Archangel (A Ghosts of London Novel)

by Amy Cross

  “Nope,” Katie replied, forcing a smile. “He's a spy, alright.”

  ***

  “A spy,” Robinson said with a faint smile, as they wandered away from the house an hour later, after copious amounts of tea

  and a few more fondant fancies than either of them wanted. “What happened to the original plan? You know, the one where you were going to tell her the truth about her son's death?”

  “I couldn't do it.”

  “So you lied.”

  “I just -”

  “I mean that was the whole point, wasn't it?” he continued, examining a small strip of wallpaper that he'd liberated while Mrs. Williams wasn't looking. “I assumed you were trying to teach me a lesson about dealing with real emotions and about the importance of, well, something or other. The truth, maybe. People always bang on about the truth. I was braced for a load of crying and wailing, and maybe a lesson at the end of it, but instead you told some bizarre story about the chap being a spy in Constantinople.”

  “Istanbul.”

  “Same place.” He smiled. “So you took me to that house to teach me a lesson, and you ended up learning one yourself instead. Priceless.”

  “I panicked,” she replied. “I knew she'd break down in tears, and I just couldn't get the words out. I'm such a terrible person.” Stopping, she stared straight ahead for a moment before turning back to look at the house. She sniffed and took a deep breath. “I have to go back. I have to tell her the truth.”

  “And you think that'll help?”

  “I think... Everyone deserves to know the truth, don't they?”

  “Do they?”

  She paused. “Don't they? I mean, she's going to live the rest of her life wondering when her son is going to walk back through the door.”

  “Sounds better than spending the rest of her life thinking about him rotting in the ground,” Robinson replied, “especially when you take the whole genetic experiment and horrifying death elements into account.” He held the piece of wallpaper up to the light. “This stuff is horrific. It's like nuclear wallpaper, perhaps it's left over from some kind of psychological experiment.”

  “I shouldn't have lied,” Katie continued, wiping a tear from her eye.

  “By all means go rushing back then,” Robinson replied, “and tell the truth. Break that poor woman's heart if it makes you feel better about yourself. She doesn't have any other children, her rotten old husband's dead, so she can wallow all alone in misery and grief but at least she'll know the truth. I'm sure that'll make her happy while she's winding down her life, alone and unloved.”

  “That's not what I mean. I just feel like I should do the right thing.”

  “There's no right thing in a situation like this,” he continued, “and besides, do you think she really, truly believed that stuff about him being a spy? She saw the look in your face, Katie, and she swallowed the whole fantasy rather readily. If you ask me, she's smarter than you realize. She knew you were about to tell her that Martin died, and she's probably grateful that you made up some cock-and-bull story instead. You helped a woman create a nice little fantasy that'll soothe her agony. I'm not sure whether that's the right thing, but it's pretty close.”

  She turned to him.

  “I've been around a long time,” he added. “I know how people work, I just don't pay attention very often.” He paused. “Anyway, I should probably thank you for bringing me to this house today.”

  “Really? Did you learn something?”

  He nodded. “Martin was homeless, and he was pure. If you were seeking to reverse-engineer an angel and you needed a human body as a base, you might decide to look for someone pure, might you not?”

  “So you think they might use other homeless people for their project?” she asked, happy to steer the subject away from Martin Williams and his mother.

  “It'd make sense. After all, the police aren't exactly going to go racing around trying to track down some soggy old tramp that no-one's seen for a few days. But if you want to build an angel on top of an existing human being, picking someone who's not riddled with disease might be a good place to start, especially if it's someone no-one's going to miss.” He paused for a moment. “And the abstinence thing suggests a moral dimension, someone who has firm beliefs.”

  “If someone had morals,” Katie replied, “how could they carry out these experiments?”

  “Do you think men like Mengele and the other Nazis had no moral beliefs?” Robinson asked. “Everyone has beliefs, even monsters. Often it's not a lack of belief that causes them to carry out such atrocities, but a surfeit. They believe in something so strongly, they're willing to go to any lengths necessary. Belief, faith... Those things can be dangerous.”

