The Hanging Tree (PC Peter Grant Book 6)

by Ben Aaronovitch

  The very rich, having fundamentally missed the point of urban living, have long been frustrated by the fact that it’s impossible to squeeze the amenities of a country mansion – car showroom, swimming pool, cinema, servants’ quarters etc. – into the floor space of your average London terrace. Those without access to trans-dimensional engineering, a key Time Lord discovery, have had to resort to extending their houses into the ground. Thus proving that all that stands between your average rich person and a career in Bond villainy is access to an extinct volcano.

  They are also a bugger to raid, because you need twice as many bodies to secure the premises. Stephanopoulos once told me that it was like watching a clown car in reverse. Once, during a raid in Kensington, she said that after waiting outside for half an hour she went in herself to make sure none of the entry team had got lost or, worse, been distracted by the bowling alley that reputedly occupied the bottommost level.

  The front door was ajar – the lock had been drilled.

  Not a friendly visit, then.

  I put the Airwave in my pocket on open mic. Before I could move, the door was opened from the inside. They’d left someone to guard the perimeter – of course they had.

  He was shorter than the driver, blond haired, oval faced with a surprisingly weak chin. He only opened the door half-way and he kept his right hand hidden behind it so I didn’t think trying to nut him was a viable tactical option.

  ‘Hi,’ he said brightly. ‘Can I help you?’ I’m not that good at American accents but I guessed East Coast.

  For a mad moment I was tempted to ask him if he had a personal relationship with Jesus and, if not, would he like one? But I think that was the adrenaline talking. The pistol I suspected he was concealing behind the door was weighing heavily on my mind.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘My name’s Peter Grant. I’m with the police. Is Phoebe Beaumont-Jones available for a chat?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Come on in.’

  He opened the door wider and stepped to the side to let me in.

  Guleed, who’d slipped to the side and out of sight when the door opened, tapped her fingernail twice on the wall to let me know that she wasn’t happy – but she stayed out of sight.

  There was no sign of a pistol in either hand when I stepped inside. I figured he might have stuck it into the back waistband of his trousers, but I couldn’t be sure. And, from an operational standpoint, you generally want to avoid uncertainty about where a firearm is before you do anything stupid.

  I asked for his name and he said ‘Teddy’, which made him a bloody liar.

  Inside, the house had obviously been gutted, stripped down and rebuilt in the last five years. The narrow stairway typical of a London terrace had been replaced by the spiral staircase with marble risers so beloved of people who don’t have to lug their own furniture up to the floors above. It also extended down into the basement and I caught a whiff of chlorinated water that indicated a pool. I’m not very fond of the combination of underground and water, so of course down we went.

  It wasn’t that super, by the standards of London super-basements, being mostly swimming pool, fitness centre and wine cellar. And it wasn’t that big a pool either, since it had to fit into the narrow footprint of a terraced house – less than ten metres long and three wide. It was lit by underwater lights that cast ripples on the ceiling and pale red marble walls. The designer had probably been going for Turkish Bath but had hit Czech Porn Shoot instead.

  There was a tiled space at the near edge of the pool which sported a couple of white plastic chairs, a matching round table and, redundantly, a sun lounger. A young white woman in a blue string bikini was reclining on the lounger. I recognised her face from the pictures on Olivia’s wall – Phoebe Beaumont-Jones. One of Crew Cut’s buddies, jackets unbuttoned, hands loosely held ready by their sides stood on either side of her.

  Crew Cut was sitting at the table as if expecting a waiter at any minute.

  ‘This is unfortunate,’ he said. He still had a wicked bruise across the side of his face – it was going a nice mottled purple and must have really hurt.

  I considered telling the lot of them they were under arrest, but even I’m not that stupid. Phoebe was staring at me with a fixed expression but I could see her legs trembling.

  ‘Hello Phoebe,’ I said. ‘How are you doing?’

  She bobbed her head nervously but she couldn’t seem to open her mouth to speak.

