Lies Sleeping

by Ben Aaronovitch

  ‘If you find something perishable under water,’ I told Guleed when she asked, ‘you temporarily keep it submerged until you can find a way to permanently store it. Otherwise it starts to decay really quickly.’

  Guleed was stunned into silence by my erudition, or at least didn’t ask any more questions.

  As far as we could reconstruct it later, Lesley used the leading digging edge of the JCB’s bucket to smash the locks at the base of the sliding inner door and then roll it up. Beyond was a high-ceilinged corridor lined with workrooms on the left and metal shelving down the right. The place had the school art room smell of wet clay and turpentine. The space was far too narrow to manoeuvre a JCB down its length, but unluckily for MOLA the target material had all been at the loading bay end of the corridor.

  Although, us being police, we all doubted it had anything to do with luck.

  ‘We need to re-interview everyone,’ said Guleed.

  Somebody must have told somebody, even if they didn’t know why that somebody wanted to know.

  The stolen material had been stored in large containers like outsized shoeboxes made of heavy-duty brown cardboard. There was a stack of them left untouched against one wall. I looked at a couple of the labels – it was marked with a site and context number, a period P/MED and identified as HUMAN SKELETON. Most of the pile were P/MED human skeletons and I couldn’t help wondering who they were and whether they’d be pleased to know that their remains had ended up in boxes in a warehouse in Islington.

  ‘So skeletons aren’t particularly magical?’ asked Guleed.

  ‘Not intrinsically so,’ said Nightingale. ‘It depends on context.’

  What had been stolen, according to MOLA’s records, was a thousand kilograms of assorted bits of masonry and approximately three hundred clay pipes excavated from a site off New Change.

  ‘Right next to St Paul’s,’ I said.

  ‘You’d better talk to the archaeologist involved,’ said Nightingale. ‘Sahra and I will split the interviews with the staff here between us. Carey can join us when he comes on shift.’

  Upstairs, MOLA’s offices had the same open-plan cubicle based workspace that has been the delight of code monkeys and low-level paper pushers since one time and motion consultant said to another, ‘Hey, you know, I don’t think we’ve really dehumanised these white collar drones enough’.

  The big difference is that in the average office you don’t walk into a cubicle area and find someone reconstructing a skeleton.

  ‘Who’s this?’ I asked the tiny white woman with grey hair and pince-nez, who was holding a small bone fragment like someone with a bit of sky from a jigsaw puzzle.

  ‘Not sure,’ she said without looking up – she had an accent like a well-bred pirate. ‘Found him last month.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘Downstairs in storage,’ she said distractedly. ‘Mislabelled.’ She straightened suddenly. ‘Aha!’ she cried. ‘This doesn’t belong to you at all.’ Then she looked at me properly. ‘Can I help you?’

  I told her I was looking for Robert Skene.

  ‘He should be about somewhere,’ she said. ‘Are you with the police?’

  I said I was, and asked what she was up to.

  ‘It wasn’t me, guv,’ she said. ‘He was dead when I found him – honest.’

  I gave the joke the consideration it deserved.

  ‘There’s been some very good results recently extracting DNA from teeth,’ she said, as she carefully placed the bone fragment down on a clean sheet of paper. ‘So we’ve been hunting out any skulls that might have been mislaid to see what we can find.’ She looked down at her nearly complete skeleton. ‘I’m afraid I got a little bit distracted.’

  I asked how old the body was.

  ‘We’re still waiting on the C-14 results,’ she said. ‘But my money’s on Roman – possibly related to that lot over there.’ She gestured at a row of brown cardboard boxes on a nearby work surface – each carefully labelled ‘Human Skull’.

  ‘That’s a lot of heads,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Crossrail can’t sink an access shaft these days without finding skulls. We’re trying to work out what these ones were doing in the Walbrook.’

  ‘Any theories?’ I asked, which got a laugh.

