Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(15)

‘No,’ she said. ‘I thought it was when you sang about cheese and tying up people’s gaiters.’

‘Funny,’ I said. ‘I once asked my dad’ – when he was sober – ‘how he knew what to play. And he said that when you get the right line, you just know because it’s perfect. You’ve found the line, and you just follow it.’

‘And that’s got the fuck to do with what?’

‘What Nightingale can do fits with the way I see the world. It’s the line, the right melody.’

Lesley laughed. ‘You want to be a wizard,’ she said.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Liar,’ she said, ‘you want to be his apprentice and learn magic and ride a broomstick.’

‘I don’t think real wizards ride broomsticks,’ I said.

‘Would you like to think about what you just said?’ asked Lesley. ‘Anyway, how would you know? He could be whooshing around even as we’re speaking.’

‘Because if you had a car like that Jag you wouldn’t spend any time mucking about on a broomstick.’

‘Fair point,’ said Lesley, and we clinked bottles.

*

Covent Garden, night time again. This time with a dog.

Also a Friday night, which meant crowds of young people being horribly drunk and loud in two dozen languages. I had to carry Toby in my arms or I’d have lost him in the crowd – lead and all. He enjoyed the ride, alternating between snarling at tourists, licking my face and trying to drive his nose into passing armpits.

I’d offered Lesley a chance to put in some unpaid overtime, but strangely she’d declined. I did zap her Brandon Coopertown’s picture and she’d promised to put his details on HOLMES for me. It was just turning eleven when Toby and I reached the Piazza and found Nightingale’s Jag parked as close to the Actors’ Church as you could get without being towed away.

Nightingale climbed out as I walked over. He was carrying the same silver-topped cane as he had when I’d first met him. I wondered if it had any special significance beyond being a handy blunt instrument in times of trouble.

‘How do you want to do this?’ asked Nightingale.

‘You’re the expert, sir,’ I said.

‘I looked into the literature on this,’ said Nightingale, ‘and it wasn’t very helpful.’

‘There’s a literature about this?’

‘You’d be amazed, Constable, about what there’s a literature on.’

‘We have two options,’ I said. ‘One of us leads him around the crime scene, or we let him go and see where he goes.’

‘I believe we should do it in that order,’ said Nightingale.

‘You think a directed first pass will make a better control?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Nightingale, ‘but if we let him off the lead and he runs away, that’s the end of it. I’ll take him for his walk. You stay by the church and keep an eye out.’

He didn’t say what I should keep an eye out for, but I had a shrewd idea that I knew already. Just as I’d suspected as soon as Nightingale and Toby vanished around the side of the covered market. I heard someone pssting me. I turned around and found Nicholas Wallpenny beckoning me from behind one of the pillars.

‘Over here, squire,’ hissed Nicholas. ‘Before he comes back.’ He drew me behind the pillar where, among the shadows, Nicholas seemed more solid and less worrying. ‘Do you know what manner of man you’re keeping company with?’

‘You’re a ghost,’ I said.

‘Not myself,’ said Nicholas. ‘Him with the nice suit and the silver cad-walloper.’

‘Inspector Nightingale?’ I asked. ‘He’s my governor.’

‘Well, I don’t want to tell you your business,’ said Nicholas. ‘But I’d find myself another governor if I was you. Someone less touched.’

‘Touched by what?’ I asked.

‘Just you ask him about the year of his birth,’ said Nicholas.

I heard Toby bark, and suddenly Nicholas wasn’t there any more.

‘You’re not making any friends here, Nicholas,’ I said.

Nightingale returned with Toby, and with nothing to report. I didn’t tell him about the ghost or what the ghost had said about him. I feel it’s important not to burden your senior officers with more information than they need.

I picked up Toby and held him so that his absurd doggy face was level with mine – I tried to ignore the smell of PAL Meaty Chunks in gravy.

‘Listen Toby,’ I said, ‘your master is dead, I’m not a dog person and my governor would turn you into a pair of mittens as soon as look at you. You’re looking at a one-way ticket to Battersea Dog’s Home and the big sleep. Your one chance to avoid the big kennel in the sky is to use whatever doggy supernatural senses you have to track … whatever it was murdered your owner. Do you understand?’

Toby panted and then barked once.

‘Close enough,’ I said, and put him down. He immediately trotted over to the pillar and lifted his leg.

‘I wouldn’t turn him into a pair of mittens,’ said Nightingale.

‘No?’

‘He’s a short-haired breed – they’d look terrible,’ said Nightingale. ‘Might make a good hat.’