Petrella At Q by Michael Gilbert

Author:Michael Gilbert
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Petrella At Q
ISBN: 9780755132386
Publisher: House of Stratus
Published: 2013-11-26T00:00:00+00:00

On Thursday evening a wind of near gale force, non-stop from Siberia, was hitting the East End of London, slinging bucketfuls of frozen rain horizontally down the street. Milo Roughead had put on two extra pullovers and brought with him an oilskin coat borrowed from a boating friend.

“Nasty night to be out in,” said Mr. Grandlund. “I’ll get you a cupper. Warm the inner man.”

Milo was half-way through the cup of tea when he put it down, snatched up his coat and bolted down the stairs. Mr. Adams was on the move.

He was battling down the street, head lowered against the wind. He passed the bus stop. His objective turned out to be the Underground station. Milo gave him fifty yards, then followed him, in time to see him disappearing down the moving staircase. He bought himself a ticket to the end of the Northern Line. The station was an old-fashioned one, with emergency stairs. Milo went down them fast. He could hear a train coming. He reached the platform in time to see Mr. Adams get in, two carriages farther up. This suited him well. He jumped in after him. The train was on the Bank switch and was nearly empty. They had reached Essex Road before Mr. Adams moved. Fortunately three other people got out with him. They all travelled up in the lift together. When they reached the street, Mr. Adams and the three other men turned right. Milo turned left and walked away from them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Adams cross the New North Road and make off up Northampton Street. He reversed smartly and followed.

The weather helped. It was the sort of night in which a pedestrian kept his head down and ploughed steadily forward without much regard to what was happening around him. It was quite a long walk, up Alwyne Road and Willow Road, then left again. His knowledge of London geography told Milo that they must be getting close to Canonbury, that much bombed area which had blossomed into fashion after the war, and was now full of tarted-up Georgian houses and blocks of new and expensive flats.

“He can’t be walking for pleasure,” said Milo to his sodden feet. “Must be getting somewhere soon.” At this moment Mr. Adams turned to his left up a shallow flight of steps and disappeared into the building.

Milo slowed down, wiped some of the rain out of his eyes and read, above the doorway, in golden letters, “Basildon Mansions”.

What now?

There was no sign of the porter. Presumably he was down in his own snug basement with his nose glued to the television and a glass of something in his hand, lucky sod.

Through the glass of the swing door, Milo could see a board with the numbers of the flats and the names of their occupants. There were twelve flats, starting with la and lb on the ground floor and running up to 6a and 6b. It was clearly out of

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