Kelly was loving it. She’d seen four actors, two of the Spice Girls and one of her schoolteachers. Not bad at all. But what if she did recognize somebody? I couldn’t be entirely sure of what she said, I’d have to take it with a pinch of salt; after all, she was only seven. But I’d have nothing to lose by believing her.
‘Do you want to do this again tomorrow?’
‘Yes, I like it. I have more points than you.’
‘So you do. I tell you what, after all that winning I think you should lie down on the bed and have a rest.’
If Kelly or I recognized anybody on the tape tomorrow it would be a bonus for me to take to Simmonds and prove a link. It would also mean that I’d definitely have to CTR the building and find out why they were there. I decided to go and have a closer look at the outside, and then I could plan how to make entry.
By 11 p.m. Kelly was sound asleep, still fully clothed. I put the eiderdown over her, picked up the key card and left.
To avoid the office I came out of the hotel via the emergency stairs. I got on the road by the highway, turned right and walked past the playhouse towards the target. The traffic was quieter now, just groups of noise instead of a constant roar. I turned right, then right again. I was on Ball Street.
19
It was the back I really needed to take a look at, but first I wanted to recce the front again. I wanted to see if there was a night watchman in there and get a better mental picture of what it looked like inside.
I moved into a doorway opposite. If I was pinged, I’d pretend I was drunk and having a piss. I was in deep shadow as I looked over at the target. I could see through the two sets of doors into the reception area; the lights were still on, giving a sheen to the wet concrete steps and the leaves of the bushes. I looked upstairs and saw light shining through the windows directly above the main entrance. That meant the corridor lights were on upstairs as well.
I waited around for a quarter of an hour, watching for signs of movement. Was there security sitting downstairs watching the telly? Was he upstairs, doing his rounds? I didn’t see anything. Time to look at the rear.
I went back the way I’d come, but, instead of turning left, went right towards the river. It was just a single-track road with muddy slush on the sides and potholes filled with oily water that glistened in the ambient light. Using the shadows, I passed the scrap-metal merchant’s and crossed over the railway tracks that led to the old cement depot. My footsteps made more noise than the highway now. Fences divided all the plots, secured with old chains and padlocks. I followed the road further, looking for a point to turn and get behind the target.
The highway lights weren’t strong enough to have any effect at this distance, but I could make out the mist coming from the river. I’d reached a dead end. A fence blocked the old road and a large muddy turning circle had been made by cars looking for a parking space and discovering what I just had. I could also see lights from the airport, beyond the woods that sloped down to the Potomac.
There was no alternative but to walk back to the disused railway tracks, which years ago would have been a branch of the main line. I looked left, following the tracks; they ran about 200 metres to the rear of the target, and to their left were some old, rusted corrugated-iron buildings.
I started climbing over the wire gates, where the trains would have gone through to the depot; the padlocked chains rattled under the strain. I got into some shadow and waited. There were no dogs barking, and the airport was probably closed down this late at night because it was so close to the city; all I could hear was a distant siren.
I carried on along the tracks, and soon the only noises were of my feet and breath.
To my right was the scrapyard, enclosed by a fence, with old cars piled on top of each other seven or eight high. After about 100 metres the ground started to open up and I could see buildings. Fences made it clear what belonged to whom. The area had been cleared and flattened ready for developers. One of those buildings beyond it was the rear of my target; on the other side I could see street lights on Ball Street and the highway. The drizzle gave them a misty, faded look.
I slowed down, had a quick look at the target, then started to walk across the 150 metres of newly levelled ground to a fence that was about 50 metres short of the target building.
Near the fence I found some bushes, stopped and squatted down. The things that always give you away are shape, shine, shadow, silhouette, spacing and movement. Forget about them and they’ll get you killed.
Still on my haunches, I did nothing but sit and watch for the next few minutes. You have to give your senses a chance to adjust to a new environment. After a while my eyes began to adapt to the light and I could start to make things out. I could see that there were no windows in the back of the building, just a solid brick wall. There was, however, a four-flight steel staircase, the fire-escape route for both the ground and first floors. To the right of it, at ground level, were the junction boxes for the building’s utilities.
I looked at the fire exits. If I had to make entry at some stage to find out what PIRA were up to, that was probably the way I’d go in. It depended whether or not they had external locks, and there was only one way to find out.
I scanned along the line of the 6-foot chain link fence, looking for a break. I couldn’t see one. Grabbing the top edge of the wire, I pulled myself up, got a foot on the top and clambered over. I crouched down again and stayed still, watching and listening for any reaction.
There was no need to rush; slow movement meant that, not only did I reduce noise and the risk of being detected, but I could also control my breath and hear more around me. I used the shadows created by the building and trees, moving from one pool of darkness to the next, all the time keeping eyes on the target and the surrounding area.
Once I got close enough, I stopped at the base of two trees and stood against one of the trunks. Looking at the rear wall, I noticed a motion detector that had been fixed at a height and angle to cover people walking up the fire escape. I had no way of knowing what the detector triggered, whether it was an alarm, a light, or a camera, or maybe all three. I couldn’t see any cameras, but I could see two light fittings, one above each fire exit. They weren’t on. Were they what the motion detector triggered? Probably, but why wasn’t there also a camera covering the rear, so that security could see what had triggered the light? It didn’t matter, I’d treat the detector as if it triggered everything.
I noticed three wooden pallets to the right of the building by the fence. I could use those.
I looked at the doors. They had sheet steel covering them, together with an extra strip that went over the frame to prevent anyone tampering with the gap. Close up, I could see that the locks were pin tumbler type, similar to British Yales, but bigger. Piece of piss; I could defeat them.
