The Hanging Tree (PC Peter Grant Book 6)

by Ben Aaronovitch

  ‘Just a bit,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to ask.’

  We were already heading for Phoebe Beaumont-Jones’ address in St Johns Wood. She lived just west of Primrose Hill, part of that band of posh that runs down from Hampstead Hill in the north to Mayfair in the south. Along the line, I couldn’t help notice, of the hidden river Tyburn. My dad says that when he was younger these areas used to have all sorts of people, but the artists, musicians and other undesirables had been leached out by London’s continuous house price boom.

  I was pretty certain that, ten seconds after I’d left her house, Olivia would have phoned or texted Phoebe to let her know we were on our way, and we needed to at least have the house under surveillance in case she tried to leg it.

  But before we got there Nightingale called and said that he and Lady Helena had found Reynard Fossman.

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s gone to ground in Archway – at the Intrepid Fox.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Nightingale, ‘he felt that its very obviousness would be deception enough.’

  Obviously not very experienced with the police then – we like obvious. Obvious is our middle name.

  Since this was going to be an all-Falcon, plus ambiguous auxiliaries, operation Nightingale needed me immediately. Guleed promised she’d sit on Phoebe’s house until I had a chance to get back.

  ‘It’s all go in the Isaacs, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Where’d you get that name from?’ I asked.

  ‘Isn’t that what the Folly is called?’ said Guleed. ‘I’m sure I heard that somewhere.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Bev, haven’t you?’

  ‘That would be telling,’ she said. So, yeah, she’d been talking to Bev.

  God, I hoped it was Bev. Because if it was someone else—

  Guleed dropped me off at Warren Street so I could get the tube to Archway.

  When I was a kid, the Intrepid Fox was called the Archway Tavern, a notorious pub that stood at the centre of the Archway circulatory system and was definitely not a place where a well brought up Kentish Town boy would go drinking. The original Intrepid Fox was a famous metal pub stroke music venue which was driven out of Soho as an early casualty of the blandification of the West End. The venue moved briefly to St Giles and then to the unlamented Tavern and proceeded to paint the inside and outside as black as a teenager’s bedroom and stuck a ton of Goth iconography on the walls in the hope that Marilyn Manson would pop round for a pint. It actually closed down not long after we raided it, but just for once I can say with a clear conscience, it wasn’t my fault.

  Archway is where the post-war dream of the urban motorway died in the teeth of local opposition and the inability of the designers to answer basic traffic management questions. Thus the A1 remained unwidened and what was then the Archway Tavern stood proudly like a combination tank trap and brick shithouse in the way of progress. Famously, the planning inquiry got so unruly that the Planning Inspector fled through a fire escape to escape the protestors.

  I’ve often wondered if such ‘awkward’ spots in London are somehow sacred to Mr Punch – the spirit of riot and rebellion – and maybe that was why I thought I heard him laughing the afternoon we nicked Reynard the Fox.

  Or it might have been carbon monoxide poisoning because me and Caroline were stuck on a strip of pavement thirty centimetres wide with nothing but a safety barrier between us and three lanes of congestion. We were there because this was where the Intrepid Fox had its back door, and where we expected Reynard to make his egress, at some speed, about two minutes after Nightingale and Lady Helena went in the front.

  ‘Whatever you do,’ I told Caroline, ‘don’t put your hands on him – if you physically touch him it gets legally complicated. If you think he’s going to get away see if you can trip him up with your magic rope trick and I’ll go sit on him.’

  ‘Do you like being a policeman?’ asked Caroline.

  ‘Love it,’ I said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You’re a bright guy – it just seems like a waste.’

  ‘You think I should be a stockbroker instead,’ I said. ‘Or a celebrity chef or something constructive like that?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You’re an idealist.’

  I asked Caroline what she planned to do with her skills, then.

  ‘I’m going to teach myself to fly,’ she said.

  ‘With magic?’

  ‘Of course with magic,’ said Caroline. ‘I already have a pilot’s licence.’

