Blow the House Down Read online

  ‘The poor blighter must have had too good a lunch.’ Suddenly feeling she’d like a cup of tea, Hilda Baxter pushed aside the paper and moved across to the kitchen, smiling as she entered. They’d lived in the flat for a long time and the place, though small and cramped, was home to them. Through the kitchen window the towers of the Heights appeared immense and slightly frightening, and she wondered how she’d like living so high up. The flat they’d been allocated was lovely, but it was on the forty-­eighth floor, which was a hell of a long way from the ground. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to look down from the balcony when the council man showed them round. The building would be sound enough, that was obvious, but would it rock a bit, when there was a gale blowing?

  One thing was for sure: neither she nor Jack would go near those bridges. Old Mallory could keep his church and recreation hall for such as wanted to associate with niggers. They’d stick to their own kind.

  ‘Drat it.’ The flame had died under the kettle and she knew she had no shilling for the meter. In the old days she’d have borrowed one from any of the other tenants, but not now. She’d starve before she’d be beholden to the Lagarbis or that brazen Mrs Virgil.

  Hilda turned off the gas tap, shrugged her shoulders and looked through the window again. Perhaps she’d soon get used to living at such a height. The flat was as nice as pie, and they would have white neighbours. Everybody had raved about the building and said old Mallory was a sort of saint. But as she looked at them, the very size and shape of the towers still troubled her somehow. They appeared so flimsy in comparison to their height. In a strong wind would they be really safe?

  Surely the weather must change soon. Janet Fane sat behind her desk in the municipal offices, thinking of clear skies and fresh breezes and clean air. The building was situated in the centre of Randel­wyck and for the last three days the valley had been surrounded by a belt of grey cloud that held in heat like a thick and dirty blanket.

  If only there was a breath of wind. Janet forced herself to disregard the heat and humidity and concentrate on the job in hand. It was Saturday morning, and apart from the janitor she was quite alone in the building. She and her boss, Joseph Pinter, the borough engineer, had been rushed off their feet this week and she had volunteered to come in and finish off some letters for him.

  Thank goodness this was the last of them: a recommendation that a derelict factory site should be purchased by the council and used as a car park for the tenants of Mallory Heights. Janet closed her shorthand pad, wearily typed ‘Dictated by J. K. Pinter, M.I.C.E., but signed in his absence’ and addressed it to the chairman of the Housing Committee.

  Mallory Heights. Through the open window Janet could see the huge towers dwarfing the surrounding buildings, even though their spires were hidden in cloud. She sealed the envelope, replaced the typewriter cover, and leaned back, considering Paul Gordon’s senseless fears. Thank God he had forgotten them now, but there was no doubt he had been terribly overworked during the last six months and keeping himself going with drink. Paul would have to take a grip on himself.

  ‘I know Lansberg was tight, Jan,’ he had said after knocking back his second large whisky in the saloon bar of the Black Horse. ‘I also told you that he irritated me immensely, but the man is highly qualified, and he did sound sincere. If there is any evidence to suggest that the Heights has a flaw, I want to know what it is. I’m not saying that Lansberg was right, darling, I just ruddy well want to know. Hell’s bells, nobody in authority criticized the Tay bridge or Ronan Point till it was too late.’

  ‘But what could be wrong with the building, Paul? The consulting engineers and your own firm checked Strand’s design to the last detail.’ Janet frowned, watching him chase the whisky with beer. ‘The foundations are set on solid rock, and wind-­tunnel tests proved that it could withstand far greater pressures than anything recorded by the anemometers.’

  ‘I know all that, darling. And in any case the poor devil’s dead, so we’ll never learn what he intended to tell that conference in London.’ Paul had reached out and taken her hand, playing with the fingers for a brief moment, then releasing them and lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Nobody can fault old Strand’s masterpiece, and “the building is as strong as the Rock of Gibraltar,” as Wade kept repeating at the last shareholders’ meeting.’ He mimicked his employer’s booming tones. ‘ “A triumph of unconventional design and a structure of which we at Spender-­Wade can be justly proud.”

