Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(60)

There were other memories – the ruin of Lesley’s face and the realisation that I was too late. Nearly getting myself hanged on stage and Seawoll clothes-lining me in the Floral Hall Bar. And Beverley floating above me with the firelight refracting through the water before she swept it away with the wave of a hand.

And that was just the first half of the year.

Because I was, amazingly enough, off shift I managed to have my first guilt-free pint for ages. Although my phone was still on and Nightingale had told me to stay upright if at all possible.

‘I don’t like it, Peter,’ he’d said after the morning briefing. ‘It’s all too complicated. Chorley has proved masterful at deceiving us in the past and I fear a great deal of what we’re finding is part of an elaborate ruse. What Varvara would call a maskirovka.’

He wanted us to stay open-minded and alert.

And I really wanted that pint.

‘Fleet was well pissed off,’ said Beverley.

‘As well she might be,’ said Oxley.

There was an East Asian woman doing street magic in front of the portico. From the balcony I could see the way the crowd formed up around her. She was good, catching individuals’ eyes, flirting with the teenagers and getting the younger kids excited by flicking her cards palm to palm like a juggler. When she did something clever you could see the surprise and excitement ripple out through the people around her.

The crowd goes one way and the thief goes the other way. They’re excited, he’s careful. They’re relaxed, he’s tense. And even if I hadn’t known him by name I would have spotted him for the career pickpocket he was.

‘Freddy,’ I shouted down from the balcony.

He looked up. I waved. It took a moment for him to recognise me, then he looked frantically around to see if a couple of response officers were closing in on him. When he didn’t spot any, he gave me a surly look.

I made a throat cutting motion and pointed south towards the Strand.

Freddy hesitated but the implication was clear – if he made me come down there and arrest him it was going to go very hard indeed. Finally he shrugged and slouched off – northwards, I noticed, the opposite of where I’d pointed.

I turned back to find the others staring at me.

‘Pickpocket,’ I said.

Beverley shook her head and Oxley laughed.

‘Well spotted,’ said Isis. ‘You’re not going to leave us and give chase, are you?’

I said that fortunately in these degenerate modern times such things were not necessary. Then I got my phone out and texted Inspector Neblett, my former shift commander, and let him know that our old mate Frederick William Cotton was obviously out of prison again. Probably now planning to work Oxford Street.

I refocused as the waitress brought the second round of drinks. I had another gloriously guilt-free pint. Oxley had something called a Brewdog Vagabond Pale Ale, which came in a bottle and which he claimed never to have tasted before.

‘I’m trying new things,’ he said.

Including a new suit in khaki chambray that had either been tailored deliberately baggy or had once belonged to someone else. Isis was similarly smartly turned out in a burgundy floor-length dress and matching jacket with cream buttons. I did mention that the opera had got a lot more informal since they last attended, which didn’t seem to bother Isis at all.

‘Well, I dress to please myself,’ said Isis, and clinked glasses with Beverley.

‘And I dress to please my love,’ said Oxley.

They all looked at me.

‘I dress to project an aura of confident authority,’ I said.

‘Not to please your goddess?’ said Oxley.

‘We much prefer the pair of you as nature intended,’ said Isis.

‘In which case,’ said Oxley, putting down his drink, ‘your wish is my command.’

He started stripping off his jacket and was only stopped when Isis grabbed his hand.

‘Don’t you dare,’ she said.

‘Are they not as fickle as the wind?’ said Oxley. ‘And as changeable as the sea.’

‘I’m not going anywhere near that, mate,’ I said, and Isis asked Beverley what she planned to do with her degree.

‘I’ve still got another year,’ said Beverley.

Down in the Piazza the street magician had given way to a small white man in a shabby suit and a top hat. I felt a moment of unease until he pulled out a yellow balloon and started comically failing to make an animal out of it. He did his patter in a broad West Country accent that had nothing to do with the skeleton army or the cruel streets of nineteenth-century London.

‘I was thinking of going into flood management,’ said Beverley.

‘Isn’t that cheating?’ asked Isis.

‘I like to think of it more as offering a unique insight.’

‘The insight being that they pay you money and you don’t flood their back gardens?’ said Isis.

Beverley denied the extortion aspect, although she admitted that she might end up having to extract some promises from her sisters if she did work in the lower Thames.

‘Which reminds me,’ said Isis. ‘When are Nicky and Brent coming up to visit?’

‘Are you sure you want them back?’ I asked. ‘After what happened last time?’

Oxley waved away any problems.