police crime-scene tape were hanging from the frame, flapping limply in the breeze. They’d been cut. Not with a knife, though. At least, not a sharp one. From the ragged edges I’d say more likely with the edge of a key. I peered through the dusty glass, and right away I saw someone. Some legs, anyway. They were on the far side of the inner door. Lying down. Nothing was visible above the knee. The rest of the body was hidden by the internalwall. It must have been stretched out, toward the abandoned laundry room. All I could see was the lower half of a pair of stained, ripped jeans and two shabby shoes. One was brown. One was black. It wasn’t a promising outfit. And not a place you’d usually choose to sleep, either.
The door opened as soon as I applied the slightest pressure. The lock had been broken. Forced, from the outside. The same had happened to the inner door. I eased that one open more carefully and squeezed through the gap, keeping well clear of the body. Or actually, bodies. A second one was sprawled out farther down the corridor, out of sight of the entrance. Both were male. I’d guess the first was in his thirties. The other was maybe twenty years older. The state they were in made it hard to be sure. Their clothes were ruined and filthy and torn. Their skin was blotchy and riddled with scabs. Their hair was unwashed, uncut, and plastered to their scalps. They were unshaven. And definitely unwashed.
The only question was whether they were still alive.
The younger one’s problem was with the side of his head. Something had made a real mess of it, just above his right cheekbone. The skin wasn’t broken, though, so I was thinking maybe an elbow had been used. Delivered hard enough to knock him out cold, if not more. I checked his breathing. It was shallow, but definitely present. The other guy hadn’t been so lucky. He’d taken a blow to the throat. It looked like his airway had been crushed. I guessed he’d suffocated, but I wasn’t about to put my fingers down his windpipe to make sure. There was no point. His days of receiving help were clearly over.
The floor was much dirtier than yesterday. I could make out at least nine sets of dried, muddy footprints leading from the door to the stairs. They’d be from the emergency crews I’d seen swarming all over the grass, I guessed. Two more sets—darker in color, with less well defined sole patterns—were smeared over the top of these.They led toward the window. Which had been broken. From the inside, out, judging by the pattern of glass fragments. That suggested two people escaping, presumably from whoever had set upon the other homeless guys. I thought that was all there was to find, but when I looked really carefully I picked up one final set, on top of all the others, also heading for the stairs. Someone had gone up there. Recently.
And there was no sign of them having come back down.
Logic told me that whoever had arrived there before me could have gone anywhere in the building. But I didn’t believe in coincidences. And I didn’t have much time. It would be stretching credulity to be found there with another dead body. So I gambled. I headed straight for the apartment that McIntyre had been hiding in. I still had the mirror I’d borrowed from Rollins, so I used it to check the entrance. The door had been replaced with a new one. It was made of rough, unfinished wood. Industrial ply. I could see Chinese emblems stamped into the surface with red dye. A flimsy plastic handle had been attached above a roughly cut, not quite circular keyhole. Off cuts of the wood someone had used to build the temporary frame had been left lying on the floor near the bannister rail. And next to the timber was a wad of discarded crime-scene tape.
I took out the replacement cell phone Fothergill had pressed on me and checked that it was set to vibrate as well as make a sound. I scanned the list of ringtones and selected the one that looked the most annoying. Made
The door opened as soon as I applied the slightest pressure. The lock had been broken. Forced, from the outside. The same had happened to the inner door. I eased that one open more carefully and squeezed through the gap, keeping well clear of the body. Or actually, bodies. A second one was sprawled out farther down the corridor, out of sight of the entrance. Both were male. I’d guess the first was in his thirties. The other was maybe twenty years older. The state they were in made it hard to be sure. Their clothes were ruined and filthy and torn. Their skin was blotchy and riddled with scabs. Their hair was unwashed, uncut, and plastered to their scalps. They were unshaven. And definitely unwashed.
The only question was whether they were still alive.
The younger one’s problem was with the side of his head. Something had made a real mess of it, just above his right cheekbone. The skin wasn’t broken, though, so I was thinking maybe an elbow had been used. Delivered hard enough to knock him out cold, if not more. I checked his breathing. It was shallow, but definitely present. The other guy hadn’t been so lucky. He’d taken a blow to the throat. It looked like his airway had been crushed. I guessed he’d suffocated, but I wasn’t about to put my fingers down his windpipe to make sure. There was no point. His days of receiving help were clearly over.
The floor was much dirtier than yesterday. I could make out at least nine sets of dried, muddy footprints leading from the door to the stairs. They’d be from the emergency crews I’d seen swarming all over the grass, I guessed. Two more sets—darker in color, with less well defined sole patterns—were smeared over the top of these.They led toward the window. Which had been broken. From the inside, out, judging by the pattern of glass fragments. That suggested two people escaping, presumably from whoever had set upon the other homeless guys. I thought that was all there was to find, but when I looked really carefully I picked up one final set, on top of all the others, also heading for the stairs. Someone had gone up there. Recently.
And there was no sign of them having come back down.
Logic told me that whoever had arrived there before me could have gone anywhere in the building. But I didn’t believe in coincidences. And I didn’t have much time. It would be stretching credulity to be found there with another dead body. So I gambled. I headed straight for the apartment that McIntyre had been hiding in. I still had the mirror I’d borrowed from Rollins, so I used it to check the entrance. The door had been replaced with a new one. It was made of rough, unfinished wood. Industrial ply. I could see Chinese emblems stamped into the surface with red dye. A flimsy plastic handle had been attached above a roughly cut, not quite circular keyhole. Off cuts of the wood someone had used to build the temporary frame had been left lying on the floor near the bannister rail. And next to the timber was a wad of discarded crime-scene tape.
I took out the replacement cell phone Fothergill had pressed on me and checked that it was set to vibrate as well as make a sound. I scanned the list of ringtones and selected the one that looked the most annoying. Made
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