The building had once been a double-fronted shop. Now, the windows were whitewashed over, and the signboards over them were weathered illegible. A Transit van with its doors open was parked outside. I turned the corner and continued my leisurely stroll. Before I drew level, the door opened and a youth waddled uncomfortably in the general direction of the van. He couldn’t actually see it since he was struggling to balance four cardboard cartons stacked on top of each other. “Left a bit,” I suggested.

He threw a grateful half-smile at me, sidestepped and swivelled on one heel. The top box started to slide, and I moved forward to grab it as it fell.

“Cheers, love,” he gasped as he leaned forward to tip the boxes into the van. He stepped back, hands on hips, head dropping forward.

“What you got in there anyway? Bricks?” I said as I stowed the other box for him.

He looked up at me and gave me the once over. “Designer gear, love. Top-class stuff. None of your market stall rubbish. Hang on a minute, I’ll get you a sample. Just a little thank you.” He winked and headed back to the door. I followed him and stood in the doorway. To my right, cardboard boxes were stacked ceiling high. Beyond them, a couple of women stood at long tables, folding shell suits, putting them in plastic bags and filling more boxes with the bags.

On my left, two machines clattered. The further one seemed to be printing T-shirts, while the other was embroidering shell suits. Before I could get a closer look, the van driver drew everyone’s attention to me. “Oy, Freddy,” he shouted.

From a small office at the back of the warehouse, my quarry emerged. “Do what, Dazza?” he asked in a deep voice, the cockney revealing itself even in those couple of words.

“T-shirt for the lady,” Dazza said, waving an arm at me. “Saved my stock from the gutter.”

“Pity she couldn’t do the same for you,” Freddy grunted. He gave me an appraising look, then picked out a white T-shirt from a pile on a trestle table by his cubbyhole. He threw it at Dazza, then turned on his heel and pulled his flimsy door shut behind him.

“I see he’s been to the Mike Tyson school of charm and diplomacy,” I remarked as Dazza returned.

“Don’t pay no never mind to Fat Freddy,” he said. “He don’t take to strangers. Here you are, love.”

I reached out for the T-shirt. I picked it up by the neck and let the folds drop out. His face gazed moodily into mine. Across the chest, in vivid electric blue, was the Midnight Stranger logo, straight from the last album and the tour promotional posters. Jett was alive and well and being ripped off in Bradford.

Chapter   20