Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(41)

Those cold-shower athletic Up, up, play the game Victorians couldn’t believe that their Lord and saviour might have to compete with the local Rivers for the favour of ordinary humanity. Their God was all powerful and existed independently of our hopes and wishes. And if their prayers had no effect then, God damn it, nobody else’s did either.

Despite taking no official part in the War to End All Wars, many wizards volunteered nonetheless and nearly all lost brothers, fathers and uncles. Foxholes might breed belief, but trench systems are full of fatalistic cynics. After the war, most combatants didn’t like to talk about it. But those that did were not fans of the idea that faith could move mountains – at least not literally.

Nonetheless, there is power in those old cathedrals – you can feel it through your fingers when you touch the walls. And, wherever it comes from, we all knew what Martin Chorley planned to do with it.

‘Well, that’s it,’ said Seawoll, when we convened for the evening briefing. ‘We go after Lesley.’





15

The Coop

‘Do you think there is a God?’ said Carey, apropos of fuck knows what.

We were on a stake-out. And spending a couple of hours cooped up in a car often leads to some weird conversations. But this was the first time religion had ever come up.

‘You know, God,’ he said. ‘Creator of everything – the Bible – that kind of God.’

‘Not really,’ I said, and checked the mirrors to make sure we hadn’t been spotted.

Not that it was likely, given that we were parked down Poplar Place which was actually round the corner from our target. We’d taken the ‘last car on earth’, a ten year old Rover that was fully reconditioned under the bonnet but beaten to shit on the bodywork. It moved when you wanted it to but the aircon was buggered. Which why it was always the last car anyone picked for an operation. It didn’t help that it was another sweaty, overcast day, and even with the windows down Carey was suffering.

Our targets were the false houses in Bayswater that concealed not only the unsightly gash of the Circle and District Lines, but one of the hidden entrances to the clandestine tunnels that were the domain of the secret people that lived under West London. Fortunately we knew where most of the hidden entrances were. Unfortunately, so did Zachary Palmer – who was minting it as informal liaison between Crossrail and the Quiet People, as the secret folk were known, who were employed for their unique tunnelling skills.

Judging from the pattern when he evaded us, Zach used the hidden ways when he wanted to escape his surveillance team. As part of the ‘arrangement’ with the Quiet People the further flung of their secret entrances, not used for Crossrail, had been decommissioned. Me and Carey were stationed at the easternmost of the entrances which was still open, while Nightingale and Guleed were waiting in Notting Hill, which we figured was his most likely escape route.

‘So you don’t believe in God?’ said Carey.

Long experience with my mother’s erratic approach to Christianity has taught me to avoid this topic of conversation, but I wasn’t paying attention so I just told him I didn’t.

‘How can you not believe in God?’

There was something in Carey’s tone that made me pay attention.

‘I just don’t,’ I said.

‘But after what you’ve seen,’ he said. ‘After the shit we’ve seen?’

‘What kind of shit?’

‘You can do magic, Peter,’ said Carey. ‘You can shoot fireballs out of your fingers and your girlfriend is a river. That kind of shit. Like possessed BMWs and just all of it. All of that shit.’

‘That’s different,’ I said. ‘That shit is real.’

‘Most people don’t think it’s real. They think it’s all made up.’

‘Like overtime,’ I said, but Carey wasn’t biting.

‘If that’s true, then why not God?’

‘How does that follow?’

‘Because it does.’

‘No it doesn’t.’

‘OK, OK, maybe you just haven’t met God yet,’ he said and, before I could reply, my Airwave pinged.

It was Sergeant Jaget Kumar, the Folly’s liaison with the British Transport Police and our man in London Underground’s CCTV control room.

‘You’re not going to like this,’ he said. ‘But your target’s eastbound on the District Line.’

Nightingale broke in.

‘Zulu Foxtrot Two One One – go east now, see if you can get ahead of him.’

So much for secret doors, I thought, as I put the Rover in gear and peeled away with the light-bars flashing but the siren off. I considered going under the Westway at Royal Oak but decided to risk the traffic on the direct route and head up Bishop’s Bridge Road. We don’t speed in the Metropolitan Police, we ‘make progress’ where the traffic allows. Sometimes we made progress at seventy miles an hour, but not often enough to reach Edgware Road before Zach did.

‘Has he ever done this before?’ asked Carey, who was enjoying the breeze.

I said not.

‘He knows we’re following him this time,’ said Carey. ‘Why else change his pattern?’

Jaget reported that Zach was off the train.

‘Assume he’s going east on the Hammersmith and City,’ said Nightingale over the Airwave. ‘And try and get to Baker Street before he does. We’ll cover this end in case he doubles back.’