  ‘And when you learn to fly,’ I said, ‘what are you going to do with that?’

  ‘What am I going to do,’ said Caroline, ‘is I’m going to fly.’

  I felt rather than heard a thump from inside the Intrepid Fox and caught the scent of candlewax.

  ‘That was Mum,’ said Caroline.

  I motioned her to stand to one side of the doorway while I took the other.

  ‘It pays to be careful,’ I said.

  There was the distant crash of breaking glass that was definitely not vestigium and then a series of high pitched barks.

  ‘Reynard?’ said Caroline.

  I shrugged.

  There was a sound like somebody running the tape of a Michael Bay action sequence backwards and something thumped into the door with enough force to make the frame rattle.

  ‘Nightingale,’ I said.

  Then it went suspiciously quiet and we both tensed, and then forced ourselves to take deep breaths to clear our minds. Nothing fancy, I thought. Water balloon in the face and then knock him back into the arms of Nightingale, who would likely be just behind.

  We waited what seemed like a long time while the congestion roared past and the carbon monoxide infiltrated our red blood cells – then the door opened and Nightingale stuck his head out.

  ‘You can come in now,’ he said. ‘We’ve got him.’

  Reynard was not a happy fox as we manhandled him through the gloomy halls of Gothdom and out the front door to where Nightingale had left the blue Asbo, the Jag being a bit conspicuous, and plonked him in the back. Then, once he was sure Reynard was safely hand-cuffed, Nightingale cautioned him – using the proper modern caution, I noted.

  To give him his due, Reynard looked like he was going to go for defiance – before suddenly deflating and dropping his chin onto his chest.

  ‘So where you taking him?’ I asked – while technically the Folly is a nick, it bears the same relationship to basic human rights legislation as Camp X-Ray.

  ‘Belgravia,’ said Nightingale and, smiling, held up an honest to god sky blue Metropolitan Police issue Evidence & Actions Book and flipped it open to the PERSONS CONCERNED/ARRESTED page to show me where Reynard Fossman’s name had been filled in in nice clear capitals.

  I wondered what Reynard was going to ask to put in the self-defined ethnicity slot – there wasn’t enough room for ‘anthropomorphic fairy tale animal’.

  ‘Stephanopoulos said she wanted to be present for the interview,’ said Nightingale.

  I glanced over to where Lady Helena and Caroline were standing, just within not-too-obvious eavesdropping distance.

  ‘And our friends?’

  ‘They’re waiting for Harold, who’s making haste from Oxford even as we speak,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘So you found it?’ I asked. If Harold Postmartin was abandoning his Oxford comforts it could only be for The Third Principia.

  ‘We’ve found something that might be it,’ he said. ‘With luck Harold can verify it.’

  ‘You seem to have everything sorted,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t need to sound quite so disappointed,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve always been a quick study, Peter. But if you wish to keep an eye on my progress you’re welcome to come along.’

  ‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I promised Guleed I’d be back before dinner.’ I explained where we were on Phoebe Beaumont-Jones and her upcoming involuntary stint helping the police with their inq
uiries.

  ‘In that case,’ said Nightingale, ‘would you like any assistance with that?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I think we can handle it.’

  Famous last words.

  8

  Uninvited Guests

  So I headed back to the improbably named Woronzow Road in St Johns Wood, home of the mysterious Phoebe Beaumont-Jones. On the way Stephanopoulos called me.

  ‘You haven’t disappeared a suspect have you?’ she asked.

  We better not have, I thought.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ I said in the vain hope that Stephanopoulos wouldn’t notice the plausible deniability aspect.

  ‘Only Bromley Crime Squad have lost track of a minor little scrote called Aiden Burghley who they said was talking to you this very morning,’ she said.

  I assured her that not only hadn’t I disappeared him, but the last time I saw him he was in the care of said Crime Squad and in the presence of his lawyer.

  ‘His brief says she took her eyes off him for five seconds and he was gone.’

  ‘Wasn’t me, boss,’ I said.

