Rivers of London

  She was right. Connected to the footage were links to enhanced pictures of William Skirmish, WITNESS A and the murdering gent in the smurf hat. Contrary to television, there’s an absolute limit to how good a closeup you can extrapolate from an old-fashioned bit of video tape. It doesn’t matter if it’s digital – if the information isn’t there, it isn’t there. Still, someone at the tech lab had done their best, and despite all the faces being blurry it was at least obvious that all three were different people.

  ‘He’s wearing a mask,’ I said.

  ‘Now you’re getting desperate,’ said Lesley.

  ‘Look at that chin and that nose,’ I said. ‘Nobody has a face like that.’

  Lesley pointed to a notation attached to the image. ‘Looks like the Murder Team agree with you.’ There was a list of ‘actions’ associated with the evidence file, one of which was to check local costumiers, theatres and fancy-dress shops for masks. It had a very low priority.

  ‘Aha!’ I said. ‘So it might be the same person.’

  ‘Who can change their clothes in less than two seconds?’ asked Lesley. ‘Do me a favour.’

  All the evidence files are linked, so I checked to see whether the Murder Team had managed to track WITNESS A as he left the crime scene. They hadn’t and, according to the action list, finding him had become a priority. I predicted a press conference and an appeal for witnesses. Police are particularly interested in talking to . . . would be the relevant phrase there.

  Smurf Hat had been tracked all the way down New Row, exactly the route Nicholas had said he’d taken, but vanished off the surveillance grid in St Martin’s Lane. According to the ‘action’ list, half the Murder Team were currently scouring the surrounding streets for potential witnesses and clues.

  ‘No,’ said Lesley, reading my mind.

  ‘Nicholas …’

  ‘Nicholas the ghost,’ said Lesley.

  ‘Nicholas the corporeally challenged,’ I said, ‘was right about the murderer’s approach, the method of attack and cause of death. He was also right about the getaway route, and we don’t have a timeline where WITNESS A is visible at the same time as Smurf Hat.’

  ‘Smurf Hat?’

  ‘The murder suspect,’ I said. ‘I need to take this to the Murder Team.’

  ‘What are you going to say to the SIO?’ asked Lesley. ‘I met a ghost and he said that WITNESS A put on a mask and did it?’

  ‘No, I’m going to say that I was approached by a potential witness who, despite leaving the scene before I could get his name and address, generated potentially interesting leads that may further the successful outcome of the investigation.’

  It made Lesley pause at least. ‘And you think that’ll get you out of the Case Progression Unit?’

  ‘It’s got to be worth a try,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not enough,’ said Lesley. ‘One: they’re already generating leads over WITNESS A, including the possibility that he was wearing a mask. Two: you could have got all that information from the video.’

  ‘They won’t know I had access to the video.’

  ‘Peter,’ said Lesley. ‘It shows someone’s head being knocked off. It’s going to be all over the internet by the end of the day, and that’s if it’s not on the ten o’clock news.’

  ‘Then I’ll generate more leads,’ I said.

  ‘You’re going to go looking for your ghost?’

  ‘Want to come?’

  ‘No,’ said Lesley. ‘Because tomorrow is the most important day of the rest of my career, and I am going to bed early with a cocoa and a copy of Blackstone’s Police Investigator’s Workbook.’

  ‘Just as well,’ I said. ‘I think you scared him away last night, anyway.’

  Equipment for ghost hunters: thermal underwear, very important; warm coat; thermos flask; patience; ghost.

  It did occur to me quite early on that this was possibly the most absurd thing I’d ever done. Around ten I took up my first position, sitting at an outdoor table of a café, and waited for the crowds to thin out. Once the café closed I sauntered over to the church portico and waited.

  It was another freezing night, which meant that the drunks leaving the pubs were too cold to assault each other. At one point a hen party went past, a dozen women in oversized pink t-shirts, bunny ears and high heels. Their pale legs were blotchy with cold. One of them spotted me.

  ‘You’d better go home,’ she called. ‘He’s not coming.’

