12 The Golden Arcade 9

9

Three-storey Victorian terraced houses lined both sides of the long street, ranked like beige militia, ragged, tough and intimidating. Athelstan Street was a frontier-land, a hold=out against gentrification, but even here there were signs. One or two houses had been recently renovated and there was an old building – a factory or a store – three storeys high, grand and imposing but fragile looking too, elderly and neglected, now turned into micro-offices and studio space. Even so, the place looked rough. And in the grey light of November the long street seemed to vista away to grey oblivion.

 

In the relentless wash of creams and whites, the colour of the Bel Air Hotel was altogether murkier. There was a sign with vertical writing in a lurid yellow and blue. But it was smashed up, its innards exposed, its bulbs removed. Most of the windows on the  first and second floors were intact, and you could even see photo frames in one or two. The ground floor and basement were boarded. Heavy ply covered every window. The double door was boarded and barred. Bart parked the Mini and looked it over. Someone would find this place soon, do something with it. Then where would the lowlifes like Feathers go? Maybe someone would save him too.

 

There were  a good number of cars on the street, considering the time of day. Mostly older cars. His own, shiny and red, with the Union Jack roof, stood out like a sore thumb. He figured that most of the buildings were tenement flats or HMOs. Single mums, shift-workers and those who didn't work at all. A group of four lads were coming down the path beside him, looking tough. Track suits. White trainers and slip on shoes. One had a dog on a string. Bull terrier. He watched them in his wing mirror. As they walked past one of them thumped the side of the Mini and swore loudly. Made obscene gestures. Laughed. Walked on, his mates slapping him on the back.

 

Another young guy leaned against the wall of the house next door. Track-suit, trainers and cap. He was rolling a cigarette. Bart tried to figure out how Feathers got in and out. The main entrance was hammered shut with sheet metal behind the frame. He took the stairs to the basement. He was ankle  deep in litter. Cans. Fast food containers. It felt dirty. He tried the windows. Each one had been firmly boarded. Sure you could get the boards off but you'd need tools. And you'd be noticed too, even here. 

 

'Opens up round the back, mate.'

 

The lad with the cigarette stood at the top of the stairs.

 

'Oh. Right. Thanks.'

 

The lad didn't move. His face didn’t change.

 

'I'll show ya if ya want.'

 

Bart nodded.

 

'Okay.'

 

The lad’s eyes were glazed and there were dark red spots around his chin. He stood still for a moment as if he were worried about losing his balance. Then he set off up the street at a  pace. Bart had to jog to keep up, the lad pointing as he walked.

 

'S down ere,' he said, not slowing at all.

 

Then, resting his hand on a painted pillar, the lad bent over, breathing deeply. The alley was neat and  wide. The house next to it had an overhanging first floor making a kind of an arch. 

 

'And this goes all the way down behind the houses?'

 

'Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'd take you down there, mate, but I got this.' He lifted his tracksuit trousers to reveal a grey plastic tag. 

 

'Thanks.'

 

'Thing is mate, I gotta get down Westgate, meet my parole officer. I really need a few quid, mate, for a taxi like or I'm gonna miss it.'

 

Bart took out his wallet and gave him ten. The young man took the note and held it as if he were weighing it. His nose twitched, and his dark little eyes narrowed.

 

'Yes mate,' he said. He broke out a toothy grin. 'Laters, yeah?'

 

 He patted Bart’s arm and then off, a swaggering, staggering walk towards the shops at the end of the street.

 

The alley ran all the way down the road, dividing the back gardens of two adjacent streets. It was wide and clean, but overlooked from both sides. Given the number of cars around, someone had probably noticed him already. With its long approach and a probable escape route out the front it would make a perfect hideout. He realised that he himself had no idea which house it actually was. Some of the wheelie bins were numbered and he narrowed the choice down to three. He stared in through the fences, to work it out.

 

One garden had Kids' toys. Not likely. Another showed signs of a gardener, pot plants, healthy for the time of year. Not Raymond's style, surely. That left one. It had a wall was high and he couldn't see over. The plaster was painted a dark brown, broken glass cemented in on top. There was a solid looking wooden gate. Two big padlocks on the outside. One of them was a combination lock. Tools wouldn’t help there. He looked around for a solution. The house on the left had a wheelie bin and the glass didn't continue down the side. 

