Онлайн-библиотека книг
Then I walked on out of the station, found the nearest working phone box - my mobile being down on batteries again because I can never be arsed to recharge it - and called Nicky Heath, my technically dead sometime-informant. He shagged Kenny’s address from the electoral roll in about ten seconds flat.
‘New case?’ he asked me after I’d taken the details down.
‘Not exactly, Nicky,’ I said. ‘But it’s something I’m looking into. And I’ll probably be coming to you for a bit more than this as soon as I know what I’m looking for.
‘Sure. Tell me about it tonight. You’re coming to the screening, right?’
I trod water mentally while I tried to work out what he meant. Then I remembered the gold-trimmed card that had dropped onto Pen’s doormat three weeks before - requesting the pleasure of my company at a one-off presentation of Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner (the original theatrical release, not the director’s cut) at Nicky’s formerly derelict cinema, the Walthamstow Gaumont. Strictly by invitation only, gatecrashers strongly discouraged - and since Nicky had indulged his burgeoning paranoia by turning the Gaumont into a cavernous booby-trapped fortress, that phrase hid a whole world of pain.
‘The screening,’ I echoed. ‘Right. I’ll see you there.’
And if that was what it took, that was what I’d do. But business before some implausible imitation of pleasure.
Kenny Seddon lived at 137 Weston Block, Nicky had said. I could check each tower in turn, but why not use the natural resources that were already on offer? I wandered over to the small group of boys who were still intent on their kick-about.
They were younger than I’d thought, most of them probably not yet into their teens. That was welcome, because along with the broad daylight it gave me a certain assurance that they wouldn’t roll me at knifepoint for my mobile phone.
‘Hey, guys,’ I said.