  Her mates shrieked with laughter. I heard one of them complaining that ‘all the good-looking ones are gay’.

  Which was what I was thinking when I saw the man watching me from the across the Piazza. What with the proliferation of gay pubs, clubs and chat rooms, it is no longer necessary for the single man about town to frequent public toilets and graveyards on freezing nights to meet the man of their immediate needs. Still, some people like to risk frostbite on their nether regions – don’t ask me why.

  He was about one-eighty in height – that’s six foot in old money – and dressed in a beautifully tailored suit that emphasised the width of his shoulders and a trim waist. I thought early forties with long, finely boned features and brown hair cut into an old-fashioned side parting. It was hard to tell in the sodium light but I thought his eyes were grey. He carried a silver-topped cane and I knew without looking that his shoes were handmade. All he needed was a slightly ethnic younger boyfriend and I’d have had to call the cliché police.

  When he strolled over to talk to me I thought he might be looking for that slightly ethnic boyfriend after all.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. He had a proper RP accent, like an English villain in a Hollywood movie. ‘What are you up to?’

  I thought I’d try the truth. ‘I’m ghost-hunting,’ I said.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Any particular ghost?’

  ‘Nicholas Wallpenny,’ I said.

  ‘What’s your name and address?’ he asked.

  No Londoner ever answers that question unchallenged. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale,’ he said, and showed me his warrant card.

  ‘Constable Peter Grant,’ I said.

  ‘Out of Charing Cross nick?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  He gave me a strange smile.

  ‘Carry on, Constable,’ he said, and went strolling back up James Street.

  So there I was, having just told a senior Detective Chief Inspector that I was hunting ghosts, which, if he believed me, meant he thought I was bonkers, or if he didn’t believe me meant he thought I was cottaging and looking to perpetrate an obscene act contrary to public order.

  And the ghost that I was looking for had failed to make an appearance.

  Have you ever run away from home? I have, on two occasions. The first time, when I was nine, I only got as far as Argos on Camden High Street and the second time, aged fourteen, I made it all the way to Euston Station and was actually standing in front of the departure boards when I stopped. On both occasions I wasn’t rescued or found or brought back; indeed, when I returned home I don’t think my mum noticed I’d gone. I know my dad didn’t.

  Both adventures ended the same way – with the realisation that in the end, no matter what, I was going to have to go home. For my nine-year-old self it was the knowledge that the Argos store represented the outer limit of my understanding of the world. Beyond that point was a tube station and a big building with statues of cats and, further on, more roads and bus journeys that led to downstairs clubs that were sad and empty and smelled of beer.

  My fourteen-year-old self was more rational. I didn’t know anyone in these cities on the departure boards, and I doubted they would be any more welcoming than London. I probably didn’t even have enough money to get me further than Potters Bar, and even if I did stow away for free, what was I going to eat? Realistically I had three meals’ worth of cash on me, and then it would be back home to Mum and Dad. Anything I
did short of getting back on the bus and going home was merely postponing the inevitable moment of my return.

  I had that same realisation in Covent Garden at three o’clock in the morning. That same collapse of potential futures down to a singularity, a future that I couldn’t escape. I wasn’t going to drive a fancy motor and say ‘you’re nicked’. I was going to work in the Case Progression Unit and make a ‘valuable contribution’.

  I stood up and started walking back to the nick.

  In the distance I thought I could hear someone laughing at me.

  Ghost-hunting Dog

  The next morning Lesley asked me how the ghost-hunting had gone. We were loitering in front of Neblett’s office, the place from whence the fatal blow would fall. We weren’t required to be there, but neither of us wanted to prolong the agony.

  ‘There’s worse things than the Case Progression Unit,’ I said.

  We both thought about that for a moment.

  ‘Traffic,’ said Lesley. ‘That’s worse than the CPU.’

  ‘You get to drive nice motors though,’ I said. ‘BMW Five, Mercedes M Class.’

  ‘You know, Peter, you really are quite a shallow person,’ said Lesley.

