East LondonDavid parked his car out of sight and sauntered round the corner, into the next road. He strolled down the street, looking at house numbers. Stopping half-way down, he pressed the keypad button next to number 46, a moment later the intercom buzzes.
“Yes?” Said a gravelly sounding voice.
David speaks into the small speaker, giving his false name, “Tod Kirby, you're expecting me?”
“Straight up the stairs,” said the voice. The door release then clicks. David warily pushes it open and climbs the stairs. He sees 46 and taps on the door.
“It’s open,” shouts the gravelly voice.
David sees a small shabbily dressed bald man sitting behind a table covered in sheets of paper and printing ink cartridges.
He peered across at David. “You Tod Kirby then?”
“Yes,” sorry but don’t know you
