She invited me back to her room while she worked, but again I declined. Admin’s bad enough when it’s your own. She’d already shown herself to be too smart to give anything away in front of me, even if she was tainted. And the stakes were too high to waste time going through the motions, or trailing other people around like a nursemaid. Instead, I needed the chance to weigh up what I’d learned, see what was missing, and figure out what to do about it.
We agreed to meet at 6.00pm, assuming everything went smoothly, and take stock again then. It was just after 3.00pm, so that gave me almost three hours. I thought about staying in the garden, but the rain had grown heavier and there’s no fun in getting wet on your own. The coffee I’d had in the canteen was surprisingly reasonable so I thought about going there, but in the end I just made my way back to my room. I slipped off my new boots, then picked up the remote control and flopped down on the bed.
The TV came back on to the same channel I’d been watching yesterday, but somehow I couldn’t make myself concentrate on the show. My thoughts kept homing in on Melissa. I pictured her six rooms across from me, one floor below, phone pressed to her ear, taking care of business. Yesterday, I had no idea who she was. Today, it was down to me whether she kept her job or went to jail. I was starting to like her, and she certainly came across as honest. But in our business, I knew those things count for nothing.
Most of what Melissa had told me down in the basement made sense, but I still wondered what the inspection team was going to say in the morning. And if the inventory checked out, whether she’d be happy. I knew I wouldn’t be, if I was in her shoes. The fact that no caesium was missing wouldn’t prove there hadn’t been an attempt to steal some, however inept. So whatever she learned tomorrow - theft or no theft - Melissa would have some work to do. Her only way out was to prove that the armoured door had been damaged by a fireman, and that he’d done it by mistake.
I switched off the TV and made for the door. The basement was calling me back. Because it struck me that Melissa had focused on two factors - the human elements, and the technology. She had those well covered. But there was another angle to consider. Logistics. I didn’t know much about caesium, but clearly it was a volatile substance. You couldn’t just pick some up and walk away with it, even if you could get into the vault. Which meant you’d need special clothing, to handle it. Maybe something to transport the containers she’d mentioned, depending on their size. And you’d need an escape route. Getting inside the hospital under cover of the fire alarm was one thing, but getting out again with such volatile loot was another.
The next two hours were lost underground. I must have walked at least two miles without setting foot outside even once. It was stifling, and the whole time I couldn’t shake the thought that during the cold war, people actually believed they could live like that for years at a time. Every time I passed the junction of the four corridors I was tempted to jump in the lift, head up to ground level and grab a breath of fresh air. But I resisted. I stuck to the task at hand, and in the end I was glad I did. Because the hospital may have looked picturesque from the outside, but it was in the basement where it really became interesting.
The swimming pool was my first port of call, but I spent more time in the machine room that lay behind it. There were dozens of drums of chemicals stored there, bristling with toxicity warnings, which would have been heaven for anyone with a mind to cause trouble. I found three boiler rooms. Each had miles of inviting, vulnerable pipework, which would be a gift for anyone wanting to cause a diversion. There were four separate storage areas. Each one was large enough to hide a dozen men. Or all the supplies they’d need to lay siege to the whole complex. An office belonging to the hospital’s security firm was down there, too - tucked in between a standby generator room and a tool store - which didn’t recommend working for them. But the thing that sounded the most interesting of all, I didn’t even get to see. It was sealed away behind a rusty, steel door. I only found out about it from a maintenance guy who saw me trying to pry it open. He swore it was the entrance to a fully equipped World War II rifle range, and that he knew this because his father had been inside. The government had built it in 1940, he said, when they were more worried about improving the hospital workers’ ability to shoot invading Germans than their skill at patching up injured Londoners.
That maintenance worker wasn’t the only person I spoke to. I also talked to five of his colleagues. I found them in a huddle, sneaking crafty cigarettes in a room at the far end of the red corridor. It was full of ancient-looking ventilation equipment. The old machinery appeared basically redundant, with just enough life left in it to dissipate their smoke. I asked if they’d rigged the place back up specially for that purpose, and one of them admitted they had. Then the subject of the recent fire alarm came up. That wasn’t much of a surprise, given the cigarettes in their hands and the piles of flammable debris on the floor. The biggest talking point wasn’t whether the hospital had been in danger of burning down, though. It was the attention they’d attracted from the police, afterwards. All of them seemed pretty indignant about the implied stain on their characters, but one guy’s complaints were particularly strident. He was standing furthest from the door, so when the others made a move to leave it wasn’t too hard for me to head him off. I penned him back in the corner, and when the sound of footsteps had died away in the corridor outside, I asked him his name.
“Elvis Presley,” he said, without irony. “What’s it to you?”
“Just being friendly,” I said. “I thought maybe we could talk.”
“Haven’t got time,” he said, eyeing the narrow gap behind the largest machine. “I’ve got work to do.”
“It won’t take long,” I said, stepping to the side to show how easily I could block his escape route if he tried to worm his way out. “Give me a minute. I think I might be able to help you with something.”
“Help me? How.”
“Let me give you my card,” I said, reaching into my jacket pocket, then pulling a frustrated frown. “Oh, damn. They must all be upstairs, in my room. I’ll get one for you later, if you’re interested. In the meantime, let me tell you what I do. I’m a lawyer. And I specialise in police brutality cases.”
“You’re a lawyer? Good for you. Why would I care?”
“Because I saw how you reacted when your friends mentioned the police, just now. I know the signs. If the police are giving you a hard time, I can make them stop. And if they’ve crossed any lines, I can make them pay.”
“Why should the police be giving me a hard time? I haven’t done anything.”
“I’m not saying you have. But I’ve been cooped up in this place for a few days, now. I know about the fire alarm. I know some hospital property was damaged. And I know the police are looking for someone to pin it on.”
He didn’t reply.
“How many times have they questioned you?” I said.
He looked away from me.
“How many times?” I said.
“None,” he said.
“And you’d like it to stay that way?”
He nodded.
“Were you working that night?” I said.
“No,” he said.
“So where were you?”