  I was going to protest, but Neblett emerged from his office. He didn’t seem surprised to see us. He handed a letter to Lesley, who seemed curiously reluctant to open it.

  ‘They’re waiting for you at Belgravia,’ said Neblett. ‘Off you go.’ Belgravia is where the Westminster Murder Team is based. Lesley gave me a nervous little wave, turned and skipped off down the corridor.

  ‘There goes a proper thief taker,’ said Neblett. He looked at me and frowned.

  ‘Whereas you,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what you are.’

  ‘Proactively making a valuable contribution, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Cheeky bugger is what you are,’ said Neblett. He handed me not an envelope, but a slip of paper. ‘You’re going to be working with a Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale.’ The slip had the name and address of a Japanese restaurant on New Row.

  ‘Who am I working for?’ I asked.

  ‘Economic and Specialist Crime as far as I know,’ said Neblett. ‘They want you in plain clothes, so you’d better get a move on.’

  Economic and Specialist Crime was an admin basket for a load of specialist units, everything from arts and antiques to immigration and computer crime. The important thing was that the Case Progression Unit wasn’t one of them. I left in a hurry before he could change his mind, but I want to make it clear that at no point did I break into a skip.

  New Row was a narrow, pedestrianised street between Covent Garden and St Martin’s Lane, with a Tesco’s at one end and the theatres of St Martin’s Lane at the other. Tokyo A Go Go was a bent place halfway down, sandwiched between a private gallery and a shop that sold sporting gear for girls. The interior was long and barely wide enough for two rows of tables, sparsely decorated in minimalist Japanese fashion, with polished wooden floors, tables and chairs of lacquered wood, lots of right angles and rice paper.

  I spotted Nightingale at a back table eating out of a black lacquered bent box. He stood when he saw me and shook my hand. Once I’d settled myself opposite, he asked if I was hungry. I said no thank you. I was nervous, and I make it a rule never to put cold rice into an agitated stomach. He ordered tea, and asked if I minded if he continued eating.

  I said not at all, and he returned to spearing food out of his bent with quick jabs of his chopsticks.

  ‘Did he come back?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your ghost,’ said Nightingale. ‘Nicholas Wallpenny: lurker, bug hunter and sneak thief. Late of the parish of St Giles. Can you hazard a guess as to where he’s buried?’

  ‘In the cemetery of the Actors’ Church?’

  ‘Very good,’ Nightingale said, and grabbed a duck wrap with a quick stab of his chopsticks. ‘So, did he come back?’

  ‘No he didn’t,’ I said.

  ‘Ghosts are capricious,’ he said. ‘They really don’t make reliable witnesses.’

  ‘Are you telling me ghosts are real?’

  Nightingale carefully wiped his lips with a napkin.

  ‘You’ve spoken to one,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’m awaiting confirmation from a senior officer,’ I said.

  He put the napkin down and picked up his teacup. ‘Ghosts are real,’ he took a sip.

  I stared at him. I didn’t believe in ghosts, or fairies or gods, and for the last couple of days I’d been like a man watching a magic show – I’d expected a magician to step out from behind the curtain and ask me to pick a card, any card. I wasn’t ready to believe in ghosts, but that’s the thing about empirical experience – it’s the real thing.

  And if ghosts were real?

  ‘Is this where you tell me that there’s a secret branch of the Met whose task it is to tackle ghosts, ghouls, faeries, demons, witches and warlocks, elves and goblins … ?’ I said. ‘You can stop me before I run out of supernatural creatures.’

  ‘You haven’t even scratched the surface,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Aliens?’ I had to ask.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘And the secret branch of the Met?’

  ‘Just me, I’m afraid,’ he said.

  ‘And you want me to what … join?’

  ‘Help,’ said Nightingale, ‘with this inquiry.’

  ‘You think there’s something supernatural about the murder?’ I asked.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what your witness had to say,’ he said, ‘and then we’ll see where it goes.’

  So I told him about Nicholas and the change of clothes by the murdering gent. About the CCTV coverage and the Murder Team thinking it was two separate people. When I’d finished, he signalled the waitress for the bill.

