Lies Sleeping

by Ben Aaronovitch

  Guleed took out her notebook and ran through the outcome. Fiona Williams didn’t know anything about her husband’s contacts from his Oxford days apart from Gabriel Tate, who he had occasional drinks with.

  ‘And co-wrote the script I found,’ I said.

  Guleed had already actioned an IIP report and checked our lists and found he wasn’t a suspected Little Crocodile.

  ‘He is now,’ said Seawoll.

  Because Fiona had been in the living room with Nightingale and Carey and hadn’t witnessed the attack, we hadn’t revealed anything to her beyond the fact that it had been a serious assault.

  ‘She seemed suspiciously uninterested to me in how her husband was injured,’ said Guleed. ‘I mean I’d want to know – wouldn’t you?’

  But Fiona Williams had accepted Guleed’s explanation with what psychologists call a ‘flat’ response.

  ‘She might still be in shock,’ said Seawoll. ‘We’ll give her a day or two to recover and then you can have another pop.’

  Fiona Williams had hired the nanny from an agency But when Guleed had followed up they’d denied knowing anything about Alice McGovern, aka the Pale Nanny, but whether the substitution had been made with or without the collusion of Richard Williams we wouldn’t know until he woke up.

  ‘If he wakes up,’ I said.

  ‘Abdul seemed confident he would,’ said Nightingale.

  So we were going to have to find a way to secure him against future attack. We’d discussed housing high-risk witnesses and/or suspects inside the Folly, but that had its own problems – running from PACE compliance to operational security. Ultimately, safety for the likes of Richard Williams and his family lay in us nailing Martin Chorley’s feet to the floor.

  ‘We’re stuffed until he does wake up,’ said Seawoll.

  Neither Nightingale not Seawoll were looking particularly happy at the lack of results so far, but I kept my mouth shut because I’d noticed that Guleed had skipped over a couple of pages in her notebook and guessed that she’d saved the best for last. You don’t make your way up the Met’s particularly convoluted greasy pole without knowing when to use a bit of showmanship.

  ‘There was one more thing,’ she said and gave me the barest flicker of a wink. ‘Richard Williams had an unusual interest in bells.’ She paused for applause – not a sausage – and went on. ‘He made several trips to the Whitechapel Bell Foundry.’

  ‘Good lord,’ said Nightingale. ‘I didn’t realise it was still open.’

  ‘Could it have been for his work?’ asked Seawoll.

  ‘We’re checking that now, but he went to some lengths to keep it secret from the missus,’ said Guleed.

  The missus, perhaps because she was missus number two, had twigged that Richard was keeping secrets. And, having way less faith in his fidelity than his first wife – go figure – followed him down to Whitechapel to see what he was up to. This sort of thing is pretty common – people often draw more attention to themselves trying to hide their activities than whatever it was they were up to would. Plus sometimes the cover-up is more illegal than the thing they were covering up.

  Still, if people were brighter routine police work would be much harder.

  Guleed had held off contacting the bell foundry directly.

  ‘I didn’t want to risk tipping anyone off,’ she said, and both Nightingale and Seawoll nodded approvingly.

  ‘I think you two should go and have a poke around the place,’ said Seawoll. ‘While we finish up with Chiswick.’

  He looked over at Nightingale, who gestured at me and Guleed.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ he said.

  5

  Two Sticks and an Apple

  ‘I think I preferred it when they didn’t get on,’ said Guleed.

  ‘They still don’t,’ I said. ‘They’re just being professional about it.’

  So professional, in fact, that if you listened closely you could hear both Nightingale and Seawoll creaking under the strain. Fortunately, modern technology allows the modern minion on the go to do his prep work far away from his superiors and, bonus, get some reconnaissance in while he’s at it.

  Me and Guleed had ensconced ourselves in the Café Casablanca, whose window seats afforded a nice view of the front and back entrances to the Whitechapel Bell Foundry and who served coffee that was strong, hot and properly grande. It also served a selection of Indian sweets made on the premises that were doing their best, through smell alone, to convince me that type 2 diabetes was a small price to pay.

  Back in the day, or rather rursus in diebus antiquis, your newly minted Romano-Brit with a decent torc and his eye on the main prize might want to get his bullock cart full of garum from the burgeoning port of Londinium to the brand spanking new capital of Britannia – Camulodunum. To facilitate this vital trade in fermented fish guts the Roman Army thoughtfully laid one of their famously straight roads between the two cities – that this allowed for the rapid redeployment of various legions in their quest to bring the joys of underfloor heating to the benighted tribes further north was mere serendipity.

  You could tell Whitechapel Road was Roman by the fact that it was straight and wide enough for bus lanes, a cycle superhighway, and a street market. It carved a line from Aldgate to the Mile End Road and beyond. It’s been the East End’s one-stop shop for life, death and culture since the docks drove the massive expansion of the city eastward. You can shop in the market, worship in a mosque that was once a synagogue, that was once a Huguenot church, educate yourself in the Whitechapel Library, culture yourself in the Whitechapel Gallery, live in the shadow of the sci-fi tower blocks of the City, and then die in the London Hospital.

