Whispers Under Ground

  Probably the architect, I thought.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked in tones that indicated that he thought it was unlikely.

  ‘I’m Peter Grant with the Metropolitan Police,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ he said and I swear his face lit up. ‘How can I help you?’

  I told him that I was looking into report of ‘disturbances’ at the address and had he noticed anything?

  The man, who really was the architect, asked when the ‘disturbances’ occurred and, when I told him the previous week, gave me a relieved smile.

  ‘It wasn’t us, Officer,’ said the man. ‘None of us were here last week.’

  Given the scaffolding and how much of the interior was missing they must be working bloody fast – I said so, which got a laugh.

  ‘If only,’ said the man. ‘We’ve been at this since March. We had to suspend work last week. We were waiting for some marble, white Carrara in fact, and it just completely failed to arrive and until it did arrive, what was I to do?’

  He’d sent his contingent of Poles, Romanians and Croats home for the week.

  ‘I still paid them,’ he said. ‘I’m not entirely heartless.’

  ‘Was there any sign of a break-in?’ I asked.

  Not that he’d noticed, but I was welcome to ask his workers, which I did despite the language barrier. Only one guy reported anything, and that was a vague sense that things might have been moved around while they were gone. I asked them if they’d enjoyed their week off, but they all said they’d gone and found casual work.

  Before I left I asked if I could have a quick look round and the architect told me to help myself. The first two storeys of the house had been knocked out. I could see the remnants of the plaster moulding and a dirty line of exposed brickwork like a high tide mark. As I stepped into the middle I got a flash of piano music, a bit of tortured pub upright, roll out the barrel, knees up Mother Brown, it does you good to get out of an evening. And with the piano the smell of gunpowder and patchouli oil and the flick flick flick of an old-fashioned film projector.

  It was vestigium, almost a lacuna – a pocket of residual magical effect. Or, as Lesley put it, that feeling where someone walks over your grave. Something magical had happened in the house, but unfortunately all I could tell was either it was recent or very strong and a long time ago.

  When I came out I did a quick canvass of the houses either side. Most of the residents hadn’t noticed anything unusual although one had thought that he’d heard piano music a couple of evenings back. I asked what kind of piano music.

  ‘Old-fashioned,’ said the neighbour, who was white, thin and nervous in an expensive kind of way. ‘Rather like a music hall in fact. Do you know, now I think of it, I believe there was singing.’

  I noted that as ‘some evidence that the premises had been in use the week previously by person or persons unknown’ which could go in the report and ‘heavy magical activity’ which would not. I sat in the Asbo with the engine running and wrote out a first draft of my statement. You need to get this stuff down as soon as possible, so you can make a clear distinction between what you plan to write down and what really happened.

  I was just detailing the statue and trying to remember where I’d written down its evidence reference number when my phone rang.

  I checked – the number was being withheld.

  ‘PC Grant?’ asked a man.

  ‘Speaking,’ I said. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Simon Kittredge CTC,’ he said. ‘I’m Special Agent Reynolds’ liaison.’

  CTC is SO15, Counter Terrorism Command, which, despite the name, does all the spook-related stuff for the Metropolitan Police. Including providing experienced minders for friendly foreign ‘observers’ to ensure they don’t observe anything that might upset them. I couldn’t think why he was calling me, but I doubted it was good news.

  ‘What can I do you for?’ I asked.

  ‘I wondered if Agent Reynolds has made contact with you recently?’ he said.

  If he was phoning strangers it could only mean that Reynolds had given him the slip.

  ‘Why would she want to talk to me?’ I asked.

  A definite pause this time as Kittredge weighed up his embarrassment at needing my help against his need to find his wayward American.

  ‘She was asking after you,’ he said.

  ‘Really? Did she say why?’

  ‘No,’ said Kittredge. ‘But she’s picked up the fact that you’re not part of the regular team.’

  Bloody hell, that was fast – she’d only just got off the plane.