  ‘I wish I’d known this yesterday,’ he said. ‘But we still might be able to pick up a trace.’

  ‘A trace of what, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘The uncanny,’ said Nightingale. ‘It always leaves a trace.’

  Nightingale’s motor was a Jag, a genuine Mark 2 with the 3.8 litre XK6 engine. My dad would have sold his trumpet for a chance to own a car like that, and that was back in the 1960s when that still meant something. It wasn’t pristine: there were some dings on the body work and a nasty scratch on the driver’s side door, and the leather on the seats was beginning to crack, but when Nightingale turned the key in the ignition and the inline-6 rumbled, it was perfect where it counted.

  ‘You took sciences at A level,’ said Nightingale as we pulled out. ‘Why didn’t you take a science degree?’

  ‘I got distracted, sir,’ I said. ‘My grades were low and I couldn’t get on the course that I wanted.’

  ‘Really? What was the distraction?’ he asked. ‘Music, perhaps? Did you start a band?’

  ‘No sir,’ I said. ‘Nothing that interesting.’

  We headed down through Trafalgar Square and took advantage of the discreet Metropolitan Police flash on the windscreen to cut through the Mall, past Bucking-ham Palace and into Victoria. I knew there were only two places we might be going; Belgravia nick, where the Murder Team had their incident room, or Westminster Mortuary where the body was stashed. I hoped it was the incident room, but of course it was the mortuary.

  ‘But you understand the scientific method, though?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Yes sir,’ I said, and thought, Bacon, Descartes and Newton – check. Observation, hypothesis, experiment and something else that I could look up when I got back to my laptop.

  ‘Good,’ said Nightingale. ‘Because I need someone with some objectivity.’

  Definitely the morgue then, I thought.

  Its official name is the Iain West Forensic Suite, and it represents the Home Office’s best attempt to make one of its mortuaries look as cool as the ones in American TV shows. In order to keep filthy policemen from contaminating any trace evidence on the body, there was a special viewing
area with live autopsies piped in by closed-circuit television. This had the effect of reducing even the most grisly post-mortem to nothing more than a gruesome TV documentary. I was all for that but Nightingale, on the other hand, said that we needed to get close to the corpse.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Because there are other senses than sight,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Are we talking ESP here?’

  ‘Just keep an open mind,’ said Nightingale.

  The staff made us don clean suits and masks before letting us near the slab. We weren’t relatives, so they didn’t bother with a discreet cloth to cover the gap between the body’s shoulders and the head. I was so glad I’d skipped the bent that morning.

  I guessed William Skirmish had been an unremarkable man when he was alive. Middle-aged, just over average height, his muscle tone was flabby but he wasn’t fat. I found it surprisingly easy to look at the detached head, with its ragged edge of torn skin and muscle instead of a neck. People assume that, as a police officer, your first dead person will be a murder victim, but the truth is it’s usually the result of a car accident. My first had been on day two, when a cycle courier had had his head knocked off by a transit van. After that you don’t exactly get used to it but you do know that it could be a lot worse. I wasn’t exactly enjoying the headless Mr Skirmish, but I had to admit it was less intimidating than I’d imagined it.

  Nightingale bent over the body and practically stuck his face into the severed neck. He shook his head and turned to me. ‘Help me turn him over,’ he said.

  I didn’t want to touch the body, not even with surgical gloves on, but I couldn’t bottle out now. The body was heavier than I was expecting, cold and inert as it flopped onto its belly. I quickly stepped away but Nightingale beckoned me over.

  ‘I want you to get your face as close to his neck as possible, close your eyes and tell me what you feel,’ said Nightingale.

  I hesitated.

  ‘I promise it will become clear,’ he said.

  The mask and eye protectors helped; there was no chance of me accidentally kissing the dead guy. I did as I was told and closed my eyes. At first there was just the smell of disinfectant, stainless steel and freshly washed skin, but after a few moments I became aware of something else, a scratchy, wiry, panting, wet-nose, wagging sensation.