Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(17)

Nightingale’s head snapped round to look at the Coopertowns’ house.

We heard a window break and a woman screaming.

‘Constable, wait!’ shouted Nightingale, but Lesley was already through the gate and into the garden. Then she stopped so suddenly that Nightingale and I nearly piled into her back. She was staring at something on the lawn.

‘Jesus Christ, no,’ she whispered.

I looked. My brain kept trying to slide away from the idea that someone had thrown a baby from a first-floor window. Tried to convince me that what I was seeing was a scrap of cloth or a doll. But it wasn’t.

‘Call an ambulance,’ said Nightingale and ran up the steps. I grabbed my phone as Lesley stumbled over to the baby and fell to her knees. I saw her turn the little body over and feel for a pulse. I gave the emergency code and the address on automatic. Lesley bent over and started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, her mouth covering the baby’s mouth and nose in the prescribed manner.

‘Grant, get in here,’ called Nightingale. His voice was steady, businesslike. It got me moving up the steps and onto the porch. Nightingale must have kicked the front door right off its hinges because I had to run right over it to get into the hall. We had to stop to work out where the fuck the noise was coming from.

The woman screamed again – upstairs. There was a thumping sound like somebody beating a carpet. A voice, I thought it might be a man’s but very high-pitched, was screaming: ‘Have you got a headache now?’

I don’t even remember the stairs. Suddenly I was on the landing with Nightingale in front of me. I saw August Coopertown lying face down at the far end of the landing, one arm thrust through a gap in the banisters. Her hair was wet with blood and a pool was growing under her cheek. A man stood over her holding a wooden baton at least a metre and a half in length. He was panting hard.

Nightingale didn’t hesitate. He bulled forward, shoulder down, obviously planning to take the man down in a rugby tackle. I charged, too, thinking I’d go high to pin the man’s arms after he’d gone down. But the man whirled around and casually backhanded Nightingale with enough force to slam him into the banisters.

I was staring right at his face. I assumed it must be Brandon Coopertown, but it was impossible to tell. I could see one of his eyes but a great flap of skin had been peeled back from around his nose and was covering the other eye. Instead of a mouth he had a bloody maw full of white flecks of broken teeth and bone. I was so shocked that I stumbled and fell, which was what saved my life when Coopertown swung that baton at me and it passed right over my head.

I hit the ground and the bastard ran right over me, one foot slamming down on my back and blowing the air out of my lungs. I rolled over as I heard his feet on the stairs and managed to get onto my hands and knees. There was something wet and sticky under my fingers, and I realised that there was a thick trail of blood leading across the landing and down the stairs.

There was a crash and a series of thumps from the hallway below.

‘You need to get up, Constable,’ said Nightingale.

‘What the fuck was that?’ I asked as he helped me up. I looked down into the hallway where Coopertown, or whoever the hell it was, had fallen – mercifully face down.

‘I really have no idea,’ said Nightingale. ‘Try to stay out of the blood trail.’

I went down the stairs as fast as I could. The fresh blood was bright red, arterial. I guessed it must have fountained out of the hole in his face. I bent down and gingerly touched his neck, looking for a pulse. There wasn’t one.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Peter,’ said Inspector Nightingale. ‘I need you to step away from the body and walk carefully outside. We mustn’t contaminate the scene any more than we have already.’

This is why you have procedure, training and drill, so that you do things when your brain is too shocked to think for itself – ask any soldier.

I stepped outside into the daylight.

In the distance I could hear sirens.





The Folly


Inspector Nightingale told Lesley and me to wait in the garden, and faded back into the house to check there was nobody else inside. Lesley had used her coat to cover the baby and was shivering in the cold. I tried to struggle out of my jacket so I could offer it to her, but she stopped me.

‘It’s covered in blood,’ she said.

She was right: there were smears of blood up the sleeves and trailing the edge of the hem. There was more blood on the knees of my trousers. I could feel the stickiness where it had soaked through the material. There was blood on Lesley’s face, around her lips, from when she’d tried to resuscitate the baby. She noticed me staring.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve still got the taste in my mouth.’

We were both trembling and I wanted to scream but I knew I had to be strong for Lesley’s sake. I was trying not to think about it, but the red ruin of Brandon Coopertown’s face kept sneaking up on me.

‘Hey,’ said Lesley. ‘Keep it together.’

She was looking concerned, and she looked even more concerned when I started to giggle – I couldn’t help myself.

‘Peter?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But you’re being strong for me and I’m being strong for you and— Don’t you get it? This is how you get through the job.’ I got my giggles under control and Lesley half-smiled.