  ‘If she makes contact what do you want me to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Call me straight away.’ He gave me his number. ‘And give her some flannel until I can get there.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m good at flannel,’ I said.

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ said Kittredge and hung up.

  Heard from who, I wondered.

  I checked my watch.

  Time for some culture, I thought.

  Onward to point C – in this case Southwark, the traditional home of bear baiting, whorehouses, Elizabethan theatre and now the Tate Modern. Built as an oil-fired power station by the same geezer who designed the famous red telephone box, it was one of the last monumental redbrick buildings before the modernists switched their worship to the concrete altar of brutalism. The power station closed in the 1980s and it was left empty in the hope that it would fall down on its own. When it became clear that the bastard thing was built to last, they decided to use it to house the Tate’s modern art collection.

  I parked the Asbo as close to the front entrance as I could get and trudged through the ankle-deep snow that covered the forecourt running from the gallery to the Thames. At the other end of the Millennium Bridge a floodlit St Paul’s rose out of a white and red jumble of refurbished warehouses, the spire brushing the bottom of the clouds. In the distance I saw a couple of Lowry figures scuttling across the bridge.

  The central chimney of the museum was a blind wall of brick a hundred metres tall and the main entrances were two horizontal slots either side of its base. An approach path had been swept clear of snow recently but was already starting to refill, and there were plenty of fresh footprints – obviously James Gallagher hadn’t been the only one with a flyer in his AtoZ and a yen for culture.

  Inside, it was merely chilly rather than freezing and the floor was wet with snowmelt. There was a temporary rope barrier and a very genteel-looking bouncer who waved me through without asking for an invitation – I suspect they were glad of all the bodies they could get.

  A painfully thin white girl in a pink wool minidress and a matching furry hat offered me a glass of wine and a welcoming smile. I took the wine but I avoided the smile, what with me being on duty and everything. Amongst the crowd most of the women were dressed better than the men except for the ones that were gay or dressed by their partners. My dad always says that only working-class boys like him appreciate proper style, which is funny since my mum buys all his clothes. It was a Guardian and Independent sort of crowd, high culture, high rent, talk the talk, walk the walk and send your kids to private school.

  I did a quick scan just in case Lady Ty was lurking in a corner somewhere.

  The Tate Modern is dominated by the turbine hall, a vast cathedral-like space that is high and wide enough for even the largest artistic ego. I’d come with the school once to see Anish Kapoor’s dirigible-sized pitcher plant thing that had filled the hall from one end to the other. Ryan Carroll didn’t rate the whole hall, but he did have the elevated floor that projected across the middle.

  Because of the crowd I had to get quite close to the sculptures before I could see them properly. They were made out of shop mannequins with what looked like bits of steam-powered technology riveted into their bodies. They’d been posed as if twisting in agony and their facial features ground down until they presented smooth faces to the world. It reminded me uncomfortably of Lesley’s mask or the head
of the Faceless Man. Brass plaques were attached to the mannequins’ chests, each etched with a single word: Industry on one, Progress on another.

  Steampunk for posh people, I thought. Although the posh people didn’t seem particularly interested. I looked around for another glass of fizzy wine and realised someone was watching me. He was a young Chinese guy with a mop of unruly black hair, a beard that looked like a goatee that had got seriously out of hand, black square-framed glasses and a good-quality cream-coloured suit cut baggy and deliberately rumpled. Once he saw he had my attention he slouched over and introduced himself.

  ‘My name is Robert Su.’ He spoke English with a Canadian accent. ‘I’d like, if I may, to introduce you to my employer.’ He gestured to an elderly Chinese woman in what was either a very expensive dove-grey Alex and Grace suit or the kind of counterfeit that is so well done that the difference becomes entirely metaphysical.

  ‘Peter Grant,’ I said and shook his hand.

  He led me over to the woman who despite her white hair and a stooped posture had a smooth unwrinkled face and startlingly green eyes.