  ‘Why don’t you have a seat?’ said Crew Cut. His accent was Southern-ish but not the caricature I’d heard on TV – it was the deliberately cultured accent of someone working hard to convince you they were a reasonable and civilised man. I was immediately on my guard. Well, even more on my guard, given the room full of armed men.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Let’s not worry about that for the moment,’ said Crew Cut.

  ‘What should we worry about instead?’

  Crew Cut tilted his head slightly.

  ‘I’d say we’ve managed to get ourselves into one of those unfortunate situations,’ he said, ‘where two parties that should be allies find themselves in a confrontation.’

  ‘Allies?’

  ‘We are both the heirs to Isaac Newton,’ he said. ‘A product of the same enlightenment.’

  Which made them, after Lady Helena, the second lot of heirs we’d met this week. Now personally I didn’t think of myself as the great man’s heir so much as somebody who’d wandered into his house to borrow his lawnmower, but as Stephanopoulos has indicated, on more than one occasion, sometimes my cheek is inappropriate in a modern policing context.

  ‘Just to be clear,’ I said, ‘you’re the American wizards?’

  Crew Cut shook his head slowly.

  ‘Specialists, son,’ he said. ‘Our job is to deal with the problems, not create new ones.’

  That was bollocks from where I was standing, but I was perfectly happy to keep Crew Cut chatting shit until Nightingale turned up to put him out of my misery. But Crew Cut had to guess back-up was on its way by now, and that it was only a matter of time. He looked a bit too relaxed to me, and it was making me nervous.

  ‘I think you’re a little bit out of your jurisdiction,’ I said.

  ‘The whole world is our jurisdiction, son,’ said Crew Cut. ‘And I have the executive order to prove it.’

  I looked over at Phoebe who was still shivering – it was noticeably chilly down here and I wondered if the heating had been turned off.

  ‘I’m going to take off my jacket,’ I said. ‘Nice and slowly.’

  Crew Cut told me to go ahead and then he let me pass it to one of his men who passed it to Phoebe who put it on. She was much smaller than she looked in the pictures and seemed even more childlike as she tried to tuck her legs up inside the jacket.

  ‘Pity,’ said Crew Cut as Phoebe stopped visibly shivering. ‘Another fifteen minutes and she might have told us something useful.’

  I told him I thought it might be better if Phoebe were allowed to leave.

  ‘Better for who?’ he asked.

  I wondered again what he was waiting for – what did he think was going to happen?

  ‘Better for her,’ I said. ‘And, in the long run, better for you.’

  Crew Cut made an elegant shooing gesture at Phoebe, but she just stared at him.

  I told her that it was going to be all right and was amazingly convincing, all things considered.

  Phoebe hopped up smartly and, keeping an eye on Crew Cut, edged past me.

  ‘Go out the front door,’ I said. ‘And keep going until you see someone in uniform.’

  She nodded and headed for the stairs. Just to try my luck I turned to amble after her, but Crew Cut shook his head.

  ‘Not you, Peter,’ he said and then lifted his wrist to his mouth and spoke into his sleeve. ‘Teddy – we’re letting the shade go.’

  That he knew my name pretty much confirmed that these were Kim Reynolds’ visitors, but I did wonder what
a ‘shade’ was – and how come this lot were so relaxed. Crew Cut didn’t strike me as stupid. He had to know we would have the house surrounded, and that an armed breach would be next – if they were lucky. If they were unlucky, one of the Met’s highly trained negotiators would turn up and be aggravatingly reasonable to them until the Americans a) surrendered or b) shot themselves in the head in an effort to make it stop.

  ‘What’s a shade?’ I asked.

  ‘A creature that looks like a man but walks in the shadows,’ said Crew Cut.

  Police doctrine is, even if you’re waiting for someone to do something violent to your suspect, you should deescalate the situation because at the very least a peaceful resolution produces a ton less paperwork.

  ‘Am I a shade?’ I asked.

  ‘The jury’s still out on you, son,’ said Crew Cut, and then spoke into his sleeve again. ‘Okay Teddy – time we were leaving.’