  Apparently there were almost as many theories as skulls, but it was just possible they were victims of the Boudiccan sack of Londinium in ad 60, or possibly 61.

  ‘Given the numbers reported killed in Tacitus,’ she said, ‘the bodies must have gone somewhere.’

  There was a problem with that theory, in that the skulls were mostly missing their related spines and hips, arms and legs – not to mention jawbones – which did rather suggest that they’d washed down the river from further upstream. Skulls being famous for surviving trips down rivers where lesser bones do not.

  I was actually getting a bit interested, but then Robert Skene arrived and it was back to work.

  He was a white guy in his early thirties who spoke with a vaguely East Anglian accent, and while he was dressed office casual in jeans and a check shirt, he definitely gave the impression that big mud-encrusted boots and army surplus jackets were a plausible option. I thought, he’s going to be a big fan of obscure heavy metal bands or folk music, or possibly both at the same time.

  I asked about the dig where the stolen material had come from.

  ‘St Paul’s Cathedral School,’ he said. ‘Stage two of the One New Change development. It looked like demolition rubble, we did some test pits and some geophysics but we didn’t find any structures or useful stratification and the only proper dating evidence was the clay pipes.’ He shrugged. ‘Our best guess is that it was rubble from the medieval phase of the cathedral that was dumped during the construction of the Wren. The pipes might have belonged to the workers.’

  ‘That’s a lot of pipes,’ I said.

  ‘Clay pipes were totally disposable in those days,’ said Robert. ‘They used to sell a pipe with a single charge of tobacco – smoke it and throw it.’

  ‘So builder’s rubble and fag ends?’ I said.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  So I was thinking about the power of faith while I was writing up my notes.

  The exact role that faith plays in imbuing supernatural entities with power has been hotly debated since Newton’s day. Its importance has risen and fallen with the Folly’s intellectual fashions, from the Deism of the Enlightenment to the muscular Christianity of the late Victorians, to the disillusionment and despair in the aftermath of the First World War. But not in the way you might think.

  The deists, believing in a creator that had set the world in motion and then stood back to admire its work, thought faith and worship might have an impact on lesser supernatural creatures in much the same way as the wealth of nations was affected by trade. They were certain that, with the application of enough reason, the principles behind these transactions could be understood.

  Those cold-shower athletic Up, up, play the game Victorians couldn’t believe that their Lord and saviour might have to compete with the local Rivers for the favour of ordinary humanity. Their God was all powerful and existed independently of our hopes and wishes. And if their prayers had no effect then, God damn it, nobody else’s did either.

  Despite taking no official part in the War to End All Wars, many wizards volunteered nonetheless and nearly all lost brothers, fathers and uncles. Foxholes might breed belief, but trench systems are full of fatalistic cynics. After the war, most combatants didn’t like to talk about it. But those that did were not fans of the idea that faith could move mountains – at least not literally.

  Nonetheless, there is power in those old cathedrals – you can feel it through your fingers when you touch the walls. And, wherever it comes from, we all knew what Martin Chorley planned to do with it.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ said S
eawoll, when we convened for the evening briefing. ‘We go after Lesley.’

  15

  The Coop

  ‘Do you think there is a God?’ said Carey, apropos of fuck knows what.

  We were on a stake-out. And spending a couple of hours cooped up in a car often leads to some weird conversations. But this was the first time religion had ever come up.

  ‘You know, God,’ he said. ‘Creator of everything – the Bible – that kind of God.’

  ‘Not really,’ I said, and checked the mirrors to make sure we hadn’t been spotted.

  Not that it was likely, given that we were parked down Poplar Place which was actually round the corner from our target. We’d taken the ‘last car on earth’, a ten year old Rover that was fully reconditioned under the bonnet but beaten to shit on the bodywork. It moved when you wanted it to but the aircon was buggered. Which why it was always the last car anyone picked for an operation. It didn’t help that it was another sweaty, overcast day, and even with the windows down Carey was suffering.

