39
THE FIND
A little more than two weeks earlier, the city had been a slightly different place. The PCU had still been in limbo, and Terry Delaney had still been alive.
Delaney watched as the canary-yellow bulldozer roared into reverse, trying to pull itself free from the remaining wall. His work boots found traction in the viscous mud and he quickly moved out of range as the brick slab toppled backwards and crashed over, lifting its concrete base out of the earth, spraying rocks and clumps of soil everywhere.
While the driver of the bulldozer concentrated on shoving the last chunks of rubble back into a pile, Delaney went over to the ragged crater and climbed in. He should have been working in a team today, but the other guy had called in sick, said he had food poisoning. Alcohol poisoning, more like, thought Terry as he checked the base of the hole.
Nobody was sure whether there were any foundations to the remains of the building they had just pulled down. The plans didn’t show a basement, but they were often wrong. The worst job Terry had ever undertaken was digging out the lower ground floor of a warehouse in Wapping. The buildings on the docks were built without foundations, so their stability was provided by making them pyramid-shaped, with the thickest layers of bricks at the bottom. They had run weeks over schedule on that one.
He checked the perimeter but found no sign of another floor. He was just about to climb out of the hole when he noticed the faint circle of bricks in the very centre of the pit. He knew at once that it was a well; the whole area was peppered with them. Most old factories had drawn up their water from boreholes sunk into the river Fleet. Terry knew a lot about King’s Cross. His family on his father’s side had come from the area, and he enjoyed studying historical documents, matching what he read with what he had been told by his grandparents. The wells usually ran deep, and upon discovery would have to be reported, studied, then filled in—all in a short space of time, if the work schedule was to be kept.
He pulled out a couple of the loosened stones and then shovelled off a layer of earth, but found ragged stumps of concrete poured over broken brickwork; someone had filled it in, probably during the war. But something else had been exposed by the bulldozer, a flattened black box that at first glance appeared to be some kind of land mine. But now he saw that it was made of cheap tin, and had been cemented inside the well wall like a letter box, someone’s homemade safe. The lid had been crushed and twisted when the bulldozer had pushed down the wall. He punched it with his gloved hand and it popped off, clattering to the floor. Terry looked up to see if anyone else had noticed.
Inside was just a brown manila envelope, nothing else, but it had once been considered valuable enough to hide. He stuck it inside his jacket and climbed back out of the crater.
The day dragged by. He could feel the heat of the envelope in his pocket. At home later that afternoon, disappointment set in as he opened it and tipped out the contents. A couple of insurance policies, three birth certificates, for Thomas Porter, Irene Porter and their son, William, and some house deeds to a building long gone. He read the typed print. Number 11, Camley Lane, freehold and valid in perpetuity. Did it mean that whoever held the deeds owned the land?
The next morning, he went to Camden Council on his lunch break and did some research. The ownership of the plot in Camley Lane continued according to the original registration, providing that no other sole tenant had occupied the land for eleven years. Which meant, by his reckoning, that the Porter family still owned it.
Terry Delaney was broke. He was behind on his child support, and hadn’t taken his little girl anywhere nice in months. He did not want to go through life getting into a financial hole every time his van’s insurance came up for renewal. But it would not be right to claim the land for himself. It wouldn’t hurt to check up and see if the Porters were still in the area. Terry knew what was going onto the site of number 11, Camley Lane, and how much it was costing. The deed might be worth a fortune. Better, he thought, that the Porters should have what was rightfully theirs than let some faceless corporation get away with stealing it. Perhaps they would even reward him for bringing the document to light. And if they didn’t want it, or he couldn’t trace them, maybe the ADAPT Group would pay for the find.
The casual phone call left Maddox Cavendish in a cold sweat.
Ever since he had realised that the documentation for Plot BL827 was missing, he’d been praying that no-one would pick up on his mistake. He’d been working on the project for almost thirteen years, and still couldn’t believe he had managed to overlook the plot of land, despite all the tabulating and cross-referencing he had painstakingly carried out. The system was so complex that Sammi, his assistant, left him with all the data inputting.
And now this call, from a moronic bloody workman of all people, saying that he was in possession of a valuable property deed, and was having trouble returning it to the rightful owner.
Cavendish had managed to talk him into a meeting. He would go in with an offer and strike a simple deal in hard cash. Workmen wanted everything off the books, didn’t they? The deed could then be filed and forgotten, and he would trim the cash payment from the accounts system.
He would take Delaney to lunch—that was it. Buy him a fancy meal and a couple of bottles of wine, loosen his tongue, put him at ease. Cavendish pushed back in his office chair and started to relax. The worst was over. The mistake could be rectified. All he had to do was stay cool and treat Delaney like any other client who needed winning over.
He booked Plateau, on the fourth floor of Canada Square in Canary Wharf—glamorous white furnishings, floor-to-ceiling glass, fabulous food, what could go wrong?
The lunch was disastrous. Cavendish had appeared arrogant and dismissive, and Delaney wasn’t impressed by the restaurant’s good taste. Cavendish realised that he had underestimated Delaney, who had clearly done his research. He had left the deed at home, but had written down the wording to prove it was in his possession. When asked about the expiration date, he cheerfully informed Cavendish that there wasn’t one, and that the property rights would pass to whoever held the deed in perpetuity. The only good thing was that Delaney didn’t seem to know about the eleven-year ownership rule.
So, how much was ADAPT willing to pay for it?
When Cavendish named the figure of ￡2,500, Delaney laughed in his face. No deal, he said, swigging back his wine with a vulgarity that made Cavendish wince. Not unless the amount could be quadrupled. But to do that, Cavendish knew he would need to seek permission from the company accountant, and that meant telling Marianne Waters what had happened. It was bad enough that his assistant might already know about the problem; he had foolishly left the planning permission files open on his computer.
‘You’ll have to give me a few days,’ Cavendish warned him. ‘I can’t get that kind of money together overnight.’
‘I don’t care if you have to draw it out of your personal savings,’ Delaney countered. ‘If you don’t come through in the next couple of days I’ll find a way to pass the deed to the owners, and the entire project will come to a halt.’
‘You’ll get nothing that way.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Delaney. ‘Two years ago you called me in to carry out a demolition, and fired me halfway through the job. I couldn’t get compensation because you’d kept the job off the books. I’ll be happy enough just repaying the compliment.’
Cavendish returned to the office and went to see the accountant, who referred him to Marianne Waters. No money could be authorised without her signature. He paused outside her door, but could not bring himself to go in. His entire future was at stake. He looked down at the contact number Delaney had given him, and realised that the construction worker wasn’t so smart after all. He had scribbled it on the back of his business card.
Which meant that Cavendish could get his home address.
Stopping by his office to grab his coat, he headed out into the streets of King’s Cross, to find someone, anyone, who would be prepared to commit a burglary.