty certain it was Photoshop, though.’
‘So the picture’s not real. Is that what you’re saying?’ Five spreads her hands.
‘What’s real? Is a painting real? A country?’ She touches the corner of her hijab and gives it a little shake. ‘A culture? I’m an artist, detectives. I try to create questions with lies. Not answers with truths.’
Loss hasn’t got a clue what she is talking about. It must be obvious in his face because Five volunteers, ‘Look, say I did know her, yeah, which I didn’t by the way, It would have been when I lived on the street, and nobody had names and addresses, you get me? Even the me would have been a different me, if you see what I mean. What passes for knowledge, or history, only works if you all agree. It’s an agenda, not a fact.’ He feels he has wandered into a gender politics seminar by mistake. Any minute now he’s afraid that Five is going to start waggling her fingers, creating air speech-marks. He leans forward, pinning the girl with his eyes. ‘Dead people all over London, Five. That isn’t an art project.’ Five looks at him. She is not smiling now. Now she is staring at him as if he is an intrusion.
The same way that Lily-Rose had stared at him.
‘
Everything
is an art project, Detective. Otherwise we’re just animals.’