The main entrance to the offices had been fitted with a revolving door. Through the glass, the dim entrance hall beyond looked deserted. Guy went through first to investigate. To one side was a waiting area with a few airport-style seats and display screens bearing pictures of the company’s open-cast mining activities. Opposite was the reception desk; he checked behind it for beetles, finding none. Beyond, a row of lifts stood open and lifeless; no current, of course.
He signalled to Evan, who came cheerfully through the revolving door, gazing about him with apparent approval.
‘All in one piece, at any rate. That’s something,’ he remarked, checking everything for himself. ‘No smell either. Floor’s a bit dirty, though. Look at those footmarks.’
‘Can you hear their voices?’
‘Upstairs,’ Evan nodded. ‘We’ve found our gang’s little nest, boyo. May as well take a look while we’re here.’
i’m not so sure what we’ve found,’ Guy argued, double-checking his gun just in case there was trouble. ‘They wouldn’t normally leave their bikes outside, would they?’
The staircase was dark and Evan returned to the car for his powerful hand-lamp. Theoretically, beetles and bloodworms were less likely to settle in this type of building but it was never wise to be too confident.
On the first floor the voices were louder, seeming to come from the end of a corridor leading off towards the rear of the building where — indicated a sign on the wall — the ‘Large Conference Room’ was situated.
‘Children,’ Evan grunted.
Guy felt a quick surge of hope. He strode down the corridor towards the double doors which he could just make out in the gloom.
‘Take it easy now,’ came Evan’s voice from behind as he caught up. ‘You’re too impulsive, Guy.’
Throwing the doors open, Guy stepped inside. He held his shotgun ready in both hands as he stared around the room. What he had expected to find he was unsure, but certainly not the fifty or more children of all ages he saw in front of him. Most were sitting at the long conference tables, eating. They gazed at him in surprise, their spoons in their hands.
Serving them, obviously in charge of everything, were the leather-clad owners of the bikes parked outside. One — a black teenager with hard, contemptuous eyes — stepped forward right away to confront the intruders. ‘What d’you want, man?’ he demanded aggressively, i’m looking for my daughter,’ Guy told him, lowering the gun. ‘Are you in charge?’
‘No.’
‘Who is in charge then? Can I speak to whoever it is?’ ‘Nobody’s in charge.’ Coolly, the boy looked him up and down. ‘Archer, isn’t it? Mister Guy Archer?’
‘Byron Palmer,’ Evan said. ‘He’s the lad who rescued you from the old school.’
‘What of it? OK, Mister Archer, you were right about snakes. Now fuck off.’
‘And leave these kids with you? What arc you up to?’ ‘Feeding ’em, can’t you see?’ a girl joined in. Guy recognised her. Sharon — wasn’t that her name? Byron’s girlfriend who had spoken to him at the flat?
‘Some bugger’s got to feed ’em,’ Byron added. ‘None of you mothers give a fuck.’
‘Didn’t know they were here, Byron,’ Evan admitted, trying to conciliate him. ‘Now we do, we’ll get them away.’
‘They’re going to die, you know that?’ Byron accused him. ‘Look at ’em, man! D’you care}'
The clothes many of them wore were tom and dirty, their hair unkempt. A few were only toddlers and the older ones were helping them with their food. The biggest among them could be no more than twelve or thirteen years of age, Guy thought. At one side of the room he noticed some of the gang were still opening tins and warming up the contents on a couple of camping stoves. ‘What’s your daughter’s name?’ Sharon asked.
‘Kath,’ he said. ‘Kath Archer. She’s eleven.’
Sharon picked up a heavy glass ashtray and banged it ors the nearest table to get attention. ‘Listen, everybody! This man is looking for his little girl. Now I think he’s OK, ’cos I’ve met him before. So we’re going to help him, right? Her name’s Kath Archer — got that? Anybody here seen Kath Archer? Anybody know her?’
Three or four girls shook their heads or shrugged their shoulders; a boy laughed. Then the general chatter started up again as the gang brought around fresh supplies of baked beans and frankfurters. The children shovelled them down as if they had not eaten for a week.
‘You’re sure she’s still alive?’ Sharon probed gently, perhaps implying that Guy wasn’t facing up to reality. ‘A Sot o’ kids were killed, you know. An’ with this lot it’s only a matter o’ time before the beetles get them.’
‘How long have you been feeding them?’
‘Yesterday we started. Peaches and cake in tins from Fortnum and Mason’s. We thought they should have something more filling today, though we weren’t really sure they’d still be here.’
Awkwardly, aware that he should at least say something to combat the terrible fatalism which lurked behind every word she spoke, Guy began to explain how they were fighting back against the bloodworms. Some of the country’s top scientists were working day and night on the problem.
She regarded him pityingly. ‘Why kid yourselves? The bloodworms have already won, we all know that.’ ‘That’s what I say,’ her boyfriend Byron declared, rejoining them. ‘Live fast, die young — what else is there? Let’s go.’
No one in the gang objected. Perhaps they were already fed up with this feeding-the-kids game; Byron’s boast that he knew where to find some really massive bloodworms was enough to get them pulling on their goggles and helmets again ready to leave. The insignia on their jackets — the straight line with the white spot either side — proved that this was the same gang as earlier, Guy noted. They were a cross-section of black kids, whites and Asians, all in their teens.
As they pushed out through the double doors it was an Asian girl who hung back. ‘This kid Kath — dances, like?’ ‘You’ve seen her?’
‘Sort o’ ballet dance?’
‘That’s right!’ His stomach tightened.
‘Couple o’ days back, it was. Down Victoria Street. I’d try round there.’
She went out. Only Evan’s restraining hand on his arm prevented him hurrying after her.
‘Let her go, Guy. She’s told you all she’s going to. As soon as the Peter Pan Unit arrives to take charge of these children we’ll be on our way down there to see if we can’t trace your Kath. I radioed through while you were talking to Sharon. They’ll not be long.’
The Lost Children Unit — known generally as the Peter Pan Unit — did not turn up for another hour, by which time Guy’s patience had long ago dissipated. He was standing by the car and about to call up Worth Road once more when at last he spotted the Army vehicles approaching. As the first vehicle drew up, armed soldiers jumped down from it and took up positions around the entrance. They were followed by a young lieutenant, who straightened up when he saw Guy and saluted.
‘Third lot o’ kids we’ve picked up today,’ he reported with a pleased grin. ‘Where’ve you got yours? Inside?’ ‘First floor,’ Guy said. ‘Detective-Sergeant Evans is with them.’
If Kath had been found by either of the Peter Pan patrols he’d have been told, he reminded himself. Someone at Worth Road would have got a message to him. But he still looked hopefully towards the two policewomen climbing out of the second armoured vehicle. To his relief, the civilian helper on duty with them was Lise Tumstall.