  “So what do we do now?” Katie replied.

  “Now we find out a little more about Mr. Gregory Hanson and the company he works for,” he replied, slipping the piece of wallpaper into his pocket. “We've done plenty of second-hand research. This time, I think we need to get the truth straight from the horse's mouth.”

  Taking Milhouse's phone from his pocket, he tapped a few times on the screen.

  “What are you doing?” Katie asked.

  “Drawing attention to myself,” he replied, with a hint of sadness in his voice. “I've spent long enough hiding in the shadows. It's time to kill two birds with one very well-timed stone.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Of course,” Palgrave muttered as he and Milhouse took their beers and headed to a booth, “back in my day, you didn't have to worry about human rights. If you knew a fella was bent, you just banged him up and got to work. Everyone else'd turn a blind eye and you'd just do what you needed to do.”

  Setting his beer down, he eased onto a seat with a painful gasp.

  “The day they invented human rights was the day they made our jobs so much harder,” he added. “I miss the work sometimes, but when I see what it's like for cops these days, sometimes I think I'm better off retired.”

  “There are certainly some complications,” Milhouse replied, taking a seat. “Actually, that's why I wanted to meet up with you. I need to ask about -”

  “Robinson, yeah,” the older man said, allowing himself a faint smile as he took a swig of beer. “You said on the phone. Jesus bloody Christ, that man's name is seared onto my brain after all the hassle he caused us.”

  “And this was in the sixties, right?” Milhouse continued.

  “And earlier,” Palgrave replied. “I joined the force in '61, and by then everyone already knew about bloody Robinson, he was a real Marmite figure. Some people loved him and thought he was useful, and others hated him. Either way, it didn't seem to bother him so much. He just got on with whatever he was doing, and most of the time that meant he was getting involved with our investigations. Couldn't happen today, of course, since he was just a civilian. I asked him one time why he didn't just join the force, but he said he couldn't be doing with it.” He took another sip of beer. “Strange man, in many ways. One of the strangest I ever met.”

  “But he got results?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I mean, I can't tell you how many cases got cleared up because of him, although the files might not reflect that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the way he cleared them up...” He paused. “I'll give you an example. There was this guy, Billy Napier, a real piece of work. Some people said he was involved in witchcraft, that kind of bollocks, but as far as I was concerned he was just a nasty little runt. I was certain he was the one who'd killed a couple of women and tossed their bodies into the river, but I couldn't pin it on him, he was too smart. And then after Robinson got involved...” He paused for a moment. “Well, he said I was right, and he said he'd take care of it. Billy Napier wasn't seen again, and the killings stopped.”

  “So he...” Milhouse paused. “What happened to Billy Napier?”

  Palgrave shrugged.

  “Robinson wouldn't tell you?”

  “By that point, I'd
learned not to ask. So you see, the case got sorted, even if my final report had to leave few loose ends. Didn't matter, really. I knew it was over.” He took another sip of beer. “The day Robinson died was... I know it sounds crazy, but I honestly feel like a little bit of me went with him. I'd come to quite look forward to our little meetings, and I know I wasn't the only one.”

  “How did it happen?” Milhouse asked.

  “Early eighties,” Palgrave replied, with a sad smile, “and we were responding to a fairly routine call about a shooting in Maida Vale. Robinson suddenly turned up, insisting on getting involved. We got into the building and thought we'd stopped the shooter. I went round the back of the place and suddenly I saw Robinson hurrying out holding these two...” He paused, as if the memory was almost too strange. “Like, two big stone tablets,” he continued incredulously, “I swear to God, they looked so bloody old, and he just smiled at me and ran to this van, where someone was waiting. He shoved the tablets into the back, and then the van took off, leaving Robinson standing near me. Then he turned and it seemed like he was about to explain everything, and then...”

