LITMIR.BIZ

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a specialized world like John Plowman inhabits I have to have a special sort of informer. I don’t suppose my sociologist would like to be called an informer. But if I use him (and I probably will use him) that’s just what he’ll be, one of a fellowship made up of men like Frank Bowen (aged forty; at least half of those years spent in prison. Incompetent but hopeful. Perfect for my purposes); little Ned Thaw (a liar, but so stupid that even his lies showed me the truth, like the other side of the coin), and smiling, bad-tempered Happy Boy Hooper whom nobody liked.

      ‘I’ll do some asking around,’ I said to Dove.

      ‘Thanks.’ He knew what I meant. He stood up to go. ‘They’re getting on with that building over the way,’ he said. ‘I suppose we’ll be in it soon. I shan’t be sorry. This place is falling down round our ears. Know what I heard. The rats from here have moved into the new building in time to meet us.’ He was quite serious. He was one of those people who find rats deeply interesting. So did I, for that matter.

      ‘Wonder what they’re living on?’ I gathered my papers together, preparatory to leaving. I should have to come back in later this evening, but I could have an hour at home. I was hungry too. This was what made me wonder what the rats were eating.

      ‘Wood shavings, debris, food the workmen leave behind. Or they bring stuff in. They’re clever boys, those rats are. There’s a delicatessen next door.’ He was full of admiration for the rats’ skill.

      ‘Remind me not to shop at that delicatessen.’ I was ready to go. ‘Wait for me, I’m coming along.’

      We went out of the building and into the street together. You never know what you’re walking into.

      There was a group standing on the pavement by the half-completed building: a small group made up of six men and one woman. They were staring upwards.

      ‘What’s this?’ said Dove.

      Before we could walk across a boy detached himself from the group and ran across to us.

      ‘There’s a man up there in trouble,’ he said, pointing upwards to where, high on the structure of scaffolding, the lift-cage was. ‘He’s stuck,’ he said breathlessly. He was a boy of about seventeen wearing working clothes.

      We joined the group and looked up. It was still daylight but it had been one of those sultry, overcast days you get so often in London. You really couldn’t see much. I could see the cage and make out a shape.

      ‘Why’s he crouching there?’ said the woman.

      ‘Is he crouching?’ I wasn’t sure what I could see.

      ‘He was standing up a little while ago, I swear it. Now he’s on his knees … He’s ill.’ She was breathless with interest. ‘That’s what it is, he’s been taken ill.’

      ‘How did it happen?’

      ‘Well, I don’t know. I was just coming by with my shopping when this young boy says there’s a man stuck up there.’ She looked round for the boy, who nodded vigorously.

      ‘Yes, he’s up there,’ he said, with interest and apparent pleasure.

      ‘Supposing he falls down?’ said the woman.

      ‘No, he won’t fall down. It’s like a great cage, see.’

      ‘How did it happen?’ I asked, stepping back to get a better look, but it wasn’t easy to get details clear at that angle.

      The boy shrugged. ‘He phoned down to me and said: Help me, help me, they’re getting me.’

      ‘That was a funny thing to say.’

      ‘I didn’t know what he meant. And I said: Come down, then. And he said: I can’t, the power’s gone. Then he said he was falling.’

      ‘But he hasn’t fallen.’ I squinted upwards, trying to see.

      ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ agreed the woman.

      ‘I think the lift’s stuck,’ said the boy.

      ‘It was working all right this morning,’ said one of the other men, turning round to talk. ‘Much you know about it, Patsy Burden.’

      ‘I know what I’m told,’ retorted Patsy.

      ‘And what’s been done about it?’ I aked. I was beginning to think the man up there was ill. Or worse.

      ‘I heard him call out,’ said the woman, reading my thoughts, ‘when I got here first. He’s dead silent now.’

      ‘I got the foreman coming,’ said the boy.

      ‘I reckon he’s dead.’

      ‘The foreman’s coming,’ repeated the boy.

      ‘He’s not God, is he?’ demanded the woman. ‘Supposing the poor chap’s gone, he can’t bring him back.’

      ‘He’s not gone,’ said the boy. ‘I see him.’ He pointed.

      ‘Not gone in that way, stupid. Gone, passed away. Dead.’

      I was still silent. I had that itchy, scratchy feeling I get when things are going wrong. I scratched my wrist absently. I’d had an infection there once and my skin still remembered it.

      ‘Here is the foreman,’ said Dove. ‘It’s Joe Davies. I know him. Hello, Joe, trouble here?’

      ‘There shouldn’t be,’ said the foreman, a tall spare man with a brush of fair hair. ‘But this lot can foul up anything.’ He glared at the bunch of men. ‘Have you tried bringing it down?’

      ‘No,’ said one of the men. ‘I saw one of those cages drop from top to bottom once with the man in it. You do it.’

      ‘Who is it up there? Whoever it is he shouldn’t be there. We’re not working that face today.’

      ‘I bet he’s thinking he shouldn’t be there.’

      ‘I think it’s Tom Butt,’ said one of the men.

      ‘And what’s Butty doing up there?’

      ‘I dunno. Anyway, he’s a nervous type. If he went up there it was because someone told him to.’

      ‘I’ll give him nervous when I get him down.’ He moved away.

      ‘I’ll come with you, Joe,’ said Dove.

      ‘Thanks.’ But he hardly looked at Dove as he strode off. We both followed him towards a small wooden hut which stood at the bottom of the scaffolding.

      It was empty, but smelt of men in sweaty clothes and cigarette smoke and stale tea.

      ‘I have all the controls here,’ said Joe. He looked white. He put out a hand towards a panel of switches, then hesitated. ‘Maybe I should get the police.’

      ‘I am the police, Joe,’ Dove reminded him.

      ‘How does the lift work?’ I asked.

      ‘By electricity. We don’t pull it down by hand.’ He was irritable. ‘He has a control up there. I have an emergency switch down here.’

      ‘How can you get in touch?’

      ‘We have a telephone.’ He pointed at it. ‘But either it’s gone dead or he’s not answering. I’ve tried to get him three times.’

      ‘Pull that emergency switch.’

      ‘If that man gets killed …’

      ‘Yes,’ said Dove gently.

      ‘Why is this hut empty?’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t there be someone here?’ It looked like the technological heart of the building operation.

      ‘Yes, me,’ said Joe briefly. ‘And the boy’s about. He took the call.’

      ‘Pull the switch, Joe,’ advised

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