Chapter 30
‘Howdid Tilly even find this address?’ Poe asked.
‘How does she do any of these things?’ Flynn replied. ‘And I wasn’t going to ask her in front of Chief Superintendent Mathers in case I had to arrest her.’
Poe chuckled. When it came to the internet, what others called an absolute right to privacy, Bradshaw called a grey area. She’d exploit the slightest loophole in a site’s user agreements, the tiniest chink in someone’s settings. She went where she wanted and left no trace. If she weren’t so useful there’d be very little reason not to put her in prison.
‘Where are we?’ Poe asked.
‘Plaistow,’ Flynn said, pulling into a recently vacated on-street parking space.
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Why am I not surprised? According to you, all urban areas suck.’
Poe didn’t like London. He preferred living somewhere with a horizon, somewhere it got dark when the sun went down. Like all major cities, London seemed to flash and blink and turn neon.
‘To be fair, most Londoners struggle to locate Plaistow,’ Flynn continued, ‘but it’s actually a really cool area. Bit rough around the edges, but vibrant and diverse. The hospital employs translators who speak one hundred and thirty languages.’
Poe got out of the car and took it in. His nose was immediately battered with food from all over the globe. It was almost 6 p.m. and the fast-food joints and restaurants were opening. From where he was standing he could see Indian and Bangladeshi curry houses, a Jamaican jerk chicken place, a Korean barbecue, a Russian deli and two Chinese takeaways.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said.
‘We’ll get something after we’ve checked this address.’
‘And as Tilly isn’t here, can we have something nice?’
‘There’s a Vietnamese nearby and it’s excellent. We’ll eat there.’
‘Where’s this clown live?’
Flynn checked her phone. ‘We’re on the right street,’ she said. ‘According to Tilly, Henning Stahl used to live in a basement flat.’
‘Renting?’
‘Everyone in London rents, Poe.’
‘So he might not still be there?’
‘He almost certainlyisn’tthere, but it’s somewhere to start and it gets us out of the station.’
The basement flat Henning Stahl was, or had been, renting was symbolic of an unregulated housing market. Poe was no friend of bureaucracy, but, if he’d had the powers, he’d have stepped in and condemned the basement without even entering. It was dank, dark and an inch of stagnant water puddled against the front door. Flynn point blank refused to risk the green, algae-smeared steps.
‘I’m not going down those,’ she said. ‘I’ll fall on my arse.’
‘What ifIfall on my arse?’
‘You’re right. Give me a second.’ She removed her phone from her jacket pocket and pointed it at him. ‘Make sure you cry out if you hurt your back.’
‘Ha ha,’ he said, but he took extra care going down the steps. The last thing he wanted to be was the star of a murder investigation blooper reel.
Poe rapped on the door. Paint flaked off and floated down to the standing water. There was no answer so he risked an ear infection and put the side of his head to the decaying wood. He couldn’t hear anything, just his own breathing. He moved to the only street-facing window. It was protected by heavy bars and was so dirty that even when he’d wiped away some of the grime with his handkerchief, he still couldn’t see inside.
‘I think that’s tobacco staining,’ he called up. ‘Is Stahl a smoker?’
‘How the fuck would I know?’ Flynn replied.
‘Fair point.’