Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(104)

What a prince among men, I thought, and checked the description he’d given at an earlier interview. ‘You say she had long black hair, black eyes, pale skin and very red lips?’

St John nodded enthusiastically. ‘Sort of Japanese-looking without being Japanese,’ he said. ‘Beautiful, but she didn’t have slanty eyes.’

‘Did you see her teeth?’

‘No, I already told you …’

‘Not those teeth,’ I said. ‘The ones in her mouth.’

‘I don’t remember,’ he said. ‘Is it important?’

‘It might be,’ I said. ‘Did she say anything?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like, anything at all.’

He looked nonplussed, thought about it and admitted that he didn’t think she’d spoken the whole time he’d been with her. After that I asked a few closing questions, but St John had been too busy bleeding to notice where his assailant had gone and he never got her name, let alone her phone number.

I told him I thought he was bearing up well, considering.

‘Right now,’ he said, ‘I’m on some really serious medication. I don’t like to think about what’s going to happen when I come off it.’

I checked with the doctors on my way out – the missing penis had never been found. Once I’d finished up my notes – this was still an official Metropolitan Police investigation – I checked in on Lesley, who was one floor up. She was still asleep, her face hidden by a swathe of bandages. I stood by her bed for a while. Dr Walid had said that I’d definitely saved her life, and possibly increased the chances of successful reconstructive surgery. I couldn’t help thinking that hanging out with me had almost killed her. It had been less than six months since she’d gone for those coffees and I’d met a ghost, and it was terrifying that that might have been all the difference there was between me being the one wearing the bandages.

Less terrifying, but much more depressing, was figuring out why it had all kicked off back on that cold January night or, more precisely, that sunny winter’s day on Hampstead Heath when Toby the dog bit Brandon Coopertown on the nose. That was the same week the Linbury Studio, the Royal Opera House’s second, smaller auditorium had staged a revival of a little-known play entitled The Married Libertine, first shown in the main theatre in 1761 and never shown again, as far as I could tell, anywhere else in the world, its author – Charles Macklin. The Royal Opera House fell over themselves to give me access to their booking records, presumably in the hope I’d then go away for ever, and I found William Skirmish and Brendan Coopertown had attended a performance on the same night. A random set of circumstances are what did for William Skirmish, and all those who were maimed or died after him – like I said – depressing.

If you want to help, Nightingale had told me, study harder, learn faster. Do the job.

I’d have stayed longer, but I was on the clock.

Nightingale, in an adjacent room, was awake and sitting up and doing the Telegraph crossword. We discussed the case of the missing penis.

‘Vagina dentata,’ said Nightingale. I wasn’t sure that I was reassured by the thought that it was common enough for there to be a technical term for it. ‘Could be oriental, something out of Chinatown,’ he said.

‘Not Japanese,’ I said. ‘The victim was quite clear about that.’

Nightingale gave me some titles to look up in the library when I had a moment. ‘But not today,’ he said. ‘Are you nervous?’

‘A lot of things can go wrong,’ I said.

‘Just don’t drink anything,’ he said, ‘and you’ll be fine.’

As I walked back home to the Folly, I generated my own suspicions as to the identity of the phantom dick snatcher. As soon as I got in I went looking for Molly, who I found in the kitchen – chopping up cucumbers.

‘Have you been out clubbing recently?’ I asked.

She stopped slicing and turned to regard me with solemn black eyes.

‘You sure?’

She shrugged and started chopping again. I decided that I was going to let Nightingale sort that one out – a clear chain of command is a wonderful thing.

‘Is that what we’re having for the trip?’ I asked. ‘Cucumber sandwiches?’

Molly indicated the rest of her ingredients – salami and liver sausage.

‘You’re just taking the piss now, aren’t you?’

She gave me a pitying look, and handed me a recycled Sainsbury’s bag with a packed lunch in it.

In the garage there were no fewer than six suitcases piled beside the Jag. In addition, Beverley had brought a large shoulder bag that was, I learned later, stuffed with the entire top shelf of a Peckham hair salon. Beverley had heard all about the countryside, and wasn’t taking any chances.

‘Why me?’ she asked as she watched me loading up the Jag.

I opened the door for her and she climbed in, buckled up and held her shoulder bag protectively in her lap.

‘Because that’s the agreement,’ I said.

‘Nobody asked me,’ said Beverley.

I got in and checked to make sure that I had a couple of Mars Bars and a bottle of sparkling in the glove compartment. Satisfied that emergency supplies were laid on, I started up the Jag and pulled out of the garage.