  Our targets were the false houses in Bayswater that concealed not only the unsightly gash of the Circle and District Lines, but one of the hidden entrances to the clandestine tunnels that were the domain of the secret people that lived under West London. Fortunately we knew where most of the hidden entrances were. Unfortunately, so did Zachary Palmer – who was minting it as informal liaison between Crossrail and the Quiet People, as the secret folk were known, who were employed for their unique tunnelling skills.

  Judging from the pattern when he evaded us, Zach used the hidden ways when he wanted to escape his surveillance team. As part of the ‘arrangement’ with the Quiet People the further flung of their secret entrances, not used for Crossrail, had been decommissioned. Me and Carey were stationed at the easternmost of the entrances which was still open, while Nightingale and Guleed were waiting in Notting Hill, which we figured was his most likely escape route.

  ‘So you don’t believe in God?’ said Carey.

  Long experience with my mother’s erratic approach to Christianity has taught me to avoid this topic of conversation, but I wasn’t paying attention so I just told him I didn’t.

  ‘How can you not believe in God?’

  There was something in Carey’s tone that made me pay attention.

  ‘I just don’t,’ I said.

  ‘But after what you’ve seen,’ he said. ‘After the shit we’ve seen?’

  ‘What kind of shit?’

  ‘You can do magic, Peter,’ said Carey. ‘You can shoot fireballs out of your fingers and your girlfriend is a river. That kind of shit. Like possessed BMWs and just all of it. All of that shit.’

  ‘That’s different,’ I said. ‘That shit is real.’

  ‘Most people don’t think it’s real. They think it’s all made up.’

  ‘Like overtime,’ I said, but Carey wasn’t biting.

  ‘If that’s true, then why not God?’

  ‘How does that follow?’

  ‘Because it does.’

  ‘No it doesn’t.’

  ‘OK, OK, maybe you just haven’t met God yet,’ he said and, before I could reply, my Airwave pinged.

  It was Sergeant Jaget Kumar, the Folly’s liaison with the British Transport Police and our man in London Underground’s CCTV control room.

  ‘You’re not going to like this,’ he said. ‘But your target’s eastbound on the District Line.’

  Nightingale broke in.

  ‘Zulu Foxtrot Two One One – go east now, see if you can get ahead of him.’

  So much for secret doors, I thought, as I put the Rover in gear and peeled away with the light-bars flashing but the siren off. I considered going under the Westway at Royal Oak but decided to risk the traffic on the direct route and head up Bishop’s Bridge Road. We don’t speed in the Metropolitan Police, we ‘make progress’ where the traffic allows. Sometimes we made progress at seventy miles an hour, but not often enough to reach Edgware Road before Zach did.

  ‘Has he ever done this before?’ asked Carey, who was enjoying the breeze.

  I said not.

  ‘He knows we’re following him this time,’ said Carey. ‘Why else change his pattern?’

  Jaget reported that Zach was off the train.

  ‘Assume he’s going east on the Hammersmith and City,’ said Nightingale over the Airwave. ‘And try and get to Baker Street before he does. We’ll cover this end in case he doubles back.’

  Fortunately Nightingale had said this early enough for me to slide off the Harrow Road and onto the Marylebone Flyover – although, as any London driver will tell you, that’s not always a step up.

  ‘He’s on the eastbound platform,’ said Jaget.

  ‘Skip Baker Street,’ said Nightingale. ‘Go straight to King’s Cross – we’ll come east and cover Baker Street.’

  Guleed was in for a treat if Nightingale thought he could do Notting Hill to Baker Street in under fifteen minutes.

  I had to make a decision. A couple of hundred years ago the Euston Road was practically London’s northern boundary. You’d clip along in your carriage with the fields and orchards of Middlesex to the north and the brand new Regency housing developments, luxury homes for the gentry – so no change there –to the south. It’s a crucial east-west route and as such has been widened, turned into a dual carriageway and had underpasses and flyovers added in order to cope with the traffic volume. The result has been a road on which the motorist can while away a happy hour or so of an afternoon while admiring the limitations of sixties urban planning.

