gotta launderette next floor down or if you want your washing done there’s an old lady lives down the corridor. 103. Barbara. She’s cheap. Been here twenty years and ’cause o’ rent control she pays only two-fifty a week. Can you believe that? Can’t get rid o’ the old crate. We’ll have to wait till she dies,’ the manager said, producing a grin that revealed two rows of brown, distorted teeth.
Stratton completed the registration form without revealing his true home address and picked up the keys.
‘You have any problems, I’m in 116 around the corner.’
‘Thanks,’ Stratton said, picking up his pack and heading for the elevator. While he waited for one to arrive the manager left the desk and went back the way he’d come. Stratton looked at the red fire-exit door and pushed it open. A grubby, dark, grey concrete stairwell led up, all the way to the roof no doubt, and down, most likely to the underground parking.
The elevator announced its arrival with a ding and the doors slid open. Stratton stepped inside and hit the button for the fourth floor. The doors closed and the elevator ascended.
Stratton stepped out into the fourth-floor corridor that resembled those in the lobby, both ends disappearing left and right around corners into the build ing’s wings. It was clean and fresh-looking, the carpet either new or very well maintained. The number on the door in front of him was 408 so he took a guess and turned right. Large windows on the elevator side of the corridor revealed the dark ocean in the distance beyond the street-lamp-illuminated palm trees that lined the top of the cliff.
Stratton stopped outside apartment 411, the one nearest the corner. A glance along the brightly lit corridor into the wing revealed that it extended to a fire exit at the far end with a further half-dozen apartments staggered either side. He would check the fire exit later. He unlocked the door, pushed it open and walked inside.
The apartment wasn’t as small as he had expected. It looked clean and the furnishings, though inexpensive, were functional. There was a separate bedroom and bathroom and a tiny kitchen
– behind a partition in the living room – had a sink, fridge, cooker and a few cupboards squeezed into it.
Stratton placed his pack on the floor and went to the living-room windows that flanked the room’s corner. The city was brightlylit and there was a view of the beach and the Santa Monica pier that had a large Ferris wheel on it set among funfair buildings decked in coloured lights. The cliffs melted away a short distance past the pier and the brightly lit Ocean Avenue continued south, separated from the beach by what appeared to be a row of expensive hotels. The view east, which could not be described as spectacu -lar, was of the city itself, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Stratton went into the bedroom which was basic but adequate, as was the bathroom. It would do fine but he was already looking forward to leaving and going home.
He suddenly felt tired and checked his watch. It was almost four in the morning back home but experi ence had taught him to stay awake until at least past ten p.m. local time to help adjust to the time difference. The plan for the rest of the day was to find a cash machine, get some more dollars, then grab a bite to eat. He would follow that with a walk around the neighbour-hood to familiarise himself with it. The following day all his efforts would be focused on Josh and what he would have to do to get the boy back to England.
Stratton’s thoughts drifted back to poor Sally and his heart was suddenly filled with sadness. The only family in the entire world that he had been close to – and it had been shredded in the space of a couple of weeks. Getting Sally’s body back to the UK was another issue that he would have to deal with. He suddenly felt overwhelmed. Although he’d planned a variety of special forces operations around the world during the past decade
Stratton completed the registration form without revealing his true home address and picked up the keys.
‘You have any problems, I’m in 116 around the corner.’
‘Thanks,’ Stratton said, picking up his pack and heading for the elevator. While he waited for one to arrive the manager left the desk and went back the way he’d come. Stratton looked at the red fire-exit door and pushed it open. A grubby, dark, grey concrete stairwell led up, all the way to the roof no doubt, and down, most likely to the underground parking.
The elevator announced its arrival with a ding and the doors slid open. Stratton stepped inside and hit the button for the fourth floor. The doors closed and the elevator ascended.
Stratton stepped out into the fourth-floor corridor that resembled those in the lobby, both ends disappearing left and right around corners into the build ing’s wings. It was clean and fresh-looking, the carpet either new or very well maintained. The number on the door in front of him was 408 so he took a guess and turned right. Large windows on the elevator side of the corridor revealed the dark ocean in the distance beyond the street-lamp-illuminated palm trees that lined the top of the cliff.
Stratton stopped outside apartment 411, the one nearest the corner. A glance along the brightly lit corridor into the wing revealed that it extended to a fire exit at the far end with a further half-dozen apartments staggered either side. He would check the fire exit later. He unlocked the door, pushed it open and walked inside.
The apartment wasn’t as small as he had expected. It looked clean and the furnishings, though inexpensive, were functional. There was a separate bedroom and bathroom and a tiny kitchen
– behind a partition in the living room – had a sink, fridge, cooker and a few cupboards squeezed into it.
Stratton placed his pack on the floor and went to the living-room windows that flanked the room’s corner. The city was brightlylit and there was a view of the beach and the Santa Monica pier that had a large Ferris wheel on it set among funfair buildings decked in coloured lights. The cliffs melted away a short distance past the pier and the brightly lit Ocean Avenue continued south, separated from the beach by what appeared to be a row of expensive hotels. The view east, which could not be described as spectacu -lar, was of the city itself, stretching as far as the eye could see.
Stratton went into the bedroom which was basic but adequate, as was the bathroom. It would do fine but he was already looking forward to leaving and going home.
He suddenly felt tired and checked his watch. It was almost four in the morning back home but experi ence had taught him to stay awake until at least past ten p.m. local time to help adjust to the time difference. The plan for the rest of the day was to find a cash machine, get some more dollars, then grab a bite to eat. He would follow that with a walk around the neighbour-hood to familiarise himself with it. The following day all his efforts would be focused on Josh and what he would have to do to get the boy back to England.
Stratton’s thoughts drifted back to poor Sally and his heart was suddenly filled with sadness. The only family in the entire world that he had been close to – and it had been shredded in the space of a couple of weeks. Getting Sally’s body back to the UK was another issue that he would have to deal with. He suddenly felt overwhelmed. Although he’d planned a variety of special forces operations around the world during the past decade
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