It took him a while to fully realize the dimensions of the room in front of him. Then he saw that it was a long, low tunnel. He looked up. He was an inch under six feet tall, yet the ceiling could not have been more than two feet above him. There were metal shelves either side from floor to ceiling, containing bound volumes of various newspapers. He thought of Ron and smiled. How did he fit down here? He must weigh twenty stone. Perhaps that's why he had taken so long. Perhaps, like an adult Augustus Gloop, he had become wedged in one of these tunnels.
Nigel knew enough about the newspaper library to realize that this was one of the four storage units.
These were more than 260 feet long. Nigel believed it: he was unable to see the door at the far end. But he could see rows and rows of files. This is what becomes of yesterday's news, he thought. Not wrapping chips, but bound together in silent volumes in this tomb.
There was the sound of a door shutting. Ron, he thought. He called his name out, though it emerged only as a hoarse whisper, which caused him to cough, choking on the dust generated by twenty-eight miles of shelf. When he finished, there was silence.
'Ron,' he said, louder this time.
No reply. Had the sound of the door closing come from behind or in front? It was difficult to tell. It must be the front, he decided. He peered down the long tunnel in front of him, waiting to see Ron's bovine figure heave into view.
Another door closed. That was definitely in front of him. He stepped away from the door at his back and called again. His uneasiness increased. I should have stayed upstairs and waited, he told himself. The door behind him opened without noise, but he sensed it, a waft of musty air at his back. He spun around.
'Shit!!/' he screamed.
Ron dropped the microfilm boxes he was clutching to his chest.
'Jesus,' he said, putting his hand on his heart.
Nigel held his hands up, more out of reflex than anything else. For a few seconds, neither man could speak.
Ron broke the silence. 'What the hell are you doing here?' he said, his face turning from surprise to anger.
'I came looking for you,' Nigel said eventually.
'I thought you ... I don't know what I thought, actually.'
'You scared the crap out of me,' Ron said.
He bent down and collected the microfilm boxes.
Nigel helped him. When the boxes had been located and picked up, both men looked at each other.
'Sorry,' Nigel said. 'I'm a bit jumpy. Like I said, don't know what I was thinking.'
Ron shrugged. 'Well, promise me you'll leave the collecting to me, eh?'
Nigel nodded.
Ron handed the films over to him. 'But you can take these up,' he said. 'I need a fag after that.'
Nigel made his way back to the reading room with the reels. He delved first into the Evening News, finding reports on each of the murders, each filling increasing space as a connection between them was made. But in the report of the third murder, and the shock and fear it had spread throughout Kensington - or 'dread and consternation', as the Evening News described it - there were no further details on the location of the body, only mention of it being found near Notting Hill station. He checked the next day's paper to see if any more mention was made. While there was a large report about how terrified local residents were, again no exact location was given.
He loaded the Evening Standard. It was as if the same reporter had penned both sets of articles; they were identical in detail and length. He scanned every report, soaked up every word, but there was nothing new for him to pass on to Foster. He sat back and rubbed his eyes. He checked his watch; an hour had passed in seconds, peering at the dimly lit screen in a dark booth. He noticed the familiar signs of a headache settling in behind his eyes, and he decided to go outside and grab some air to clear his head.
He told Ron, who was back at his station.
'I'll join you, mate,' Ron said jovially, obviously having forgiven him for his trespass. 'Need another fag.'
Nigel had put his coat on. Ron wandered down in just his T-shirt. Outside the front entrance, he lit his cigarette while Nigel watched a few cars flash past, not interested in a roll-up. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and switched it on.
No new messages. Not that he expected to be the first person to be told when they arrested the killer.
'Low battery' flashed up on his screen. He cursed himself for failing to charge it that morning and turned it off once more to save what little power he had.
'How's it going?' Ron asked, exhaling with force.
Nigel looked at him apologetically.
"I know you can't tell me the details, but you can tell me whether it's going well, can't you?'
'It's going ... OK. Just got microfilm eyes, that's all.'
Ron nodded in sympathy. 'You know how they used to get the papers flat enough so they could be filmed?'
'Can't say I do.'
'Iron. Used to have a team of women that flattened them with domestic irons.'
'Really?'
'Straight up,' Ron replied and took another enormous, loud drag on his cigarette.
Nigel realized he had to get more specific in his search. 'I need the Chelsea Times,' he said.
'I'll get down there and get it for you once I've finished smoking this,' Ron offered. 'Might take me a while, though. It's not life or death, is it?'
Nigel smiled. 'It could be.'
Foster was in his car, reliving the memory of the previous Sunday in Avondale Park in Notting Dale when he'd been called to the scene of the tramp's death. There had seemed little remarkable at the scene when he first arrived there. The rain had fallen steadily throughout the night, and he remembered the trees appeared to be bowing under the weight of water. The tramp had been found hanging from the frame of a children's swing, though he had been cut down by the attending officer in a vain attempt at resuscitation, so Foster did not see the body in situ.
He'd been back to the office and collected some pictures. The rope, the swing, the tramp's body, the area around the scene. None of it looked in any way out of the ordinary. The rope had been sent to forensics for examination and Carlisle had been summoned to do a second postmortem. Foster had called the park keeper, who had found the body at dawn, and been assured, as he had been the previous week, that no one had witnessed anything strange or different the day or night leading up to the body's discovery. Yet the park had been closed at five p.m., which meant the killer must have dragged or hauled the body into the park by some means. Foster had walked around the park perimeter and could see no obvious way in.
The question that bothered him was: Why was there no stab wound? Barnes had told him that all three victims in 1879 had been stabbed. So why hang the first one?
They needed an ID. He had asked for dental records to be prepared and compared against those on the missing persons database, but that would take time. So, here he was in his car, kerb-crawling through the streets of Ladbroke Grove and Notting Hill, armed with a stack of pictures of a dead man. He started by St John's Churchyard. Pieces of police tape attached to the railings still fluttered in the wind. But the churchyard itself was empty.
He drove along Portobello Road; the market stallholders had long since packed away their stalls, though the detritus of a busy Saturday still littered the road. He parked up when he reached the railway bridge, at the northern, darker end of the street. It was here the winos liked to hang out, in and around the alleys, buildings and dark corners that constituted life under the Westway.
He checked Acklam Road, a pedestrianized street running parallel to the overhead motorway. There was no sign of anyone, homeless or not. He crossed back over Portobello and walked beside the Westway towards Ladbroke Grove. There was a small park called Portobello Green, a haven for local workers eating their lunch by day, and for the chaotic and confused drifters drinking fortified wine by night. He pushed the gate that led into the park, and heard it creak. From the other side he could hear voices, people laughing and shouting. As he got closer he could see a group of homeless gathered around one park bench, falling quiet as he drew near, recognizing him as trouble.