  ‘Was it your boss?’ she asked because she’s police and had spotted the plausible deniability bit.

  I said it wasn’t him either because, au contraire, he was bringing in Reynard the chicken worrier even as we spoke. In that case, Stephanopoulos decided, Aiden Burghley had gone walkabouts on his own recognizance and it was Bromley’s problem not ours.

  It was a couple of hours past the school rush and the sun was setting and the four by fours were nestled up against the pavement. I spotted the Asbo hiding amongst them two doors down from the Beaumont-Jones house and headed over. I saw Guleed’s face reflected in the wing mirror as she clocked my approach – nobody sneaks up on the Muslim ninja.

  I climbed in beside her and traded the chicken kebab I’d picked up from a Halal café in Tufnell Park for her tablet. After a slow start the police have taken to mobile technology in a big way – mainly because it means you can pretend to work anywhere: at home, the canteen, the local boozer. Senior officers favoured using iPads because the find function allowed them to track how much time you spent in the boozer, and to find lost tablets before they’re picked up and their contents sold to the Guardian newspaper.

  So, even sitting in the car, Guleed had been busy collating.

  ‘It turns out the father is really rich,’ she said.

  ‘What’s he do?’

  ‘Invests,’ she said.

  Jeremy Beaumont-Jones had been lucky enough to be born rich. He wasn’t in the mad oligarch class but once you’re past a certain point, the sheer weight of your money sucks in wealth like a financial singularity. If you’re sensible enough not to blow it on race horses, cocaine or musical theatre, then it becomes a perpetual-motion money making machine.

  He’d also been to Oxford, although he wasn’t on any of the Little Crocodile lists.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘The Bahamas,’ said Guleed. ‘Business convention.’

  ‘Do you think he’s on his way back?’ I asked. Having the daddy arrive with a legal posse would put a crimp in the investigation. Since Lady Ty had all but shut us down, I really didn’t think we wanted another pile of influence landing on our heads.

  ‘He’s at least five hours away,’ said Guleed. Although apparently there was a private jet.

  I eyed the, it had to be said, fairly nondescript late Victorian terrace – even in this area it couldn’t have been worth more than three million, four million pounds tops.

  ‘This is a bit pokey for someone with big money,’ I said.

  ‘It’s one of five,’ said Guleed. ‘Oh look, there goes the maid.’

  A thin, washed-out white woman with sandy hair opened the front gate and headed up the road towards Swiss Cottage. Probably Polish or Romanian. Mum said the rich private clients always preferred to use white cleaners rather than Africans. Actually they’d prefer Filipinos or Vietnamese or, well, anyone really rather than Africans. Mum said she preferred offices anyway, because you didn’t have to deal with some posh woman standing over you and telling you your business.

  And the way she said it was a lot ruder in Krio – trust me.

  Guleed hadn’t spotted anyone else going in or out, and if it turned out Phoebe was currently residing at one of the other four properties – Lombardy, Ireland, the Cotswolds or Santa Barbara – then there was no point us sitting outside like muppets.

  We were just gearing ourselves up to leave the car when Crew Cut from Harrods arrived.

  I recognised him immediately and so did Guleed, who was calling for back-up before I’d finished swearing.

  Crew Cut had come with friends, three other white guys with the same army-surplus muscularity and haircuts. They all wore off the peg black suits cut baggy for comfort, and all the better to cover any concealed weapons.

  En masse they couldn’t have stood out as Americans more if they’d painted their faces red, white and blue. They went up the steps and paused in front of the door; two kept watch while a third bent over to do something to the lock. I couldn’t see what, but I doubted it was anything legal. Whatever it was, it was quick. The door opened and the whole group slipped inside with a practised lack of fuss.

  I had a horrid feeling I’d just met the ‘gentlemen visitors’ that Kim had warned me about.

  Where had they come from? I doubted they’d sauntered here from the tube station. I glanced up the road and spotted a black Ford Explorer hiding amongst the other Chelsea Tractors. It had the traditional tinted windscreen but we could still make out the figure of a white guy in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Can’t leave him there,’ said Guleed.