  ‘May I introduce my employer Madame Teng,’ said Robert.

  I gave a clumsy half bow and, because that didn’t make me look stupid enough, I clicked my heels for good measure. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ I said.

  She nodded, gave me an amused smile and said something in Chinese to Robert, who looked taken aback but translated anyway.

  ‘My employer asks what your profession might be,’ he said.

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ I said and Robert translated.

  Madame Teng gave me a sceptical look and spoke again.

  ‘My employer is curious to know who your master is,’ said Robert. ‘Your true master.’

  With the emphasis he put on the word master I was certain he was talking about magical rather than administrative.

  ‘I have many masters,’ I said, which caused Madame Teng, when it had been translated, to snort with annoyance. I felt it then, that catching on the edge of my perception, as when Nightingale demonstrates an exemplar forma to me, but different. And there was a brief smell of burning paper. I took an instinctive step backwards and Madame Teng smiled with satisfaction.

  Lovely, I thought, just what I needed at the end of a long day. Still, Nightingale would want to know who these people were and as police you always want to come out of any conversation knowing more about them than they do about you.

  And, being police, you’re totally used to being considered rude and impolite.

  ‘So are you two from China?’ I asked.

  Madame Teng stiffened at the word China and launched into half a minute of rapid Chinese that Robert listened to with an expression of amused martyrdom.

  ‘We’re from Taiwan,’ he said when his employer had finished. She gave him a sharp look and he sighed. ‘My employer,’ he said, ‘has a great deal to say about the subject. Most of it esoteric and none of it relevant to you or me. If you’d be pleased to just nod occasionally as if I’m recounting the whole tedious argument about sovereignty to you I’d be most grateful.’

  I did as he asked, although I had to restrain myself from stroking my chin and saying ‘I see’.

  ‘What brings you to London?’ I asked.

  ‘We go all over the place,’ said Robert Su. ‘New York, Paris, Amsterdam. My employer likes to see what’s going on in the world – you could say that is her raison d’être.’

  ‘Which makes you what? Journalists? Spies?’ I asked.

  Madame Teng recognised at least one of those professions and snapped something at Robert, who gave me an apologetic shrug.

  ‘Madam Teng asks you once again – who is your master?’

  ‘The Nightingale is his master,’ said a voice behind me.

  I turned to find a stocky black woman in a strapless red dress cut low enough to show off broad muscled shoulders and cut high enough to reveal legs that could do an Olympic-time hundred metres without taking off the high heels. Her hair was shaved down to a fuzz and she had a wide mouth, flat nose and her mother’s eyes. I was caught in a wash of clattering machines, hot oil and wet dog. The cold didn’t seem to be bothering her at all.

  Madame Teng bowed, properly, as well she might given she was in the presence of a goddess – that of the River Fleet no less. Robert Su bowed lower than his employer because he had to, but I could see that he didn’t understand why.

  ‘Hello Fleet,’ I said. ‘How’s tricks?’

  Fleet ignored me and gave Madame Teng a polite nod.

  ‘Madame Teng,’ she said. ‘How nice to see you in London again. Will you be staying long?’

  ‘Madame Teng says thank you,’ translated Robert. ‘And that while, of course, London in December is a true delight she will be leaving in the morning for New York. If Heathrow is open, of course.’

  ‘I’m sure if you encounter any difficulties while leaving I and my sisters stand ready to render you every assistance,’ said Fleet.

  Madame Teng said something sharp to Robert Su, who offered me his business card. I gave him one of mine in return. He looked at the Metropolitan Police crest in amazement.

  ‘The police,’ he said. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ I said.

  There was another round of carefully calculated nods and bows and the two withdrew. I looked at the business card. It had Robert Su’s name, mobile, email and fax on it – his job description was Assistant to Madame Teng. The reverse showed a simplified silhouette of a Chinese dragon, black against the white card.

  ‘Who were they?’ I asked.