  ‘But though you may think I’m off my rocker, Janet, I’ll tell you something else.’ He paid the waiter for his fresh whisky and leaned forward. ‘On the morning after Lansberg was killed I happened to look out of my bedroom window and for a brief instant I seemed to see that something was wrong with those towers; something frightening and sinister, though don’t ask me what it was.’

  ‘I don’t have to, Paul.’ Janet watched Joe Pinter coming across the room to join them. ‘You were suffering from a hangover, and let’s change the subject. Remember that you’re supposed to be an engineer, not a clairvoyant. Something sinister indeed!’

  Paul really had been neurotic, she thought. He had not changed the subject, but repeated it all to Pinter, and Joe was not only a rough diamond, but a man of vast civic pride.

  ‘I can guess what that bloody kraut said to you, Gordon, because he was tight before we even went in to eat. He told several people that he might be able to expose a flaw in the Heights when he returned to London.’ Janet could still hear the scorn in Pinter’s voice.

  ‘And mind you keep it quiet, young man. We’ve had enough trouble over that building already, without more stupid rumours being spread around.’ Joe was drinking Guinness and froth clung to his heavy moustache.

  ‘ “A fool’s paradise”, that ruddy chap, Martin Judson, called the Heights. All I can say is that it’s better to live in a fool’s paradise than rot in a fool’s hell. “Done on the cheap and done too quickly.” That’s what one damned idiot wrote in the local rag. ’Course it was cheap for a structure of such a size. Do they think Randel­wyck is Millionaire’s Row? The whole point of Strand’s design was to combine strength with economy and he made a brilliant job of it, as you should know yourself.’ Paul had protested that he had no technical reason to criticize the building and was merely quoting what Lansberg had said, but Joe Pinter had got into his stride.

  ‘Naturally the flats had to be put up fast. Unless the housing problems of this city are solved, and solved damned quick, we’re going to have full-­scale racial riots on our hands.’ That was true enough, as Janet knew. The long sultry summer had heated a lot of tempers and Mr Judson’s recent speech had done nothing to cool them. Only last week there had been an ugly incident involving three tipsy steelworkers and a West Indian bus crew.

  ‘You haven’t been long in these parts, have you, Gordon? Only came to Randel­wyck to work on the project.’ Pinter had thumped his pint pot on the table. ‘Well, before you start rumour-­mongering, take a walk. Go and have a look at some of the “long rows”, as we call ’em; Shelley Street and Tennyson Road and West Hill Rise. See the conditions the poor bastards have to live in, and then stop repeating crap that an intoxicated Hun told you. The coroner contacted Berlin and Lansberg’s own doctor wrote back that the man had a history of alcoholism.

  ‘Now, you’re in the chair, so let’s have another, and drink a toast to the finest piece of civil engineering design in the country. Hell, we all helped to build it, so where’s your loyalty?’

  Poor Paul. Joe Pinter had really given it to him, and he had never mentioned Lansberg again. Janet stacked her letters and stood up, again glancing through the window as she left the room. To her there was nothing sinister about the tall towers of the Heights, and they looked quite beautiful: symbols of hope and brotherhood for the underprivileged citizens of Randel­wyck.

  Not like this old dump, she thought, walking down the gloomy corridor to the staircase. The municipal building had been built in the eighteen
nineties, and when she had first escorted Sir George Strand to Pinter’s office he had halted on the stairs, turned round and slowly shaken his head over the dark entrance hall with its cast-­iron pillars and stained-­glass windows and marble busts of long-­dead civic leaders. ‘Do you know something, Miss Fane,’ he had said with a grin. ‘Only a very wicked man could have designed such a horror.’

  But at least they had one thing to be proud of. Janet paused at the end of the landing. The room on her left contained Joe Pinter’s pet toy: a wind tunnel, originally hired to test a model of the Heights against Strand’s and the contractor’s figures. Joe had become so enthralled with the machine that he had somehow managed to persuade the council that it was essential for future projects, and they had reluctantly bought it from the owners.

