No Kiss For The Devil

14

Pantile House in the flesh — or at least, it’s equivalent in concrete and glass — looked even less attractive than the photo images had suggested. Squatting in a hinterland of narrow streets a stone’s throw from Euston Station, it appeared faded and sad in the evening light, a stark contrast to the newer buildings springing up in the area. The tarmac around the outside of the building was liberally spread with litter and pitted with holes from years of low maintenance and heavy vehicle wear, and the louvred shutters at ground level, indicating a basement, were peeling and drab, in need of a good paint job.

Malcolm Swan turned out to be a lofty young man in a dark suit, striped shirt and heavy black brogues. He was waiting for them outside the entrance, clipboard and mobile in hand. The car park was nearly empty, and an air of silence hung over the building. There were a few lights left on, and the whine of a heavy-duty vacuum cleaner drifted out of an open window.

‘I gather you want to take a quick recce inside,’ he offered eagerly as they shook hands. When his eyes fell on Palmer, he almost stood to attention. ‘Mark suggested I, um… get you in, then leave you to it.’ He seemed unconcerned by this strange request so late in the day, and turned to survey the building. ‘Fourth floor, Mark said. That right?’

Palmer nodded. ‘That’s the one.’

‘Okey-dokey. In that case, I’ll do my clipboard bit with the super and get you upstairs. Then I’ll go take a phone call or two. If anyone asks, you’re out-of-towners checking out some possibilities.’ He smiled to take any possible offence out of the comment, adding, ‘Londoners do office hours.’ He turned towards the entrance. ‘Follow me.’

They entered a glass-walled reception foyer furnished with a reception desk, a clutch of chairs and a few pot plants in large tubs. A faint smell of stale polish hung in the atmosphere, and the strip lighting highlighted the need for a coat of paint and a layer of carpet tiles to rid the place of its utilitarian appearance.

Along one wall was a black wooden board listing the tenants in plastic lettering. The names gave no useful indication of their function, consisting mostly of acronyms followed by the universally bland UK or EUROPE. None of them meant anything to Riley or Palmer.

‘Small businesses, mostly,’ said Swan perceptively, eyeing the board. ‘Some holding companies, manufacturing and distribution admin offices, that sort of thing. Four is empty right across the floor. Now, where is that man?’ He cast around just as the lift door opened and a tall, thin individual stepped out carrying a tool box. He was wearing dark blue overalls over a blue shirt and black tie. ‘Ah, Mr Goricz. There you are.’

He made vague introductions all round and confirmed that the visitors wanted to see the fourth floor. Goricz nodded affably enough, but made no attempt to shake hands.

‘It’s not clean, you know?’ he told them, his Central European accent overlaid with traces of east London. ‘Nobody has been in there for weeks — including me.’ He seemed impatient to have the viewing over and done with, and moved crabwise towards the lift without waiting to see if they wanted to inspect any of the ground floor.

‘No problem, ‘ Swan assured him. ‘They’re here to judge the space, not the dust mites.’

On the way up, Swan ran through the services and facilities on offer, playing his part to the hilt without sounding over-zealous. Goricz, meanwhile, stared blankly at the light board as if signalling that helping to do a selling job on the building’s facilities wasn’t part of his job description.

The lift stopped and they all exited, at which point Swan, who was bringing up the rear, excused himself and held up his mobile, which was buzzing. ‘Sorry — better take this. You folks go ahead and browse around. I’ll see you down in the foyer.’ He looked at the supervisor, who was unlocking the doors to the fourth floor suite. ‘Mr Goricz, do you want to come down with me? I’m sure we can leave Mr and Ms, umm… to take a peek in private.’

The supervisor hesitated, then threw open the door and peered inside. He stepped aside and gestured for Riley and Palmer to go in. As Palmer brushed by him, he was sure he sensed a wave of tension coming off Goricz, and wondered why.

He and Riley waited for the lift to go down again before moving through the empty offices. The floor was covered in drab, brown carpet tiles, with an occasional clutch of telephone wires showing where workstations had once stood. Other than a few empty notice boards on the walls, it was clear that whoever the previous tenants had been, they had left little of value for any incomers to use save for a single desk. This was in the main office, which ran from the front to the rear of the building and overlooked the rear car park.

Palmer walked over and flicked open the desk drawers. They were empty save for a large file drawer on one side, which held a reading lamp with a green shade, the flex coiled neatly around the stem. A plain telephone and plastic in-tray stood on the top of the desk, both covered in dust. Palmer ducked down and checked the surface against the light from the window, then straightened up and looked around the rest of the floor.

Riley watched him moving about. This was Palmer’s speciality. He knew more about examining buildings and rooms than she did, and she was happy to let him get on with it.

When he came back and stood next to her at the rear window, he wore a puzzled expression.

‘What’s up, hound-dog?’ she asked him. ‘You’ve got your worried face on.’

He shook his head and said loudly. ‘Looks pretty good. Not sure about the street access, though.’ With that, he walked back to the door, crooking a finger for Riley to follow. She caught on quickly: now was not the time or place to talk about why they were really here.

When they were out in the stairwell, he turned and said quietly, ‘For a place that’s been empty for ages, the desk is completely dust-free, but the phone isn’t. There’s a reading lamp in one of the drawers, and the inside felt warm, although it could have been my imagination. But the nearest wall socket switch is in the ‘on’ position and there’s no dust on that, either. The others are all off and haven’t been touched for a long time.’ He opened his hand. He was holding a toffee wrapper with a small dab of brown, sticky substance at one end. ‘This was on the floor near the door. The toffee’s still moist.’

‘A supervisor with a sweet tooth?’

But even as Riley said it, she recalled the man’s words just before they had entered the lift: ‘Nobody has been in there for weeks — including me.’