nonchalantly between the office buildings: a slab of moody brick and grey tiles. It conformed to the size and shape of the buildings either side but this structure had no windows, just black steel doors at ground level and a ventilation grille across the whole of the second floor, like a mouth. Its most striking feature, however, was an industrial-size winch mechanism swivelled to fit flush against the bricks. It looked like something you’d see on an old warehouse or a mine.
The internet on his phone was down. Belsey hesitated, then called the office. Rob Trapping picked up.
“Rob, I need you to run a search online for me.”
“What is it?”
“I need you to find out what happened to the deep-level bomb shelter at Chancery Lane.”
“What?”
“Just search it: Chancery Lane deep shelter.”
Trapping tapped at his keyboard.
“It never opened,” he said.
“I know. But it was built.”
“Hang on.” It took him a minute. “Nick, I’ve got a website that says twin tunnels were excavated under Chancery Lane during the Second World War.” Trapping paused. “This is weird.”
“What is it?”
“They were then used by the government.”
“For what?”
“They reckon some kind of secret telephone exchange.”
“Underground?”
“Yes. According to this it stretches for a mile beneath High Holborn. It says here it has its own water supply from an underground water source, food stores, oil reserves.”
“Stretches for a mile in which direction?”
“Nick, this could all be bollocks. It’s just some amateur’s website.”
Belsey was already heading back to the main road.
“It follows the length of High Holborn?”
“Supposedly. This is what the site says.” Trapping read in a faltering monotone: “The spine of the exchange is a tunnel 100 feet down on the northern side of High Holborn, between Hatton Garden and Bloomsbury Square. It runs under Gray’s Inn Road. Eating and sleeping facilities are situated on the Bloomsbury side. The Hatton Garden end has communications equipment and generators.”
“Where’s the entrance?”
“31 High Holborn, apparently.”
“Hold on.”
Belsey found number 31. It was a new apartment building, its salmon-pink imitation marble no more than ten years old. A passageway split the building from a tax accountant’s. Belsey ran down and saw an older extension jutting out: darker bricks, windowless, with one wooden door and an old sign: London Transport Executive . The door didn’t budge a millimetre when he pushed it. There was no handle. He thumped with his fist, and it felt solid as a wall.
“Any other entrances?”
“Furnival Street,” Trapping said. “It had a goods lift for transporting machinery down to the tunnels.”
“I saw that. The winch is still there but there’s no way in.”
“That’s everything, Nick. I’ve got to go. Sergeant Craik’s back.”
Belsey circled the area a final time. He found a metal chimney rising improbably out of a pedestrianized area on Leather Lane. It looked like some piece of public art. Office workers sat on the base, checking their phones, feet dangling over the abyss. He imagined cries for help coming from the chimney, startling them from their cappuccinos.
It stretches for a mile . . .
Belsey tried to feel the shape of it beneath him. Where did it end? He went back to High Holborn and turned, looking west over what must have been the length of it. He stared towards the hubbub of Oxford Street, the junction with Charing Cross Road, the one building alone against the sky: Centre Point.
15
THE RECEPTION AREA AT THE BASE OF CENTRE POINT was very white, with a list of the building’s occupants on a backlit panel behind the security desk. Belsey read through, ignoring the stare of the guard sunk low in his swivel chair: a couple of foreign oil companies, a talent agency, a restaurant on the top floor. Nothing that leapt out and said nuclear-proof telephone exchange. The restaurant had its own
The internet on his phone was down. Belsey hesitated, then called the office. Rob Trapping picked up.
“Rob, I need you to run a search online for me.”
“What is it?”
“I need you to find out what happened to the deep-level bomb shelter at Chancery Lane.”
“What?”
“Just search it: Chancery Lane deep shelter.”
Trapping tapped at his keyboard.
“It never opened,” he said.
“I know. But it was built.”
“Hang on.” It took him a minute. “Nick, I’ve got a website that says twin tunnels were excavated under Chancery Lane during the Second World War.” Trapping paused. “This is weird.”
“What is it?”
“They were then used by the government.”
“For what?”
“They reckon some kind of secret telephone exchange.”
“Underground?”
“Yes. According to this it stretches for a mile beneath High Holborn. It says here it has its own water supply from an underground water source, food stores, oil reserves.”
“Stretches for a mile in which direction?”
“Nick, this could all be bollocks. It’s just some amateur’s website.”
Belsey was already heading back to the main road.
“It follows the length of High Holborn?”
“Supposedly. This is what the site says.” Trapping read in a faltering monotone: “The spine of the exchange is a tunnel 100 feet down on the northern side of High Holborn, between Hatton Garden and Bloomsbury Square. It runs under Gray’s Inn Road. Eating and sleeping facilities are situated on the Bloomsbury side. The Hatton Garden end has communications equipment and generators.”
“Where’s the entrance?”
“31 High Holborn, apparently.”
“Hold on.”
Belsey found number 31. It was a new apartment building, its salmon-pink imitation marble no more than ten years old. A passageway split the building from a tax accountant’s. Belsey ran down and saw an older extension jutting out: darker bricks, windowless, with one wooden door and an old sign: London Transport Executive . The door didn’t budge a millimetre when he pushed it. There was no handle. He thumped with his fist, and it felt solid as a wall.
“Any other entrances?”
“Furnival Street,” Trapping said. “It had a goods lift for transporting machinery down to the tunnels.”
“I saw that. The winch is still there but there’s no way in.”
“That’s everything, Nick. I’ve got to go. Sergeant Craik’s back.”
Belsey circled the area a final time. He found a metal chimney rising improbably out of a pedestrianized area on Leather Lane. It looked like some piece of public art. Office workers sat on the base, checking their phones, feet dangling over the abyss. He imagined cries for help coming from the chimney, startling them from their cappuccinos.
It stretches for a mile . . .
Belsey tried to feel the shape of it beneath him. Where did it end? He went back to High Holborn and turned, looking west over what must have been the length of it. He stared towards the hubbub of Oxford Street, the junction with Charing Cross Road, the one building alone against the sky: Centre Point.
15
THE RECEPTION AREA AT THE BASE OF CENTRE POINT was very white, with a list of the building’s occupants on a backlit panel behind the security desk. Belsey read through, ignoring the stare of the guard sunk low in his swivel chair: a couple of foreign oil companies, a talent agency, a restaurant on the top floor. Nothing that leapt out and said nuclear-proof telephone exchange. The restaurant had its own
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