  And still get the, allegedly, best bagels in London.

  And if you wanted a bell made good and proper, you went to the Whitechapel Bell Foundry, established 1570. Currently occupying the best part of a Georgian townhouse and various industrial extensions out the back. It was here that they recast Big Ben after the original bell cracked.

  While Guleed chased her paperwork and eyed up the halal delights of the café’s menu, I spent an interesting half an hour on the phone to MOLA. They recognised the names of the site reports I’d found in Richard Williams’s office but didn’t think they had anything in common beyond being digs from the last five years and all from around the city proper. Most archaeology in London these days is rescue archaeology – projects designed to preserve as much as possible from the relentless cash-driven redevelopment. It’s not a new problem. Ask a medievalist about Victorian cellars or an Iron Age specialist about medieval ploughing – but take snacks, because you’re going to be there for a while.

  ‘There was one thing,’ said the helpful lady at MOLA. ‘At one of the sites . . . Adrian will know.’

  There was much shouting to see if Adrian was around, a bit of a wait and then the man himself took the phone – he sounded like he was from the Northeast with just a threat of full-on Geordie, should the need arise.

  ‘Is this about the thefts?’ he said.

  Thefts – plural.

  ‘How many thefts have there been?’ I asked.

  ‘That depends on how you define it,’ said Adrian.

  Because material went missing off sites all the time, which is why important finds were collated and secured the day they were found.

  Important in archaeological terms not always being the same as valuable – at least not in the fenceable sense. Archaeology came in all shapes, sizes, and apparent degrees of nickableness.

  ‘We wouldn’t have even noticed some of the thefts if they hadn’t been important to the context,’ said Adrian.

  Context being the key concept of modern scientific archaeology, and what separates your modern professional from the fumbling archivists and swivel-eyed tomb raiders of the past. It’s a religion they share with scene of crime technicians and it
had been drummed into me from my first day at Hendon.

  Context – where you find an object – is more important than the actual object. In policing it’s whether the broken glass is on the inside or the outside. In archaeology it’s whether that datable coin is found in the wall foundations or its demolition infill. You can live without the coin, but you need the dating information.

  ‘Material was taken from about five sites,’ said Adrian. ‘I’ll have to check the reports to be certain, but as I recall it was nearly all Roman brick.’

  Apparently, the only thing the sites had in common was that they were within London and they all either had ritual significance in the Roman era or had been repurposed as church sites during the five hundred years or so following the withdrawal of the Empire from Britain.

  I asked whether the thefts seemed random or whether the pattern made sense in archaeological terms.

  ‘Whoever it was didn’t just scoop things up at random, so I’d say they knew what they were looking for,’ he said. ‘Assuming it was the same person.’

  I got a firm promise that he’d email the details to us, and warned him I might need to contact him again. He seemed moderately pleased by that.

  The boys and girls back at the Annexe would soon be adding archaeologist to the mix of qualities they were looking for in an associate of Martin Chorley – see, context.

  But I did wonder what the hell they wanted Roman bricks for.

  ‘Nothing good,’ said Guleed.

  Both us having actioned our morning actions we finished up and popped over to find out exactly what Richard Williams had wanted a bell for.

  When you arrive unexpectedly at someone’s house you go in through the front door, often after making sure you’ve got a couple of mates waiting round the back. For a business, especially the kind that involves big trucks and heavy metal, it’s always better to go in through the back. The customer-facing part of any modern business is purposely designed to be as politely unhelpful as possible. If you go in from the rear, the customer-facing staff are all facing the wrong way and everybody starts their conversation on the back foot.

  Apart from us, of course.

  The big gates round the back on Plumber’s Row were open for a delivery, so we walked in bold as brass until someone shouted at us. We showed them our warrant cards, but they weren’t impressed – they weren’t going to talk to us until we were wearing hard hats and had signed in.

  We did as we were told, both me and Guleed being big fans of health and safety, particularly when it’s our health and safety. Plus you could feel the heat of the main furnace from five metres away. Molten copper, I learnt later, for a relatively small one ton church bell. It filled the workshop with a smell like fresh blood.

  London used to be full of workshops, craftsmen and manufactories. But the industrial revolution sucked all the jobs north, where the water and the coal flowed freely and a man could wear a flat cap and fancy his whippet free from fear. Much of what made Dickensian London Dickensian was driven by that shift. What people forget is that, in the short term, the Luddites were right.

  Still – policing is a service industry, so no worries there.

  We were introduced to a white guy in a blue boiler suit, with burn and grease marks I noticed, who was in charge that morning. His hair was a tight mop of grey curls and his face was dark and deeply lined. I thought he might be the same age as my father, but he radiated physical strength as if decades of hard work had made a furnace of him. When he shook my hand the skin was as rough as sandpaper and his grip as deliberate as a machine tool.

  Another one for Dr Walid’s DNA database, I thought, if we can persuade him.

  He introduced himself as Gavin Conyard.

  ‘But you can call me Dr Conyard,’ he said, and smiled.

  I showed him a picture of Richard Williams and asked if he remembered him visiting the foundry.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Dr Conyard. ‘The drinking bell.’