  ‘Who do you think?’ asked Fleet.

  She held out her hand and snapped her fingers and I swear a complete stranger broke off his conversation, pushed through the crowd until he found a waitress and then pushed back to place a glass of white wine in Fleet’s outstretched fingers. Then he returned to his companions and, despite their quizzical looks, took up his conversation where he’d left off.

  Fleet sipped her wine and gave me a pained smile.

  ‘Don’t tell Mum I did that,’ she said. ‘We’re supposed to be blending in.’

  I realised suddenly the wet dog smell wasn’t coming from Fleet. I looked down and saw that a dog had crept up unnoticed to sit at her heel. It was a patchy border collie that stared up at me with bright eyes, one amber and one blue. That would have explained the wet dog smell if only the dog hadn’t been perfectly dry.

  It gave me ‘the eye’ – the fearsome gaze that sheepdogs use to keep their charges in line. But I gave it ‘the look’ – the stare that policemen use to keep members of the public in a state of randomised guilt. The dog showed me its incisors and I might have escalated as far as kissing my teeth had Fleet not told it to lie down – which it did.

  Only then did it occur to me that, technically, dogs weren’t allowed in the gallery.

  ‘He’s a working dog,’ said Fleet before I could ask.

  ‘Really? What’s his job?’

  ‘He’s captain of my dogs,’ said Fleet.

  ‘How many dogs have you got?’

  ‘More than I can handle on my own.’ She sipped her white wine. ‘That’s why I need a captain to keep them in order.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ I asked.

  Fleet smiled. ‘Ziggy,’ she said.

  Of course it is, I thought.

  ‘Are you going to call Madame Teng?’ she asked.

  Not without checking with Nightingale first, I thought.

  ‘Don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’ll see how I feel.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Fleet.

  ‘I’ve developed a sudden keen interest in contemporary art,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m supposed to be reviewing the show tomorrow night on Radio Four,’ she said. ‘If you miss it live you can always catch it on the website. And you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘I thought I had,’ I said.

  ‘Are you on a job?’

&nbs
p; ‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ I said. ‘I’m just here to expand my horizons.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fleet. ‘Check out the pieces at the far end – that should keep you suitably expanded.’

  There were only two pieces at the far end of the space, hard up against the bare brick of the exterior wall and the crowd was noticeably thinner. They struck me as soon as I approached, struck me the way the sight of a beautiful woman does, or Lesley’s ruined face, or a sunset or a nasty traffic accident. I could see it was having the same effect on the others that came to view it – none of us got closer than a metre and most retreated slowly away from piece.

  I got a sudden rushing, screaming sensation of terror as if I’d been tied onto the front of a tube train and sent hurtling down the Northern Line. No wonder people were stepping back. It was about as powerful a vestigium as I’d ever encountered. Something seriously magical had gone into the making the piece.

  I took a deep breath and a slug of wine and stepped up for a closer look. The mannequin was the same make as those in the other gallery but posed, in this case, arms outflung, palms turned upwards as if in prayer or supplication. It wore on its torso what anyone with a passing interest in Chinese history or Dungeons and Dragons would recognise as being like the scale armour worn by the terracotta army – a tunic constructed by fastening together rectangular plates the size of playing cards. Only in this case each plate had a face sculpted onto it. Each of the faces, while simplified to a shape with a mouth, slits or dots for eyes and the barest hint of a nose, was clearly individual and carved into a distinct expression of sadness and despair.

  I felt that despair, and a strange sense of awe.

  A slender man in his early thirties with a long face, short brown hair and round glasses joined me in front of the sculpture. I recognised him from the flyer in James Gallagher’s locker – it was Ryan Carroll, the artist. He wore a heavy coat and fingerless gloves. Obviously not a man to put style before comfort. I approved.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asked. He had a soft Irish accent that if you’d put a gun to my head I’d have identified as middle-class Dublin but not with any real confidence.