Read Online Tuesday Falling by S Williams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: S Williams
Tags: thriller
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to move Brompton Cemetery.
It’s all good for me, though. Each night, when the exhibition is shut, all the pieces are stored in the basement of Earl’s Court.
Really, it’s very safe down there: security guards on the doors and CCTV all around the curving corridors of the massive building. Absolutely no one would be able to break in.
Absolute fucking doddle to break
up
, though. I shadow my way to Hammersmith, which is one of the busiest stations going, and make my way into the part of the station closed for construction. It’s simple. Everyone is so busy no one notices the little Goth girl. I’ve even put on a hoodie so I tick all the boxes.
Once I’m through the construction site, I slip into the old tunnels that take me under the Exhibition Centre proper, then into the power conduits that let me go right up under the basement. All the plans for the building are available online, and all the tunnel schematics I lifted from the TFL Inter-site. The National Grid stuff is a bit harder to get hold of after the London bombings, but, unbelievably, the civil engineering surveys for where the tunnels are going to be, and all the tunnels that are there already, are easy to access. It’s amazing there’s any London left. I guess the whole system is so disorganized that most terrorists just can’t be arsed to wade through it all.
Once I’m in the Earl’s Court sub-station it’s easy to access the room where the artefacts are stored. I’d looked at the online catalogue and knew exactly what I wanted. I’d been practising with a sport crossbow and a dart gun I’d taken from a department store, but I’m sure this is going to be much more fun. As for the flare pistol, well what can you say?
Every girl should have one.
33
The Sparrow Estate is in meltdown. Following the phone calls in Brydges Place, DI Loss and DS Stone were picked up by an unmarked police car that was fitted with a live feed from the bomb-disposal vehicle at the scene.
‘The sodding bomb squad! It’s one teenage girl, not the Taliban!’ Loss’s thought processes are in tatters. The information from the police lab has thrown him into a vortex of pain. Memory pain of his daughter alive and happy, older and sad, suddenly never getting any older. Never getting anything at all. And memories of his daughter bring back memories of his wife.
Thin. Thinner. Thinnest.
The kebab shop is in ruins. All the windows have been blown out, and the stuttering neon sign is hanging by one wire and spitting sparks onto the pavement. Flames can be seen dancing in the back of the shop.
‘Well, at least the doner meat will be cooked for a change,’ Stone says. Loss isn’t really looking at the chaos on the monitor in front of him; he is looking at a scene from three years ago, when he is holding his dead daughter’s hand, unable to see her face properly through the blood and the tears.
‘Bloody hell.’
His attention is pulled back to the present by Stone’s tight voice. He rubs his eyes and looks at the monitor. It takes him a moment to understand what he is looking at. It takes him another to believe it.
‘Get onto the Super. We’re going to need the riot squad down there right
now
.’
34
Lily-Rose is on the swing in the Sparrow Estate courtyard, swaying gently backwards and forwards, when the detectives arrive. The swing has been used so little that there are weeds under her feet. She is one of fifty-seven people quietly occupying the area bordered by the four concrete housing blocks. There are candles lit everywhere, and a great sense of stillness. The lights from smartphones screens are giving the scene a surreal quality, like a medieval science fiction film. All around them the estate is electric. The kind of electric that builds and builds, before arcing to ground. There is screaming, and slamming of doors, and the silent sound of fear filling up every gap in between.
DI Loss picks his way through the crowd in the courtyard and sits down on the
It’s all good for me, though. Each night, when the exhibition is shut, all the pieces are stored in the basement of Earl’s Court.
Really, it’s very safe down there: security guards on the doors and CCTV all around the curving corridors of the massive building. Absolutely no one would be able to break in.
Absolute fucking doddle to break
up
, though. I shadow my way to Hammersmith, which is one of the busiest stations going, and make my way into the part of the station closed for construction. It’s simple. Everyone is so busy no one notices the little Goth girl. I’ve even put on a hoodie so I tick all the boxes.
Once I’m through the construction site, I slip into the old tunnels that take me under the Exhibition Centre proper, then into the power conduits that let me go right up under the basement. All the plans for the building are available online, and all the tunnel schematics I lifted from the TFL Inter-site. The National Grid stuff is a bit harder to get hold of after the London bombings, but, unbelievably, the civil engineering surveys for where the tunnels are going to be, and all the tunnels that are there already, are easy to access. It’s amazing there’s any London left. I guess the whole system is so disorganized that most terrorists just can’t be arsed to wade through it all.
Once I’m in the Earl’s Court sub-station it’s easy to access the room where the artefacts are stored. I’d looked at the online catalogue and knew exactly what I wanted. I’d been practising with a sport crossbow and a dart gun I’d taken from a department store, but I’m sure this is going to be much more fun. As for the flare pistol, well what can you say?
Every girl should have one.
33
The Sparrow Estate is in meltdown. Following the phone calls in Brydges Place, DI Loss and DS Stone were picked up by an unmarked police car that was fitted with a live feed from the bomb-disposal vehicle at the scene.
‘The sodding bomb squad! It’s one teenage girl, not the Taliban!’ Loss’s thought processes are in tatters. The information from the police lab has thrown him into a vortex of pain. Memory pain of his daughter alive and happy, older and sad, suddenly never getting any older. Never getting anything at all. And memories of his daughter bring back memories of his wife.
Thin. Thinner. Thinnest.
The kebab shop is in ruins. All the windows have been blown out, and the stuttering neon sign is hanging by one wire and spitting sparks onto the pavement. Flames can be seen dancing in the back of the shop.
‘Well, at least the doner meat will be cooked for a change,’ Stone says. Loss isn’t really looking at the chaos on the monitor in front of him; he is looking at a scene from three years ago, when he is holding his dead daughter’s hand, unable to see her face properly through the blood and the tears.
‘Bloody hell.’
His attention is pulled back to the present by Stone’s tight voice. He rubs his eyes and looks at the monitor. It takes him a moment to understand what he is looking at. It takes him another to believe it.
‘Get onto the Super. We’re going to need the riot squad down there right
now
.’
34
Lily-Rose is on the swing in the Sparrow Estate courtyard, swaying gently backwards and forwards, when the detectives arrive. The swing has been used so little that there are weeds under her feet. She is one of fifty-seven people quietly occupying the area bordered by the four concrete housing blocks. There are candles lit everywhere, and a great sense of stillness. The lights from smartphones screens are giving the scene a surreal quality, like a medieval science fiction film. All around them the estate is electric. The kind of electric that builds and builds, before arcing to ground. There is screaming, and slamming of doors, and the silent sound of fear filling up every gap in between.
DI Loss picks his way through the crowd in the courtyard and sits down on the
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