  Milhouse waited for him to continue. “And then?”

  “And then this one single shot rang out,” he replied, “and that was it. There was a second shooter, and he got Robinson right through the heart.”

  “So what happened to the body?”

  “No-one claimed it, so he was cremated. Me and a couple of mates took the ashes and tossed them into the river. Seemed appropriate, somehow.” He paused again. “The funniest thing is, a few years later, after I'd retired, I swear I saw the bastard again, in Regent's Park. It was just a brief moment, but we made eye contact as he hurried past and I'm certain he recognized me. But it can't have been him, can it? 'Cause I saw him die.”

  “I think he has a son,” Milhouse replied after a moment. “I'm certain of it, actually. I've met him.” Holding up his camera, he showed the old man a photo of Robinson, taken a few days earlier. “They look alike, don't they?”

  “Huh,” Palgrave said, taking the camera. “Spitting bloody image. I guess that explains the guy I saw in the park, then. For a while, I actually entertained the possibility that he... Well, you get funny ideas in your head sometimes, don't you? I mean, I know a man can't come back from the dead, but if any man could, it'd undoubtedly be Robinson.” He passed the camera back to Milhouse. “Funny. I've never been a man who put any stock in that kind of paranormal guff. Strange how a man like Robinson can get under your skin.”

  “Tell me about it,” Milhouse muttered.

  “So the son's just like the father, is he?”

  Milhouse nodded. “Seems like it.”

  “Then I can only say that you're in for quite a ride,” Palgrave replied, holding up his beer glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Milhouse replied as they clinked glasses.

  “There's been a lot of them,” Palgrave continued. “I remember when I was on the force in the sixties, there was an old-timer who remember another Robinson who'd been around decades earlier.” He smiled. “And now I'm the old-timer. Who knows? Maybe one day you'll be an old man in a pub, telling the same story to the next generation.”

  “Maybe,” Milhouse said quietly, lost in thought for a moment.

  Palgrave stared at him for a moment. “If you ever get a chance,” he said finally, “there's one thing you ought to do. Go to Ealing, there's a cemetery just off Gorling Road. Take a wander around, see what you come across.”

  “What am I looking for?” Milhouse asked.

  “Oh,” Palgrave replied, with a smile, as he raised his beer to his lips, “you'll know it when you see it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “This is ridiculous!” Katie hissed as she pushed her cleaning trolley across the lobby. “Robinson, you -”

  “Quiet,” he replied, speaking through the earpiece. “You can't afford to be seen talking to yourself. Just get on with cleaning, and keep an eye out for anything unusual. You're my eyes and ears, Katie. You're so much better at blending in than I could ever be! You have such a wonderfully ordinary, everyday kind of face.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered. “I think.”

  Sighing, she stopped by the elevators and realized she might as well start by cleaning the doors. Checking over her shoulder, she saw that no-one appeared to be paying her any attention at all, so she figured she might as well just get to work.

  ***

  “Dorothy Millner is on line two again,” Lucy said over the intercom on Hanson's desk. “She wants to know if her husband said where he was going after he was at the board meeting yesterday. She seems a little more worried this time.”

  “Tell her he mentioned something about South Yorkshire,” Hanson replied.

  “South Yorkshire, Sir?”

  “I'm sure Lady Millner is well aware of her husband's lady friend in that area,” he continued, with a faint smile. “I'm sure she'll stop poking for a while if she thinks he's shacked up with his assistant. She's from old money, so she'll suck it up to avoid a scandal.”

  “Very good, Sir. Also, your nine o'clock appointment has arrived.”

  “I wasn't aware I had one,” he said cautiously.

  “It's rather last-minute,” she continued. “I left a memo on your desk, it's a Mr. Robinson, he's here to see you about an investment opportunity. I know you don't like early meetings, but you did tell me to make an exception if anyone came alone and said they were interested in putting money into the company.”

