At Liverpool Street Station the rolling advertising posters display the smooth flanks of luxury cars next to the smooth flanks of women lounging amid palm trees and sun-block bottles. Then like a bony hand on my shoulder those adverts, those well-meant solicitations to donate to cancer, dementia and heart disease.
I crossed Bishopsgate quickly into Artillery Lane and that obscure neighbourhood of backstreets that had somehow escaped the waves of redevelopment.
The shop had a dusty window display behind a metal grill. But none of us in the know ever looked in the window, at all that popular trash. No, the treasures we were after were elsewhere.
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When Blue entered the bar of the Blind Tailor the men there turned their backs to him. Even the barman lowered his eyes as Blue inspected the room. In the corner sat two men at one of the mahogany tables beneath the dartboard. Another man sat alone at the bar on a high stall. It was always better to approach those who were alone.
Blue put his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“I need a volunteer,” he said, “You must come with me now. Your family will be suitably compensated.”
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