We woke up the next morning in my old room – which was a bit of a surprise, since I have no memory of waking up and shifting all the boxes and spare suitcases full of clothes from where my mum stacked them on my bed and onto the floor. Thank God the sheets and duvet covers were clean, if a bit musty with non-use.
I watched as Beverley, in just her knickers and a yellow T-shirt liberated from one of the boxes, peered cautiously through a crack in the door before risking a dash to the toilet. Then I checked the messages on my phone, of which the most pertinent was from Dr Walid and read: You are officially on a sick day: do not come in to work.
It sounded like good advice to me, so when Beverley climbed back into bed I asked what she wanted to do.
‘Pretty much this,’ she said. ‘But in a bigger bed.’
So after breakfast we drove across the river to her house where, Sod’s Law being what it is, we ended up on Wimbledon Common helping Maksim plant reed beds along Beverley’s course. Well, I helped Maksim while Beverley spent time poking at the riverbank and muttering about flow rates. Then we had a cheeky Nando’s on Hill Rise near the bridge along with most of Richmond, who then followed us to the local Odeon to watch Allison Carter play against type as a single mother trying to balance her responsibilities to her children and her career as a highly paid assassin. We both agreed that her inability to control her fourteen year old goth daughter was hilariously white and neither of us would have got away with talking back to our mothers that way. Then we met up for drinks with some of Bev’s old school friends on the riverside terrace at the White Cross, and finally an Uber home and bed.
And then we stayed mainly in bed for the whole next day.
I left my phone on in case Lesley tried to get in touch. But nothing. I wondered if Chorley knew he’d been grassed up and whether I should find a way to let him know. Would that be enough of a wedge to break up the team? I decided I wanted to discuss it with Nightingale first – at the very least.
Early Monday morning Seawoll texted me and said he wanted to see me and Guleed in his office at Belgravia first thing.
‘I’m afraid I have bad news,’ he said once we were seated. ‘David Carey is taking indefinite medical leave.’
‘I didn’t think he was that hurt,’ I said.
Seawoll held up a hand to stop me.
‘The problem is not his physical injuries. David has been diagnosed as suffering from acute stress and is undergoing a psychiatric evaluation. I wanted you both to know before the official announcement.’
‘Where is he?’ I asked. ‘Can we see him?’
‘No,’ said Seawoll. ‘He has specifically requested that neither of you visit him.’
He squinted at us and took a deep breath before asking how we were.
We both said we were fine, of course. Now, coppering is famously stressful and equally famous for its macho working-class disregard for the realities of mental health. So naturally Seawoll didn’t believe a word of it.
‘I’ve seen this happen before,’ he said. ‘In cases involving the Special Assessment Unit back before we called it that.’
‘What did you call it, sir?’ I asked.
‘We didn’t fucking call it anything, Peter. We tried very hard not to talk about it at all. But the thing is that this job is hard enough,’ he caught my eye and then Guleed’s. ‘As you both know full well. But at least all the shit you get in the day-to-day is familiar. You get used to it – you learn how to cope. It’s part of the job. But this . . . supernatural shit is different. Ordinary coppers don’t get any training for it. They don’t know what to do with cursed safes, possessed cars or magic bells. And that causes them stress.’
I wondered about the cursed safe. It wasn’t a case I’d worked on. But I decided this was not the time to ask about it.
‘A sense of powerlessness can seriously exacerbate stress,’ said Seawoll. ‘Especially for individuals who are burdened with the expectations of a wider community that assume they’ll master any potential crisis.’ He looked straight at me again. ‘They fucking want us to look like we sodding know what we’re doing. And you might know what you’re doing, although I doubt it. We sure as shit don’t. Not even Nightingale knows what he’s doing half the time.’
He sighed again, his big shoulders rising and falling in exaggerated despair.
‘It’s simple. I need to know that you two are going to look out for each other,’ he said. ‘And I don’t mean physically – that goes without saying. There’s far too much macho bullshit in this job and I expect you two to rise above it. Is that understood?’
We both said it was.
Seawoll turned his attention back to me – because obviously I’m cursed.
‘I want you to include a mental health component in your stage two discussion document,’ he said. ‘I want it incorporated into the Falcon risk assessment matrix.’
‘Stage three,’ I said. ‘Stage two has already been distributed and I don’t have any experience with mental health issues, so I’m not competent to draw up such guidelines. Neither are Dr Walid and Dr Vaughan.’
Seawoll gave me a long-suffering look.
‘I know a couple of specialists. They’ve done work with combat-related PTSD and the like. If that’s acceptable to you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Subject to approval by Chief Inspector Nightingale.’
‘Yes, obviously,’ said Seawoll. ‘Now fuck off. You’re making me tired and it’s only eight in the morning.’
Me and Guleed just about made it to the door before Seawoll spoke again.
‘And let’s be careful out there,’ he said.
‘You’re unbelievable,’ said Guleed once we were safely out the back on Ebury Square, where I’d left the surviving unmarked Hyundai. The glittering aftermath of Thursday night’s thunderstorm was long gone and we were back to sweaty and overcast.
