The eighth floor is stripped down: no carpet, no ceiling. Everything’s gone. Except, the workmen seem to have left one table, and around a dozen chairs. Next to this is a single power socket dangling from the wire hanging down from the coil of wire above, and there’s a kettle plugged into it. There’s a bin bag propped up against the nearby pillar.
You slump onto the floor, put your phone in front of you under the torch beam and prise the back off. It’s soaking inside. The battery drips as you take it out. You know from experience that with ideal conditions – putting everything in a bowl of dried rice somewhere warm – takes at least a couple of days. And your conditions are far from ideal. You have to acknowledge that your phone is dead.
You wonder if Metcalf has anything in his annoyingly locked office that might help.