The traffic hadn’t eased, and cabs would be radioing each other to avoid the area, so she started towards the tube, walking quickly, weaving between the late-night shoppers and the drunks and the party-goers. Before she reached the station, she found a neon-lit doorway and behind it an office the size of a cupboard; on the window was an A4 sheet of paper with CAB printed on it. The office hadn’t been there last week and would probably last until just after Christmas. Three men sat on wooden chairs, smoking hard as if to counteract the cold. Stella showed them her warrant card and they looked worried. When she said she needed a cab, they smiled and nodded and showed her a London map pinned to the wall. Stella pointed to Notting Hill Gate. One of the men nodded to her and left the office. Stella followed. They walked off the main drag and fifty metres down a side road. He blipped the lock on a new Ford. Stella almost laughed out loud: it was so obviously a hire car. She wondered how much the local patrol guys were putting in their pockets.