Guleed said that since I’d totalled the old Rover she had to have the Hyundai, because she was actioned to check out some scrap merchants in Enfield as part of the hunt for Chorley’s second bell. She did at least offer to drop me off at the Folly first.
‘Even though it’s out of my way,’ she said.
I got my revenge by asking about Michael Cheung, on the pretext that a senior officer had asked me to keep a close eye on her emotional stability.
‘We’re dating, if you must know,’ she said.
‘Dating?’
‘Yeah. Dating, Peter. That’s when you go out to social events with someone and get to know them rather than just diving in and shagging the first river you meet.’
‘So you’ve been doing that since last October?’ I said.
‘Maybe.’
‘That’s like eight months,’ I said.
‘I don’t like to move fast.’
‘You’re so totally shagging him,’ I said.
‘Fuck off, Peter,’ she said. But she was smiling when she said it.
‘Just remember I’m keeping my eye on you.’
‘Don’t you worry about me. I’m not the one that jumps out of moving vehicles.’
‘It made sense at the time,’ I said.
‘Only to you.’
I got into the Folly just in time for Stephanopoulos to hold the briefing. It was the usual stuff, but some of the reconstruction of events surrounding the kidnap at the Goat and Crocodile was interesting. I’d only seen one van and one henchman, but it turned out there’d been at least two decoy vans, three relay vans to transfer into, and half a dozen Essex boys recruited for the one job. All of which had gone for nothing, because I hadn’t even seen the decoys and thus chased the right van. Afterwards Nightingale used the incident as an exemplar of why you shouldn’t make your operations over-complex.
‘Always try to match your strengths to his weakness,’ he said.
I was tempted to ask what our strengths
actually were, but that probably would have been a cue for more practice and I do, eventually, learn from my mistakes.
With Guleed out checking scrapyards, I ended up working through a couple of Carey’s actions. As I started phoning a list of foundries in the Midlands I couldn’t help wonder whether I shouldn’t have spotted that he was in distress. He’d said he wasn’t happy and uncharacteristically smacked Zach . . . but that could have been general grumpiness. It was all very well telling people to look out for each other, but what were we supposed to look for? I added Check Seawoll’s guidelines include stress awareness training into my medium-term action file. Just under Buy modern Latin textbooks.
A bit after lunch I got a call from Special Police Constable Geneviève Nguyễn, who said she once again had something she wanted me to look at.
‘Not another goat?’ I said, but she said no and gave me an address.
Amen Court – within spitting distance of St Paul’s Cathedral.
Surprise! I thought sourly.
Nguyễn, in plain clothes this time, met me on Warwick Lane, which was blocked off by an unmarked Sprinter van, and led me to Amen Court. Just across the avenue, I noticed, was Paternoster Square and the huge stainless steel sculpture nicknamed ‘The Zipper’. Beyond that, hidden behind the gleaming Portland stone façades of the new buildings, was St Paul’s Cathedral.
At the entrance to the court was a scrupulously polite sign by the entrance that said in white letters on black:
NOT OPEN
TO THE PUBLIC
PLEASE RESPECT THE PRIVACY
OF THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE HERE
On seeing that, my first thought was that someone obviously hadn’t respected their privacy and my second thought was to wonder just who did live in the rather tasty terraces beyond the sign.
‘Used to be housing for church officials,’ said Nguyễn. ‘And they’re still owned by the cathedral. Now it’s all commercial.’
The narrow alleyway continued until it opened up into the court proper, now a garden space overlooking what would have been really nice, if expensive, places to live if they hadn’t been converted into offices.
The court was bounded on the west by a high brick wall built of what looked like Regency or early Victorian brick. This was a famous wall – a last remnant of the infamous Newgate Prison. Behind it ran Dead Man’s Walk, along which the condemned, some of them actually even guilty, were led to the gallows.
More police tape had staked out a section of the wall a good five or six metres wide. Forensics had come and gone, but I recognised the late-night kebab smell of burnt offerings.
‘A cage full of rats,’ said Nguyễn. ‘Very fast fire, hot enough to partially melt the cage – no sign of an accelerant.’
‘Anything written on the wall?’
‘No, but there’s a standard pentagram scratched into the ground around the cage,’ said Nguyễn. ‘I’m hoping this is not another influential group of lawyers, because I believe that would be a problem.’
‘So am I,’ I said as I pulled on my evidence gloves.
The rats were a pathetic burnt heap, so it was impossible to tell whether they were feral or pet whites. I really didn’t want to touch them, but I was getting flashes of something while I was half a metre away and I needed to know what.
Growling, snarling, fear, misery and the taste of blood. The smell of sweat and resignation, of floral scent and old rope. And the shape and slink of an animal as it slunk on its belly to oblivion.
‘Not the Black Dog again,’ I said.
There is a legend that in the reign of Henry II a poor scholar was thrown into Newgate for the crime of sorcery. The prison had been undergoing one of its periodic efficiency drives, with savings being largely taken from the catering budget. The prisoners, driven mad by hunger, fell upon the young milk-fed scholar with glee and, presumably, some sort of condiment. The scholar was said to have uttered a terrible curse and thereby given rise to a hideous black dog which, one by one, hunted down and devoured all those who had tasted of the young man’s flesh. Even those who had been released and scattered to the four corners of the land.