  I got off it as soon as I could and went around the back of Euston Station by the secret route, known only to me and London’s cabbies, and ended up approaching King’s Cross down York Way. Zach hadn’t got off at Baker Street, but I was seriously beginning to wonder whether he was going anywhere or was just messing us about.

  ‘Farringdon,’ said Carey. ‘He could slip into the Crossrail works there and lose us.’

  I relayed this via Guleed, who was making the occasional yip sound over the noise of a vintage, but beautifully maintained, inline six cylinder going flat out.

  ‘He says stay where you are until we’re in a position to cover King’s Cross,’ she said, and then paused while Nightingale said something indistinct in the background. ‘He thinks that if he were trying to lose us he’d have made the attempt at Baker Street.’

  ‘Where’s he going?’ asked Carey.

  It turned out to be Liverpool Street.

  As we shot down Bishopsgate I realised that the Broadgate offices of Bock, Loupe and Stag were passing on our right.

  ‘Haven’t we just been down these ends?’ I said.

  ‘It’s the City,’ said Carey. ‘Everyone down here has their hand in everybody else’s trouser pocket.’

  Jaget tracked him off the train, up the escalators and out the Old Broad Street exit. By that time I’d managed to pull in by the taxi rank on Liverpool Street. Only Zach caught us by surprise by coming out our way and we had to duck down as he passed us on the other side of the street. I didn’t dare back out in the car because someone was bound to honk at us and catch Zach’s attention, so we threw the doors open and bundled out instead. Carey, since he’s interacted with Zach the least, took the lead as he turned right down Bishopsgate.

  Zach looked cheerful and suspiciously well groomed.

  ‘He’s definitely expecting to get lucky,’ said Carey over his Airwave.

  But where was this good fortune about to take place?

  Like most of the City, Bishopsgate is in a permanent state of redevelopment. Which worked to my favour, since the scaffolding on the building next to the Church of St Botolph of the Turkish Baths gave us cover as we watched Zach cross over to the other side of the road.

  We thought he was going for Houndsditch, a pedestrianised strip between Heron
Tower and whatever it was they were building next door, and we hurried across to avoid getting left behind. But Zach surprised us again by veering through the revolving doors that led to Heron Tower’s main lobby.

  I’m not going to say anything about Heron Tower except that I’m sure the architects did their best and that the makers of Meccano probably regard it as aspirational. It’s forty-six storeys high and has a couple of expensive eateries at the top, but they’re served by their own lifts with a separate street entrance. Zach obviously wasn’t going for those.

  Carey went into the lobby while I followed cautiously ten metres behind.

  Heron Tower has what the brochures call a concierge style lobby. Which is to say, just like every modern corporate building built this century, there’s a reception, security and barriers to stop the unwashed from penetrating the inner fastness. Exactly like Broadgate, only this time with the largest privately owned aquarium in the UK – stocked, I like to think, with piranhas so that failing minions could be suitably punished by their superiors.

  Piranhas or not, the aquarium rose like a glass wall behind the receptionists, who were all young white women, sitting in a row and dressed in identical blue uniforms.

  Zach was nowhere to be seen. I suspected he was already up the escalators or heading for the main lift bank – both were the other side of the security barriers.

  Carey showed the receptionist his warrant card.

  ‘The scruffy white man who just came in,’ he said. ‘Where did he go?’

  The receptionist, startled by his tone, hesitated, glanced at me and then, slightly panicked, to the approaching security guard. This guy was in a navy suit with an unfortunate orange tie, and was nearing us with the caution of a man on a minimum wage zero hours contract who planned to give his employers exactly what they paid for.

  Carey whirled on him – he obviously hadn’t enjoyed the stake-out.

  ‘You,’ he said to the security guard. ‘Unless you want to be arrested for obstruction, get her to tell us where he went.’