Page 37 of The Mysterious Case of the Alperton Angels
Amanda Bailey
Haven’t started Need to get the first chapter down. Then change it as new info comes in. Need to get a grip before HE steals any more of my bods.
Craig Turner
Relax. It’s only a book.
Amanda Bailey
He winds me up so much. He can NEVER understand this case. Not the way I do.
Craig Turner
Forget him. Concentrate on that first chapter.
Amanda Bailey
You’re right. My boss at The Informer had a mantra: stop sitting, start shitting.
Craig Turner
Perfect! Don’t work too hard. You know what you’re like. Promise?
Amanda Bailey
Promise.
First draft of a first chapter, written 26/27 June 2021:
Divine
by
Amanda Bailey
One
When Metropolitan Police Officer [find out his ID number] Jonathan Childs knocked on the door, he had more than a suspicion there would be no answer. The smell.
The flat was on the X floor [find out the floor and number] of Middlesex House. A converted office block on the northern bank of the Grand Union Canal. Once inhabited by North Thames Gas, for decades it was the tallest building in this part of London. In 2003 Middlesex House was visible for miles around. Now, it’s swamped by colourful, new, privately owned flats that boast luxurious canal-side living.
Neighbours complained about scratching sounds from rodents. A junior council officer was dispatched to investigate. They took one gasp of the putrid air in the corridor outside, and ran straight back down the [find out the number] flights of stairs to dial 999 and wait for someone else to do the dirty work, PC Childs thought ruefully. He stood alone in the corridor, keys in hand and a resigned, humourless smirk on his face.
One last knock, an obligatory but vainopen up, policeand he couldn’t put it off any longer.Coming in.
***
Harpinder Singh had been moved to Middlesex House on a temporary basis just two months earlier. The place he’d been living in had burned down. A notorious residence of multiple occupancy, suspicious eyes fell on the landlord even before the fire brigade arrived. Singh wasn’t there at the time. He was working at a restaurant in nearby Southall.The manager was a distant relation of a distant relation. Singh waited tables, cleaned the kitchen after hours. He caught the 483 bus back to Middlesex House every night.
There was no shortage of people who knew him by sight. One or two mentioned he was looking forward to getting married. Whether that meant he had a bride in mind, or just anticipated a happier time in the future, they didn’t seem to know.
He’d failed to turn up for work several days earlier. No one could say exactly when they’d last seen him. Nor could they shed any light on why he would have been in a neighbouring flat. One that was officially unoccupied. Awaiting refurbishment.
All PC Childs knew, as he stood in the doorway that morning in 2003, was that Harpinder Singh had been brutally murdered.
2
Second-Stage Interviews and Interacting with Members of the Public