‘Medical students?’ said Nguyễn.
Everybody knew about the Black Dog. Especially, for some historical reason or other, the trainee doctors at Barts Hospital, which is located not far to the north. And they, being the future health professionals that they are, love to carry out macabre rituals at the wall. Usually involving bits stolen from the pathology lab and a lot of magical symbology cribbed off the internet.
But not animal sacrifice. And not with such a workaday pentagram.
‘Are you going to handle the usual?’ I asked – meaning CCTV checks and door to door.
‘Nightingale will have to work his charm on my inspector,’ said Nguyễn. ‘If he says yes, then we shall see what we can find. Do you think it’s important?’
‘I don’t know, Geneviève. You know how it is. You never know what’s important until it’s important.’
On that basis, I stuck around for a bit to do an initial vestigia survey around the crime scene just in case there were some lurking hotspots. But by the afternoon I hadn’t found anything, so I hopped on a number 8 bus in the hope of missing the worst of the rush hour.
The bus was stop-starting just past Chancery Lane when my phone rang.
‘What’s up?’ said Lesley.
24
A Fine Distinction
‘I’m not in the mood for this shit today,’ I said wearily and hung up.
The phone rang again, as I thought it might, and I already had my backup phone out and was texting the ‘Help, Lesley has called me,’ code to the Folly. They would try to trace the call, but we knew from bitter experience that Lesley had access to a ton of different ways to spoof that.
Before I answered I plugged my earbuds into the phone.
‘Yeah?’ she said, ‘Why are you in a strop then?’
‘Why do you care?’
With the earbuds in I could hear the background noise that her phone picked up. I heard cars and bigger vehicles, street sounds – she was definitely in a city. I had a feeling she was close, but of course she could have been in Manchester or somewhere equally exotic.
‘Because I worry about you,’ she said.
There – a loud car horn behind Lesley and an instant later I heard the same horn in the distance – east up High Holborn. I twisted in my seat to look up the street towards Chancery Lane, but I couldn’t see her amongst the traffic and the crowds.
‘Yeah, why’s that?’ I asked.
Or it could have been a completely different horn.
‘Because you never think of yourself,’ she said.
The ambience changed. She was now indoors, maybe. I heard the distinctive swish-chunk of a bus door closing. On a bus now – damn – no more helpful car horns.
‘I’m more worried about you than about me,’ I said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because you’re working for a mad fucker.’
‘I prefer working with,’ said Lesley.
‘I think working without would be better.’
‘Can we have a talk?’ asked Lesley. ‘Like, in person – without your mob interrupting.’
I felt a surge of excitement and I’ll admit a little bit of glee. I’d been right.
I looked out the window and spotted a likely venue.
‘You know that Wetherspoon’s on High Holborn?’ I said.
‘The one opposite the Sainsbury’s?’
‘Meet me there in ten minutes,’ I said.
‘Copy that,’ she said and hung up.
I jumped down the stairs, flashed my warrant card at the driver and got him to open the doors for me. It wasn’t like it wasn’t much of a hassle for him since we were barely moving anyway.
The Penderel�
�s Oak was your typical Wetherspoon’s pub, its interior a strange theme-park recreation of the old-fashioned British pub caught in a frozen moment between wood-panelled, tie-dyed carpeted 1970s and the rise of cream coloured gastropub. Beverley’s sister Effra, who has a degree in fine arts and considers herself a style guru, calls them the apotheosis of British pub culture.
I ordered a couple of pints of John Smith’s and picked a table near the back with limited sight of the windows and away from the fire exits. While I waited I texted where I was to the Folly and got a sideways smiley face in confirmation. Lesley must be close, but they’d still have to wait until I confirmed her arrival.
Which was before I’d even finished sitting down. Looking back later, I realised she’d probably been on the bus with me. I did catch the tail end of a strange fluttery vestigium like a bloodhound shaking its jowls, which I guessed meant she’d walked in with somebody else’s face.
She sat down, grabbed her pint and took a gulp.
‘Needed that,’ she said, putting the glass down. ‘Is Walbrook safe?’
‘Yes she is,’ I said. ‘Thank you. Does he know you tipped us off?’
‘Of course he does. I told him I wasn’t happy, so he can’t be surprised I took steps.’
‘He’s a very understanding boss.’
‘Like I said, he’s not my boss.’
‘Working with,’ I said. ‘I remember. So since when do you care for supernatural folk?’
I’ve always cared, they’re all people,’ she said. ‘Except for the ones that are not. And anyway you’ve got to have some standards, haven’t you?’
I thought of the woman we found without a face in the dripping woods outside Crawley, the drug dealer who got laminated to a tree, and all the others who got between Martin Chorley and whatever mad scheme he had in mind. But maybe it was the same old story. You’re not that bothered about the people dying far away to make your trainers, but you don’t like it when they die on your doorstep.
‘So, you can’t use my tip-off to drive a wedge,’ she said.
‘What makes you think I’d do that?’
Lies Sleeping Page 22