  Only half past twelve. She frowned at her watch. Paul was picking her up at one, and at least the building was cooler than the small dusty park outside where she was to wait for him. To kill time she opened the door on her left and laid down her letters and handbag on a metal desk set against the wall. The room had once been a council chamber, but now mechanical deliberations had replaced those of aldermen and councillors. The roof was glass and the wind tunnel lay beneath it, supported by massive steel cradles. In its plastic body stood an eight-­foot-­tall model of Mallory Heights, with coloured ribbons drooping from the towers like dispirited bunting.

  Janet had often seen the tunnel in operation, and quite idly she crossed to the control panel and pressed a switch. The fan started with a gentle purr to produce a breeze, and then grew to a roar when she twisted the rheostat. Wind force 6 – force 8 – force 9 – gale force: the very worst meteorological conditions recorded in the area. The machine howled in fury, the ribbons strained out at right angles, but the model just stood there, rigid and proud and contemptuous.

  Janet reversed the rheostat and pressed another switch which set the machine on a varying pitch to simulate gusts of wind. The howls became oddly human this time, as though a man were bellowing in agony, and the ribbons cracked and whirled like whips. She took a cigarette and a box of matches from her jacket pocket, glanced at the rows of dials which appeared to be fluctuating more rapidly than they had done on earlier occasions, then looked into the tunnel again.

  The cigarette dropped from her lips, the match remained burning in her hand, and though the room was warm her whole body became cold.

  The miniature towers of Mallory Heights had not lost their contempt for the elements. They remained rigid and motionless before the blasts of air, but there was something very frightening about the rest of the building. With her breath coming in gasps and the match scorching her fingers, Janet saw the connecting bridges start to vibrate.

  ‘You honestly expect me to believe this, lass?’ After fetching Paul, Janet had telephoned Pinter and the three of them stood before the tunnel. ‘You saw the bridges move?’

  ‘They moved all right. All four bridges vibrated violently for a brief period.’ Janet had to raise her voice above the bellow of the fans. ‘I thought the whole model was about to disintegrate.’

  ‘Well, they’re bloody well not vibrating now, Janet.’ Pinter kept altering the controls to simulate varying gusts. ‘They’re as steady as the rock the Heights are built on.

  ‘When you got up here, you saw nothing amiss, Gordon?’

  ‘Not a thing. The model was behaving perfectly normally.’ Paul looked away towards Janet. She appeared both bewildered and unhappy, but also resentful of Pinter’s obvious disbelief.

  ‘Of course it was.’ Pinter turned from the apparatus, and nodded coldly. ‘Just how long was this brief period, Janet? Thirty seconds – a minute?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but much less than that.’ She tried to recall exactly what had happened. The cigarette falling from her mouth, the sudden pain as the match burned her fingers, but that was quite unimportant compared to the tiny agitated quiver that ran along the bridges. ‘Perhaps five seconds, certainly not more than ten.’

  ‘As brief as that.’ Pinter was suffering from hay fever and he produced a handkerchief and blew his nose violently. ‘Less than ten seconds, and you were lighting a cigarette at the time. Also, judging by what our friend here had to say in the pub the other day, you’ve probably had your mind stuffed with a lot of morbid anxieties about the Heights.’

  ‘I had no anxieties till today, Joe, and I told Paul not to pay any attention to what Lansberg said.’ Janet flushed at the sneer in Pinter’s face. ‘I had as much faith in the design as you had, but I’m telling you the truth. Those bridges definitely did move.’

  ‘You think that you’re telling the truth, lass. I don’t doubt that, but you can just listen to me for a moment.’ The apparatus was registering gale force and Pinter almost shouted above the din. ‘Since I came into the room we’ve simulated far more violent meteorological conditions than any likely to occur in the district and the model hasn’t budged. You’ve been imagining things, Janet, that’s all there is to it, and I’ll tell you for why.’ He reached out and switched off the motor, watching the straining ribbons flutter and go limp.

  ‘Those bridges couldn’t have moved, because the slightest vibration would be bound to tear the whole structure apart. They are under load and that’s the main feature of George Strand’s design. Surely you know that yourself. We’ve talked about it enough in the past. Them towers are not vertical, but set at a slight angle leaning away from each other. That means that the bridges are enduring constant stress, which increases the total strength of the structure by seven and an eighth per cent. Any movement would have snapped the main frames like rotten carrots.’

