David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good by Andrew Grant Page A

separate storage areas. Each one was large enough to hide a dozen
men. Or all the supplies they’d need to lay siege to the whole complex. An
office belonging to the hospital’s security firm was down there, too - tucked
in between a standby generator room and a tool store - which didn’t recommend
working for them. But the thing that sounded the most interesting of all, I
didn’t even get to see. It was sealed away behind a rusty, steel door. I only
found out about it from a maintenance guy who saw me trying to pry it open. He
swore it was the entrance to a fully equipped World War II rifle range, and
that he knew this because his father had been inside. The government had built
it in 1940, he said, when they were more worried about improving the hospital
workers’ ability to shoot invading Germans than their skill at patching up
injured Londoners.
            That maintenance worker
wasn’t the only person I spoke to. I also talked to five of his colleagues. I
found them in a huddle, sneaking crafty cigarettes in a room at the far end of
the red corridor. It was full of ancient-looking ventilation equipment. The old
machinery appeared basically redundant, with just enough life left in it to
dissipate their smoke. I asked if they’d rigged the place back up specially for that purpose, and one of them admitted they
had. Then the subject of the recent fire alarm came up. That wasn’t much of a
surprise, given the cigarettes in their hands and the piles of flammable debris
on the floor. The biggest talking point wasn’t whether the hospital had been in
danger of burning down, though. It was the attention they’d attracted from the
police, afterwards. All of them seemed pretty indignant about the implied stain
on their characters, but one guy’s complaints were particularly strident. He
was standing furthest from the door, so when the others made a move to leave it
wasn’t too hard for me to head him off. I penned him back in the corner, and
when the sound of footsteps had died away in the corridor outside, I asked him
his name.
            “Elvis Presley,” he
said, without irony. “What’s it to you?”
        “Just being friendly,” I said. “I
thought maybe we could talk.”
            “Haven’t got time,” he
said, eyeing the narrow gap behind the largest machine. “I’ve got work to do.”
            “It won’t take long,” I
said, stepping to the side to show how easily I could block his escape route if
he tried to worm his way out. “Give me a minute. I think I might be able to
help you with something.”
            “Help me? How.”
            “Let me give you my
card,” I said, reaching into my jacket pocket, then pulling a frustrated frown.
“Oh, damn. They must all be upstairs, in my room. I’ll get one for you later,
if you’re interested. In the meantime, let me tell you what I do. I’m a lawyer.
And I specialise in police brutality cases.”
            “You’re a lawyer? Good
for you. Why would I care?”
            “Because I saw how you
reacted when your friends mentioned the police, just now. I know the signs. If
the police are giving you a hard time, I can make them stop. And if they’ve
crossed any lines, I can make them pay.”
            “Why should the police
be giving me a hard time? I haven’t done anything.”
            “I’m not saying you
have. But I’ve been cooped up in this place for a few days, now. I know about
the fire alarm. I know some hospital property was damaged. And I know the
police are looking for someone to pin it on.”
            He didn’t reply.
            “How many times have
they questioned you?” I said.
            He looked away from me.
            “How many times?” I
said.
            “None,” he said.
            “And you’d like it to
stay that way?”
            He nodded.
            “Were you working