  “Robinson?” Hanson paused for a moment, debating sending the unexpected visitor away, before figuring that he had to follow up any potential lead when it came to new funding sources. “What's his first name?”

  “I'm not sure, he's...” She lowered her voice. “He's sitting in the waiting area right now, he seems a little weird.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for one thing he keeps talking to the pot plant in the corner. He seems to be treating it like it's an old friend and...” She paused, before lowering her voice even further. “I think he thinks he can hear it talking to him. He shook one of its fronds when he sat down.”

  Hanson paused for a moment, trying to make sense of this particular piece of information. “Send him in,” he said finally, getting to his feet and straightening his tie. “If the man has money, I don't care if he's as mad as a hatter. He can't be any worse than the board members we've got at the moment.” He glanced over at the portrait of Harrington Cole that hung on the opposite wall. “It's all worth it. Everything we do here, it's all in the name of the project.”

  A moment later, the door opened and Lucy held it open for Robinson to enter.

  “We meet at last,” Robinson said with a keen, eager smile, as he crossed the room with an extended hand. “I've heard so much about you Mr. Hanson.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” Hanson replied, shaking his hand. “You'll have to forgive me, but I've had absolutely no time to prepare for this meeting at all. In fact -”

  “Not at all,” Robinson replied, interrupting him, “and it's you who must forgive me, since I asked to see you at such short notice. Your assistant told me you couldn't possibly squeeze me in before next month, but I'm afraid I can be rather persuasive sometimes and, well, perhaps I bullied her a little. By the way, I just met an old friend in your lobby, someone I used to know from my old days in Covent Garden. How he ended up here of all places, I'll never know, but that's the thing about old Clive. He certainly gets around.”

  Hanson stared at him, clearly a little shocked.

  “So you must apologize to your secretary for me,” Robinson added. “I think I gave her quite a fright. It didn't occur to me that maybe she couldn't hear Clive talking to me.”

  “I'm sure it's fine,” Hanson said, gesturing toward the chair on the other side of his desk. “Please, won't you take a seat?”

  “I won't stay long,” Robinson continued. “I have to be somewhere else at noon, I have a meeting of my taxidermy
group.”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “I'm trying to take it up as a hobby,” Robinson explained as he sat down. “I've never had much luck with hobbies. The last time I tried to develop one was in the late 1990s. I got terribly into the mailbox page on the Paramount Comedy Channel. I used to send in messages all the time, and I'd wait each night for the next update. This was before the internet had really taken off, of course. Eventually the mailbox updates went to just twice a week, and then I realized that...” He paused. “But I shouldn't be wasting your time telling you about my woes. I believe you have a very interesting company here, Mr. Hanson, and I also understand that you're due to hold another funding round soon. That's six in the space of five years, which seems... excessive.”

  “We're...” Hanson paused, clearly a little inundated with information. “We're embarking upon some very resource-intensive projects,” he said after a moment. “I'm sure you understand that we -”

  “I'm sure I do,” Robinson replied, turning and looking across the office. His eyes briefly fell upon the painting of Harrington Cole, which he stared at for a moment before turning away. On the far side of the room, another large painting showed what appeared to be a strand of D.N.A. “You have terrible taste in art,” he added, smiling as he turned back to Hanson.

  Staring at him for a moment, Hanson seemed momentarily unable to reply.

  “Well,” he said finally, forcing an uncomfortable smile, “we can't all like the same things, can we?”

  “No, but that painting is objectively hideous,” Robinson continued. “If I'm going to invest in your company, I'm going to need to have some say on the décor around this place.”

  “Invest?”

  “I have a portfolio of forward-thinking companies,” Robinson explained, “and I think this place might be a good fit. The only problem is, I tend to be a very active investor, so I'd want to really get my hands dirty. I mean, I suppose I could try to keep my nose out of things, but for that to happen I'd need to be able to trust the people who work here, so I'm sure you can see my problem, but...” He paused. “I'm rabbiting on again, aren't I?”