  ‘Not necessarily in such a short space of time, Mr Pinter.’ Paul frowned at the tunnel. ‘And I see that your model varies slightly from the one we’ve been using at Spender-­Wade’s.’

  ‘Only in one or two superficial details, young man.’ As always happened when he was irritated, Pinter’s north-­country accent became more pronounced. ‘The balustrades and the television mast on the south tower have not been included, but they could not affect the stability of the structure.

  ‘Hell’s bells, use your eyes and look at this.’ He tapped the ribbon graph. ‘The line’s almost dead straight, which proves there was no movement to speak of. Certainly not enough to be seen by the naked eye.’

  ‘Not at ground level, Mr Pinter. That’s all the recording shows.’ What is a building like Mallory Heights, Paul considered while he studied the graph. A mass made up of separate parts; piles and concrete slabs and steel girders, held together by welds and rivets. The function of each unit had been checked and rechecked by an army of technicians, and scrutinized by machines. But the complete structure was the work of an individual, the brain-­child of one man of genius, Sir George Strand, and other designers had made mistakes in the past. The Tay bridge had collapsed in a gale, in northern Italy the Vagont reservoir had overflowed and killed three thousand people; since the partial failure of Ronan Point in London scores of system-­built blocks had been reappraised. In matters quite unconnected with architecture errors in design had also led to disaster: the loss of the British Railways ferry Princess Victoria, for instance. She had sunk on the short crossing from Stranraer to Larne because the doors to the car deck had been designed to open inward, and a following sea had buckled the bolts.

  ‘A few seconds is a very short space of time,’ he said. ‘In such a period the vibrations might not have travelled to the base of the model. If there is the slightest chance that Janet did see a movement, I think Sir George Strand should be told about it, Mr Pinter.’

  ‘Do you?’ Pinter snorted and mopped his sweating forehead. ‘Then you’d best tell him, hadn’t you, Gordon? Aye, just you trot along to old Strand and say you think his design is faulty because your girl friend started to play about with the wind tunnel and imagines that she saw the model move.

  ‘I’ll not go with you, that’s for sure, but I’ll be right interested to hear what he has to say in rep
ly. Georgie Strand is an old man and that stroke may have knocked some of the stuffing out of him, but he’s still a ruddy hard case. Brian Carlin, the consulting engineer, fancies himself as a big pot, but I mind the way Strand answered him when he suggested that the main slabs were on the lightish side. Yes, you go and have a talk with Strand.’ The thought of their probable discomfiture had partially restored Pinter’s good humour. ‘I’ll enjoy hearing what sort of reception you get.

  ‘Seriously, just forget it, Janet. You’ve too much imagination, I’ve been working you pretty hard recently, and it’s a darned hot day. My advice is that you go home, take a couple of aspirin and lie down for a bit.’ He looked at his watch and frowned. ‘And now I’m going to enjoy what’s left of my Saturday. I promised to take my two lads over to Manchester to see United’s first match of the season, and we’ll probably miss the first half, thanks to you.’ He picked up his hat and strode out, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Those bridges did move, Paul.’ Janet gripped his arm. ‘I’m as sure about that as I’m sure of anything.’

  ‘I know you believe that, but I just don’t see how they could have moved.’ Paul shook his head. While Pinter was present he had supported Janet out of personal loyalty and because her statement had revived the fears which Erich Lansberg had planted in his mind. Now that they were alone, his anxieties were beginning to appear groundless again. ‘We ran hundreds of tests in our own tunnel and couldn’t fault the model at all.’

  Memories of those attempts at criticism came back to him. Colonel Wade trying to appear affable, but clearly nervous though supported by his advisers. Sir George Strand huge and rugged, with a face that could be as bleak as a graven image one moment and then suddenly crinkle into a mocking smile that made Paul think of an aged satyr painted by Rubens. On more than one occasion he had glanced down almost expecting to see goatish hooves protruding from Strand’s trousers.