Lies Sleeping (Peter Grant, #7)(9)

I mean, we couldn’t put it downstairs in the coach house – that’s where we keep the Jag, and the Ferrari, and the most haunted car in Britain.

I found Nightingale in the central atrium, watching as the Operation Jennifer personnel filtered in through the front and headed for the dining room where Molly was serving breakfast. We hadn’t planned on feeding the multitude, but having this many people in the Folly had done something to Molly’s brain and by the third morning she’d reopened the dining room and was presiding over breakfast and lunch plus tea and cakes in the afternoon. Somewhere there was a budget spreadsheet piling up red numbers, but that wasn’t my problem – at least not yet.

‘They’re all so ridiculously young,’ said Nightingale.

‘They’ were mostly Police Staff, what we’re not supposed to call civilian workers any more – analysts and data entry specialists – who’d got the boot when the government decided that in the light of an increased security threat what London really needed was a smaller police force. Others were experienced officers seconded from Belgravia MIT and other specialist units, all out of uniform and all carefully selected by DI Stephanopoulos as reliable, competent and discreet.

And all signatories of the Official Secrets Act and security vetted twice – once by the Met and once by me.

Guleed wandered out of the dining room with a coffee cup in her hand, saw us and walked over.

‘You know, if every nick had a canteen like this,’ she said, ‘morale would be ever so much higher.’

‘Well, we could turn Molly’s kitchens into a stand-alone business unit and go for some contracts,’ I said. ‘Molly gets to cook to her heart’s content and we replenish some of our reserves.’

Nightingale nodded thoughtfully.

‘Interesting,’ he said.

‘Really?’ I said. ‘I was just kidding.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I see.’

And headed off to the morning briefing.

Guleed flicked me on the arm.

‘You’ve really got to learn to keep your mouth shut,’ she said.

I wisely kept my counsel and went off in search of some coffee.



The visitors’ lounge was a long room built just off the Folly’s entrance lobby to provide an agreeable space for wives, daughters and other suitably genteel visitors to be entertained by members while making it quite clear that they weren’t welcome in the Folly proper. Still, it had been nicely furnished with oak panelling, portraits of Sir Isaac Newton, Queen Charlotte, the fifth Duke of Bedford, and some quite splendid second-best upholstery.

Upon setting up Operation Jennifer we’d whipped off the dust sheets, put most of the furniture in storage and installed the sort of institutional desks and workspaces that no modern copper feels he can work without. Or at the very least avoid. The line of tall sash windows would have provided plenty of natural sunlight if we hadn’t installed modern metal blinds to stop people looking in. So we fastened LED strips along the walls and plugged them into the single wall plug in the whole room. Fortunately it was a computer—free room so we didn’t risk overloading the Folly’s circuitry, although people constantly complained about having nowhere to charge their phones.

The far wall had been covered in a whiteboard which was slowly filling up with a tangle of photographs, lines, personal names, company names and question marks. DCI Seawoll was looking at it when we entered.

‘Fuck me, this is getting complicated,’ he said.

Alexander Seawoll was as modern a copper as had ever authorised a community outreach action going forward, but you would never know it from casual acquaintance. A big man who wore a camel hair coat and handmade shoes, he was, reputedly, from Glossop – a small town just outside Manchester famous for its beautiful setting, its role in the cotton industry, and being twinned with Royston Vasey.

Minus DI Stephanopoulos and DC Carey, who were both back at Belgravia Nick, Nightingale, Guleed, Seawoll and I constituted the inner decision-making core of Operation Jennifer.

‘Well, the plan was to poke people until we got a reaction,’ said Guleed. ‘I’d say that in that sense it was a success.’

Seawoll glared at me – not at Guleed, you notice, who was the apple of his professional eye – but at me.

‘Yes, it did,’ he said ‘But not what you’d call fucking quietly. But I haven’t seen a bunch of police analysts this happy since they brought back Doctor Who.’

Exposing the Pale Nanny had not only confirmed Richard Williams as an associate of Martin Chorley, but as one important enough to kill in extremis. Now the analysts could go back over their data, but give him a higher weighting. In the normally shifting world of information theory, poor Richard Williams had taken on a new solidity – which was not bad for a man who was still unconscious.

‘We can’t overlook the possibility that his wife is the connection,’ said Seawoll, and looked at Guleed. ‘Speaking of which, how did the ABE interview go?’

Guleed took out her notebook and ran through the outcome. Fiona Williams didn’t know anything about her husband’s contacts from his Oxford days apart from Gabriel Tate, who he had occasional drinks with.

‘And co-wrote the script I found,’ I said.

Guleed had already actioned an IIP report and checked our lists and found he wasn’t a suspected Little Crocodile.