 

His knees jarred as he landed in the back yard of the 'Bel Air Hotel'. An open space, paved with faded checkerboard slabs. There were weeds growing up in the gaps, some of them quite tall. Spindly sprawling things. There was a potting shed, a hatch in one side like the an ice-cream kiosk. A conservatory extended along the whole width of the building, every window boarded with thick rectangles of nailed on ply. It wore the wood like armour, a carapace. The locks on the gate meant that there was probably no-one in. A splintered strip dangling from one side of the door on the left hand side of the building. A metal bracket had been fitted recently and there was a third padlock keeping intruders out. He knocked, waited, knocked again. He wasn't  sure why he waited so long. Habit maybe. It was his second break-in of the day. 

 

He set to work with the lock picks, the tensioner and the rake. He was well hidden. No pressure. Still it took longer than he expected. He dropped the rake twice. When the lock sprung open and he had laid on the floor and opened the door he stood stock still. Was breaking into a squat even a crime? Still, it bothered him and he was nervous as hell.

 

'Hello?' he called in, not too loud. He didn’t want the neighbours to hear. 'Zack Richards? Raymond Feathers? Are you there?'

 

He stepped inside.

 

The conservatory had a couple of mouldy old sofas, the cushions stained and moth-eaten, a green throw over one of them, equally stained and equally moth-eaten. There were discarded packets of joss-sticks, burned-out stumpsin mugs and cans. He picked his way through to the double doors, with glass panels still intact, and through into a foyer area. A reception desk. Stairs. A bar. A small lift. He tried the lift door but it wasn't budging. With the windows boarded it was dark. He flicked on the flashlight of his phone. There were were battery powered lamps everywhere! New and and identical and expensive looking rechargeables. In the bar. More lamps. Chairs too, four of them – the sort you find in residential homes. Pizza boxes were stacked up in one corner with a black bin bag over-full with other fast food packaging. A plastic kitchen bin filled with cans and plastic bottles. There was a chair in the far corner of the room, and underneath it, a wooden box. 

 

Bart sat in the chair. He slid the box out between his legs. Unhooked the catch. Inside were three trays. The top tray contained a set of scales and brass weights. A compartment neatly filled with little clear plastic bags. Underneath that a block of greenish brown hash in thick cling film. It had been whittled down but was still about fifteen centimetres by ten. The bottom tray was split into six sections. There were two types of weed in the compartments. Maybe it was weed that Raymond had found in Zack's room? Maybe, but he doubted it. There couldn't have been enough concealed under the lining of a drawer to make it worth the risk. And this was just the main stash. Somewhere there must be portioned bags, eighths and quarters. For a moment he considered destroying the stash, just dropping it in a random wheelie bin. It would make him feel good to do it and it would piss Raymond off. But would it help anyone? Would  it help with the case? No. He put the box back. Cloth wall-hangings and posters daubed with luminous cannabis related symbols. He checked behind them. A bong on the bar. Three bottles of bourbon, various brands. All of them opened. Plastic tumblers too. And then there was a football trophy. Quite a big one. It seemed so out of place that Bart flashed the torchlight back to it, and then again. 

 

It was lighter than he expected. The figure was plastic, the plinth too. And the inscription read 'Margate and District / Under 13s Football League / 2008 Champions'. Underneath it was a screw. Bart looked around for a tool. He found a butter-knife behind the bar. He squeezed it in under the plinth and managed to move it. It was a hunch. Nothing more. The figure loosened and wobbled. Something small dropped out of the gap between figure and plinth. He scanned carpet with the flashlight and there. A tiny red and black rectangle. A micro SD. He carefully stashed the memory-card in his wallet. He re-tightened the screw, placed the trophy back where he had found it. The object taken from Zack's room. It had to be. Surely? 

 

Excitement and panic swelled in his chest. His pulse quickening. He had to get out. Fast. With the memory card in his wallet he felt for the first time like a thief. Feared capture, punishment, whether at the hands of Raymond, or the law. He grabbed his phone from the bar, and made his way out, picking through the mess. He tripped on a lamp, kicking it across the room. Outside he refastened the padlock. Made his way to the wall. It was too high and no way over. There was a big pot with the stump of something left in it over by the conservatory. It was bloody heavy. He began to move it, scraping it over the paving slabs towards the wall, inches at a time. It was painfully slow.

Excruciatingly loud. In his head he imagined phone-calls firing off to the police from every home. Shit. He should have thought of this. He should have thought ahead.