A quick check of the utilities boxes and dials showed me that gas, electricity, water and telephone were all exposed and ready to be played with. I was feeling better about this all the time.
I was still worried about the possibility of a night watchman. In some circumstances, it can actually be a bonus. You can try to get him to come and open the door – and, hey presto, you’ve got an unalarmed entry. However, if I had to go in it would be covertly.
The car park was empty, which could be another indication that there was no-one inside. I had to confirm it one way or another. I decided to be slightly pissed, walk up to the main entrance and take a leak; while I was doing that I could get a better look inside. If there was anyone in the foyer he might come out and fuck me off, or I might see him watching telly in the back somewhere.
I followed the same route all the way back and walked onto Ball Street. I was quite damp now; the drizzle and wet rusty fences had done their work on my clothes.
I walked on the opposite side of the road towards the target. As I got nearer, I started to cross at an angle that gave me more time with eyes on. Head down, conscious of the camera covering the door, I started to stumble up the steps, and about three-quarters of the way up, as soon as I was able to see into the right-hand window, I turned, opened my flies and started pissing down onto the bushes.
Almost instantly, a male voice roared, ‘Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!’ and there was an explosion of movement in the shrubbery. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
I took my hand straight off my cock and onto the Sig. I tried to stop pissing, but I was in full flow. My jeans took the brunt.
I went for the pistol, then realized that maybe I didn’t need to pull it yet. He might be security. Maybe I could talk my way out of this.
‘Fuck you! Who do you think you are? You fucker!’
I could hear him, but still couldn’t see anything. There was rustling and all sorts going on, then more ‘Fuck you! Fuck you!’ and I saw him appearing through the bushes.
‘Fucking asshole, piss on me, you fuck. I’ll show you! Look at me! You’ve pissed on me!’
He was in his early twenties, wearing old army boots without laces, and dirty, greasy black jeans. He had a hooded parka-type jacket that was in shit state, grimed with muck and with the elbows hanging out. When he was about 10 metres away I could also see he had a bum-fluff beard, a big earring in one ear and long, greasy dreadlocks. He was soaked.
The moment he saw me, his face lit up. To him I was the accidental tourist, Mr Hush Puppy lost at the wrong end of town. I could almost see the cogs turning; he thought he’d cracked it here, he was going to get some easy money out of this punter.
‘Fuck you, asshole, you owe me a new sleeping bag! Look at my clothes, you’ve pissed all over me, fucking animal! Give me some money, man!’
He was certainly going for an Oscar. ‘Do you know who I am? Fucking piss on me, man, I’ll fucking kick your ass!’
I needed to take advantage of this. I went up to the window and started banging hard. If there was security he should come to investigate. I’d just play Hush Puppy man needing protection from this madman.
I banged so hard I thought the glass would break, making sure all the time that I had my back to the camera. It sparked up New Age man even more because he thought I was flapping.
He started to come up the stairs. I carried on looking inside the building. There were no used ashtrays in sight, no magazines lying open on chairs, no TV on, no evening paper; the furniture was well arranged, the chair by reception was neatly under the desk, there was nothing to show that anyone was there.
Nearly on top of me now, I heard ‘Fucking asshole!’
I turned, opened my jacket and put my hand on the pistol.
He saw it and stopped in his tracks. ‘Ah, for fuck’s sake! Fucking hell!’ He backed off and started to walk backwards down the stairs, his eyes fixed on the pistol. ‘Fucking cops,’ he muttered.
I had to try hard not to laugh.
‘Fucking cops, piss on me every fucking which way!’
I waited for him to disappear. New Age man thought
he
had problems – this was the second time in two days that I’d had piss all over me. All the same, I felt sorry for him; I thought about all the time he’d probably spent finding himself a snug little basha, well concealed from predators and nicely warmed by the air-conditioning outlets and other machinery tucked underneath. Then some dickhead comes and empties his bladder all over the show.
It took me a quarter of an hour to get back to the hotel. I opened the door nice and quietly. Kelly was in child heaven, not having had to clean herself or tidy her mess, just falling asleep surrounded by candy and cookies.
I got undressed, had a shower and a shave, then binned the clothes in the hotel laundry bag. The holdall was now getting pretty full of dirty and bloodstained clothes. I was down to my last change. I got dressed again, tucked the pistol into my waistband, put on my coat, and set the alarm for 5.30.
20
I was half awake anyway when the alarm went. I’d been tossing and turning all night and now I couldn’t really be arsed to get up. People must feel like this when they go to a job they really hate.
I finally got myself to my feet, went over to the window and opened the curtains. We were just below eye level with the highway and almost in its shadow. Headlights lumbered silently towards me from out of the gloom; in the other lanes, tail lights disappeared back into the darkness like slow-moving tracer. It wasn’t time yet.
I let the curtain fall and turned down the heating, got the coffee machine gurgling and went into the bathroom.
As I took a leak I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a scarecrow, with creases on my face where I’d been lying on some crayons. I took off my jacket, turned in the collar on my polo shirt and splashed my face in a basin of water.
I went back into the bedroom. The brew wasn’t ready yet and my mouth felt as if a gorilla had dumped in it. He’d certainly been in the room while we were both asleep, throwing food and drink cans everywhere. I picked up an already opened can of Mountain Dew and took a couple of flat, warm sips.
Until first light, there wasn’t that much to do. I was used to this; so much of my life had been hurry up and wait. I pulled up the chair by the window and opened the curtains. Looking at the highway, I couldn’t make out whether it was still raining or if it was just vehicle spray in the headlights that made it look that way.