It was a marble plane, its surface interrupted by sepia-coloured leather chairs that apparently served as a waiting area. At the plane's centre, a kiosk stood, on which Triton's latest films were advertised. Near to the door curved a chest-high walnut reception station, and across from this a bank of three polished bronze lift doors reflected Barbara's image for her personal—albeit dubious—viewing pleasure.
On a Saturday there were no signs of life in the lobby. But as Barbara was about to curse her luck and turn tail for the Yard, one of the lift doors opened and revealed a grey-haired uniformed security guard in the act of zipping his trousers snugly and bobbing to adjust his testicles. He stepped into the lobby, started when he saw Barbara at the door, and waved her off.
“Not open,” he called out. And even from behind the glass, Barbara could hear the glottal stop of the North Londoner, born and bred.
She dug out her warrant card and raised it to the glass. “Police,” she called in turn. “Could I have a word, please?”
He hesitated, looking towards an enormous brass-faced clock that hung above a line of celebrity photographs on the wall to the left of the door. He called, “It's my lunch break.”
“Better still,” Barbara responded. “Its mine as well. Come on out. I'll buy, if you like.”
“What's this about, then?” He approached the door, but he maintained his distance across a rippled rubber door mat.
“Murder enquiry.” Barbara wiggled her warrant card meaningfully. Please note, her gesture told him.
He noted. Then he brought out a ring of what looked like two thousand keys and took his time about inserting the right one in the front door.
Once inside, Barbara got directly to the point. She was investigating the Derbyshire murder of a young Londoner called Terence Cole, she told the guard whose name tag announced him, unfortunately, as Dick Long. Cole had had this address among his things, and she was attempting to uncover the reason why.
“Cole, you say?” the guard repeated. “Terence the Christian name? Never had nobody here called that. Far as I know. Which isn't saying much, as I only work at the weekends, I do. Weekdays, I'm security at the BBC. Doesn't pay much either way, but it keeps me from sleeping rough somewhere.” He pulled on his nostrils and investigated his fingers to see if he'd mined anything of interest.
“Terry Cole had this address among his belongings,” Barbara said. “He could have come here passing himself off as an artist of sorts. A sculptor. Does this sound familiar?”
“No one here's an art buyer. What you want is one of them posh galleries, luv. Over in Mayfair or places like that. Though it does look a bit like a gallery in here, eh? What about that? What d'you think?”
What she thought was that she didn't have time to discuss Triton Entertainment's interior decoration. She said, “Could he have had a meeting with someone at Triton?”
“Or at any of the other companies,” Dick said.
“There're more groups than Triton at this address?” she asked.
“Oh yeh. Triton's only one. They get their name above the door 'cause they take up the most space. T'others don't mind, as their rent's lower.” Dick jerked his head in the direction of the lifts and led Barbara to a notice board between two of them. On this she saw names, departments, and lists of companies. They represented publishing, film making, and theatre. It would take hours—perhaps days—to talk to everyone whose name was Usted. And to everyone else whose name wasn't included because he or she played a supporting role.
Barbara turned away from the lifts and caught sight of the reception desk. She knew what such a desk meant at the Yard where security was paramount. She wondered if it meant the same here. She said, “Dick, do visitors sign in?”
“Oh yeh. They do.”
Excellent. “Can I have a look at the book?”
“Can't do that, miss … er, Constable. Sorry.”
“Police business, Dick.”
“Right. But 'tis locked up at the weekend, like. You can have a try of the desk drawers to make sure though.”
Barbara did so, slipping behind the walnut counter and pulling on the drawers to no avail. Damn, she thought. She hated having to wait till Monday. She was itching to slap handcuffs on a guilty party and to parade him in front of Lynley, shouting, “See? See?” And waiting nearly forty-eight hours to take another step closer to the perpetrator of the Derbyshire homicides was like asking hounds on the scent of a fox to have a bit of a kip once their quarry was in sight.
There was only one alternative. She didn't much like it, but she was willing to put in the time to give it a try. She said, “Tell me, Dick, have you a list of the people who work here?”
“Oh, miss … er, Constable … as to that …” He pulled on his nostrils again and looked uneasy.
“Yes. You do. Right? Because if something's dodgy in part of the building, you need to know who to contact. Yes? Dick, I need that list.”
“I'm not supposed to—”
“—give it out to anyone,” she concluded. “I know. But you're not giving it out to anyone. You're giving it to the police because someone's been murdered. And you understand that if you don't assist in the enquiry, it might look like you're involved in some way.”