  I wondered what the hell they thought they were going to do – was there a rear exit, a helicopter on the roof, or had they contracted with International Rescue to lease The Mole and drill their way out?

  I never did get to find out, because about then was when the lights went out.

  All at once.

  I dropped to the floor, on the basis that I was in a room full of excitable men with guns, and I thought it might not be a bad idea to get my centre of mass out of the line of fire. As I went down I heard a cracking noise, a muffled grunt and a rushing sound. A terrible and familiar smell rolled over me, the liquid shit stink of the sewers. Something slapped my leg so I pulled it in under me.

  I heard the Americans shouting and something heavy – I hoped it wasn’t a body – hitting the pool with a splash. I needed some light, but I wasn’t stupid enough to want it anywhere near me. So I cast a werelight over at the far end of the basement where it wouldn’t blind or illuminate me. Even as I released the spell I lined up the formae for a shield and had that ready to go.

  The werelight popped up, strangely blurred and wavering.

  There was a series of painfully loud bangs as the Americans opened fire.

  The light flickered and cast rolling shadows across the walls and ceiling.

  ‘Cease fire,’ I yelled. But, just in case they didn’t, I put up my shield.

  A cold and stinking wind struck me in the face, and with it I realised what was wrong.

  My werelight had materialised inside a rolling wall of water stretching from the base of the pool to the ceiling. It was racing down the length of the basement towards me, and that’s what was causing the wind.

  Oh shit, I thought as I raised my shield. Wrong spell.

  I noticed the shield did slow the water down a fraction before it swept me, the Americans, and the cheap plastic garden furniture down the remaining the length of the basement.

  Which, incidentally, saved our lives.

  Not that I appreciated it at the time, you understand.

  My shield bought me enough time to take a breath, but then it was a cold, wet, spinning darkness enlivened only by the occasional violent blow and the constant distraction of my own screaming terror. My shoulders hit something and, despite having my chin tucked into my chest, my head snapped back and slammed into a hard surface. I lost my air, and my werelight, darkness crashed in and I heard a voice from far away, shrill and terrifyingly cheerful, start to chant.

  Right fol de riddle loll

  I’m the boy to do ’em all.

  Breathing – it’s an autonomic function and, past a certain point, your body is going to take a breath whatever your consciousness says and regardless of what you’re actually going to be breathing in.

  I saw light – pale strips wavering in the darkness – the skylights embedded in the front garden. I needed a way out and I didn’t have time to be subtle.

  Here’s a stick!

  Magic is not about passion or anger or the power of friendship. Magic is about control, focus, and being able to concentrate when you’re drowning to death.

  To thump Old Nick!

  Training helps, as does experience. But the key is preparation. I’d once spent a fun afternoon buried under the eastbound Central Line platform at Oxford Circus and subsequently made a point of getting Nightingale to teach me something simple and effective for breaking architecture. It’s an impello variant with a lot of complicated little twists and curlicues. Not a spell – Nightingale said – normally learnt by apprentices. It’s also a bit limited in its applicability to everyday policing.

  I picked a spot half-way along one of the skylights.

  If he, by chance, upon me call.

  I’d done a lot of practise – and I was motivated.

  And anything to get Mr Punch to shut the fuck-up.

  Only it didn’t work.

  There was enough light for me to see the puffs of dust across the ceiling. Fine cracks shot out in a star shape from the focal point I’d picked, but the basement was well built and the ceiling held. I tried to gather up the formae for another go, but my mind was filled with the need to breathe and a long ululating laugh of triumph.

  Suddenly there was a terrible pain in my ears and a burst of light from above and the section of the ceiling I’d been casting at seemed to blow upwards. I kicked and swam towards the light. But when I was almost at the lip, the water suddenly dragged at me as if I was caught in an undertow. And back down I went.

  There was a thudding hollowness in my chest and I figured I had seconds before I took an evolutionary step backwards and tried to breathe water, but my feet hit solid floor and I kicked as hard as I could back-up towards the light.