  She was right. If we went in after the goon squad, their man in the Explorer would tip them off. So we quickly concocted one of our better plans – better insofar as that just for once it went as planned.

  I approached on the pavement while Guleed strolled up the middle of the street and caught the driver’s attention. As soon as she had it, she pulled out her warrant card and held it up as she advanced. We’d both decided that when dealing with a possibly armed American it was better to avoid any potential ambiguity.

  ‘Especially since I’m the one being ambiguous,’ said Guleed.

  The driver might have sussed me for police as well, but it didn’t matter. He hesitated for long enough for me to slap a car killer into the bonnet of the Explorer and that’s all she wrote for that particular electronic ignition system. I kept it low key enough to avoid frying any phone he might be carrying – just in case we might need it later.

  Because he was American, he instinctively kept his hands on his steering wheel where we could see them.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said Guleed. ‘Would you step out of the car, please?’

  And that was that.

  He got out and we conducted a search in full compliance with Code A, Paragraph 3.1 of the Code of Practice – to whit, that all searches must be carried out with courtesy, consideration and respect for the person concerned.

  Apart from, sensibly, keeping his mouth shut he cooperated with the search. Which was just as well because he was tall and fit and carrying a semi-automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. He also had a Samsung Galaxy with a retro modded hard ‘off’ switch not entirely unlike the phones me and Nightingale carried. And when I checked his wrist I saw he had a wind-up diver’s watch. It was practitioner’s gear and, coupled with the absence of anything identifiable on his person – not even a driver’s licence – pretty much confirmed that these were magic spooks. They might even have some legal standing in the states.

  But not in London, so Guleed arrested him for carrying a firearm, driving without a licence and being suspiciously foreign in a built-up area. By the time we had him cuffed, the first IRV had arrived and we cheerfully handed him over to be tucked up in the back.

  And I was quite happy to wait for back-up at that point – up to and including SCO19, the SAS and/or Nightingale i
n full tank-destroyer mode – except I got a blast of vestigia from the house. Nothing I could identify beyond a whiff of oily water and a chill across my back.

  According to the Human Rights Act (1998) as interpreted in my dog-eared copy of Blackstone’s Police Operational Handbook: Practice and Procedure, I had a ‘duty of positive action’ with regards to protection of the public. This meant I had to at least make a token attempt to make sure Phoebe Beaumont-Jones was not this moment being waterboarded by the Jack Bauer wannabes I’d watched walk in not five minutes previously.

  Assuming, of course, that they weren’t in league with our Phoebe and even now sitting down for a nice cup of tea and conspiracy. And assuming that she was inside the house in the first place.

  Normally the Metropolitan Police frowns on its officers rushing in without a risk assessment and/or the appropriate specialist unit. Unfortunately in this case I was the appropriate specialist unit, and the firearms officers who were on their way were unequipped to deal with a Falcon scenario. Not least because the first draft of Procedures Relating to Serious Falcon Incidents a.k.a. How to Deal with Weird Bollocks was currently sitting as a half-finished Word document on my hard drive back at the Folly.

  I called Nightingale, who said he was fifteen minutes away and asked him to authorise a little look.

  ‘Yes,’ he said immediately. ‘But carefully, Peter.’

  I told Guleed that it was standard procedure for a second officer to stay outside the immediate Zone of Potential Magical Effect (ZPME) in order to facilitate communications should my Airwave and personal phones be compromised. Guleed was rightly suspicious.

  ‘Is that true?’ she asked.

  Just as soon as I get back to the Folly and add it to the Word document, I thought.

  ‘Just make sure nobody rushes in,’ I said. ‘Especially you.’

  ‘And when things start to explode?’ she asked, but I didn’t dignify that with an answer.

  ‘I’m coming at least as far as the door,’ she said.

  As we approached the front door I saw that there were strips of thick perspex or glass embedded into the front lawn – skylights for a basement. I pointed them out to Guleed, who frowned.