  It turned out that Richard Williams, under his own name, had commissioned and paid for a bell – and not a small one either.

  ‘Not the largest we’ve ever made,’ said Dr Conyard, ‘but pretty vast all the same.’

  Also not the sort of thing our POLSA team would have overlooked back at the family home.

  ‘Did he pick it up himself?’ I asked. ‘Or did you deliver?’

  ‘Oh no,’ he said, and pointed to the other side of the foundry. ‘It’s still here.’

  It was sodding enormous – as tall as me and a deep rich brass colour that seemed almost red in the light from the foundry. It was, I learnt later, your classic church bell tuned to five partials to give it that full-bodied main note.

  ‘Not that the buyer seemed particularly interested in the tone,’ said Dr Conyard.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Guleed.

  It was very plain, with no decoration around the dome. Just the crest and name of the foundry and below that an inscription in what I recognised as Greek.

  δέχεσθε κῶμον εὐίου θεοῦ

  ‘We had to get the lettering made specially,’ said Dr Conyard.

  ‘Do you know what it means?’ asked Guleed.

  ‘We asked that ourselves,’ said Dr Conyard. ‘It means “Prepare yourself for the roaring voice of the god of joy”.’

  I asked Dr Conyard whether he’d worked on it personally, and he gave me a sly grin.

  ‘I thought you were one of them,’ he said and winked.

  ‘One of them what?’ I asked, but he shook his head.

  ‘Put your hand on it,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you think.’

  I gingerly reached out and touched the side of the bell with my fingertips.

  Nothing.

  I nodded at Guleed to step back – just in case – then I put my palm flat against the bell and closed my eyes.

  And there it was. A cool tone like the moments that follow the ringing of a bell, like the sound a finger running around a wine glass makes – if the glass was as wide as a cannon mouth and made of brass.

  It was definitely a vestigium, but faint and subtle and deep. I thought that if I could push my way through the gaps between the tones and semitones I might find another sound on the other side. If only I could listen a little harder . . .

  I snatched my hand away.

  Great, I thought. It’s not enough that every supernatural creature feels free to try and put the ’fluence on me, but now I’ve got to put up with inanimate objects trying it on as well?

  But before I let go I got a whisper of the straight razor strop and a smell of blood that was all slaughterhouse and fear.

  ‘Dr Conyard,’ I said, ‘I’m going to have to ask you to temporarily close this premises and evacuate all the staff.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I believe you may have inadvertently helped construct an explosive device.’

  6

  Centre Mass

  Nightingale spent a long time with both palms pressed against the side of the bell. Long enough for the inside of my riot helmet to become slick with sweat and for the faceplate to start to fog up from my breath. I was in my full personal protection kit, including petrol bomb resistant overall, boots and helmet. I was also crouched behind a nice thick piece of steel reinforced with the greenest bit of wood I could find on short notice – a brand new garden table from the Argos across the road. The wood was to help protect me if the bell went bang in a magical way, and the metal in case it exploded physically.

  Nightingale had made it clear that some demon traps could do both.

  ‘The trapped spirit ignites the metal in some way,’ he had said during an informal training session with me, Guleed and a handful of London Fire Brigade volunteers. ‘I’m not sure why.’

  It had something to do with the ignition point of vaporised metal, but it could be ‘rat
her inconvenient’ if you were expecting the demon trap to do something else.

  Ten metres behind me was Guleed, and behind her was a fire engine, with a full crew in search and rescue gear.

  According to the literature, demon traps were invented by the Norwegians back around the seventh century to while away those long winter nights while you waited for the fjord to unfreeze so you could pop out and murder some monks. Creating them involved torturing a person to death over an extended period and trapping their ghost in a piece of metal. That energy stayed dormant until triggered and could be tuned to create a number of effects.

  The Germans had refined the technique as a weapon during the Second World War. Nightingale swears blind that no British wizard ever stooped to such practice, and I admit I’ve never found any record to show they did. But still – you have to wonder.

  Martin Chorley had either developed or discovered that you could use dogs instead of people, and that you could use demon traps like batteries to store magic. Which was a neat trick, because neither he nor any practitioner that I know actually knows what magic is. You can stick a label on it, call it potentia or mana or an interstitial boundary effect, but all that does is make you sound like you’re auditioning for Star Trek – TNG, not the movies.

  I checked my watch. Nightingale had been standing in front of the bell for more than two minutes. I’d warned him that there was definitely a seducere style effect built in, but he seemed confident he could deal with it.

  At three minutes I made a considered risk assessment and decided to go grab him and pull him off. But, as I came out of hiding, Nightingale took his left hand off the bell and held it up – palm towards me.

  I stopped.

  And considered crawling back behind cover – which would have been the sensible thing. But before I could do that Nightingale took his right hand off the bell and beckoned me over.

  ‘It’s not a trap,’ he said.

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘I have no idea whatsoever.’

  Fortunately we got word that a man who might know something had woken up back at UCH. So me and Guleed bundled into the character-free Hyundai and headed over while Nightingale stayed with the bell, just in case it suddenly started ticking or something.