  The water around me boomed and rumbled and suddenly I was flying upwards. I burst out into the air and took a breath before I could stop myself and choked on a face full of water. Somebody grabbed my arm and held me up while I coughed desperately and took a second, proper, breath.

  I blinked and saw brown eyes framed by black cloth, blinked again and saw that it was Guleed with the bottom of her hijab pulled up to cover her nose and mouth. I figured out why she’d done that when I took another breath and started coughing again. The air was so brown with brick dust that I couldn’t see the street lights.

  I was at the edge of a surprisingly smooth-sided hole in the garden about a metre and a half across. Dirty water was welling up over the edge in rippling pulses. Obviously my spell had weakened it before something had raised the water level with enough force to punch it out.

  I’d have liked to ask what that something had been, but just then I was too busy breathing.

  But not too busy to yell when something grabbed my leg and tried to drag me down. I kicked frantically as Guleed tightened her grip on my arm and shoulder and attempted to heave me up over the lip of the hole.

  A head broke surface next to me and did the whole emergency air sucking thing. It was one of Crew Cut’s boys. A second head bobbed up, retching and gasping – that was two.

  ‘I need some help here,’ shouted Guleed, bending over our impromptu garden pond as she tried to keep all of us afloat at once.

  A pair of uniforms appeared out of the dust and helped pull me out.

  ‘That way,’ said one and pushed me gently towards the street.

  A slim, unexpectedly elegant, paramedic pounced on me as I cleared the dust and threw a space blanket over my shoulders. He wanted to know if I was in pain and I told him I was just happy to be breathing.

  He wanted to drag me away to his ambulance and do medical things, but I waited until Guleed emerged from the dust cloud trailed by the two uniforms and, suitably searched and handcuffed, the two Americans.

  I asked Guleed if she’d seen ‘Teddy’ or Crew Cut himself.

  ‘I jumped Teddy as soon as Phoebe cleared the front gate,’ she said, pulling her hijab off her lower face.

  ‘We’d better get back in there and find their leader,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she said.

  The dust was clearing and I looked back at th
e house and saw it wasn’t there anymore. The whole front had collapsed into the basement, leaving the floors open and exposed like a vandalised doll’s house. It looked like something from the Blitz, with broken floorboards and haphazard piles of brick. One room near the top had cheerful yellow wallpaper – a cot teetered precariously on the edge of what was left of the floor.

  The weight of the initial collapse must have caused the pressure wave in the water which blew out the hole I’d being trying to magic in the skylight. A second collapse had squirted me out.

  Barring a miracle, Crew Cut was probably under that lot.

  Uniform was pulling back to be replaced by the Fire Brigade. They’d have the dogs and thermal sensors out as soon it was safe.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ I said.

  Guleed looked at me, at the remains of the house, and then back at me.

  ‘Not one word,’ I said. ‘Not one.’

  The Custody Sergeant sighed when she saw the remains of Crew Cut’s crew.

  ‘I should have known when I was well off,’ she said.

  The Americans all maintained a stoic silence, which bothered the Custody Sergeant not all. She just wrote ‘refused’ in every box, made sure they were all DNA’d and live scanned and banged them up. To avoid confusion they were marked up on the electronic white board as Male: anon – ‘Teddy’;Male: anon – blond ;Male: anon – eyebrow scar .

  The Americans were all adults, foreigners, and had been caught red-handed – so they could wait. Phoebe Beaumont-Jones being seventeen and – since we didn’t have direct evidence of her drug dealing yet – a witness rather than a suspect, had to be interviewed immediately. So, after I’d pulled some dry clothes from the emergency bag I keep under the shared desk in the Outside Inquiry room, I joined Guleed in the Achieving Best Evidence suite to do just that. Anyone looking for a place to kip tonight was going to have to snooze at their desk like everybody else.

  Phoebe had refused her stepmum as her responsible adult.

  ‘Frankly I’d rather go to prison,’ she’d said. And her dad was still abroad, so we ended up with a young solicitor from the local criminal law specialist. The solicitor was white, presentable and spoke with an affected South London accent that didn’t fool anyone, except maybe Phoebe.