Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(21)

Sir Robert Mark (1972–1977) looked particularly disapproving. I doubt he thought I was making a significant contribution.

‘It’s not too late to withdraw your application,’ said Nightingale.

Yes it was, but it didn’t mean I wasn’t wishing it wasn’t. Typically, a constable only sits in the Commissioner’s anteroom when he’s been very brave or very stupid, and I really couldn’t tell which one applied to me.

The Commissioner only made us wait ten minutes before his secretary came and fetched us. His office was large and designed with the same lack of style as the rest of Scotland Yard, only with a layer of fake oak panelling on top. There was a portrait of the Queen on one wall and another of the first Commissioner, Sir Charles Rowan, on the other. I stood as close to parade-ground attention as any London copper can get and nearly flinched when the Commissioner offered me his hand to shake.

‘Constable Grant,’ he said. ‘Your father is Richard Grant, isn’t he? I have some of his records from when he was playing with Tubby Hayes. On vinyl, of course.’

He didn’t wait for me to answer but shook Nightingale’s hand and waved us into our seats. He was another Northerner who’d come up the hard way and done that stint in Northern Ireland which appears to be obligatory for would-be Commissioners of the Metropolitan Police, presumably because violent sectarianism is thought to be character-building. He wore the uniform well and was judged by the rank and file as possibly not being a total muppet – which put him well ahead of some his predecessors.

‘This is an unexpected development, Inspector,’ said the Commissioner. ‘There are some that would see this as an unnecessary step.’

‘Commissioner,’ said Nightingale carefully, ‘I believe circumstances warrant a change in the arrangement.’

‘When I was first briefed about the nature of your section I was led to believe that it merely served a vestigial function, and that the—’ The Commissioner had to force the word out. ‘—that “the magic” was in decline and only posed a marginal threat to the Queen’s peace. In fact, I definitely remember the word “dwindle” being bandied about by the Home Office. “Eclipsed by science and technology”, was another phrase I heard a lot.’

‘The Home Office has never really understood that science and magic are not mutually exclusive, sir. The founder of my society provided proof enough of that. I believe there has been a slow but steady increase in magical activity.’

‘The magic’s coming back?’ asked the Commissioner.

‘Since the mid-sixties,’ said Nightingale.

‘The sixties,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Why am I not surprised? This is damned inconvenient. Any idea why?’

‘No, sir,’ said Nightingale. ‘But then there never was any real consensus as to why it faded in the first place.’

‘I’ve heard the word Ettersburg used in that context,’ said the Commissioner.

For a moment there was real pain on Nightingale’s face. ‘Ettersburg was part of it, certainly.’

The Commissioner blew out his cheeks and sighed. ‘The murders in Covent Garden and Hampstead, these are connected?’ he asked.

‘Yes sir.’

‘You think the situation will get worse?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Enough to warrant breaking the agreement?’

‘It takes ten years to train an apprentice, sir,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s better to have a spare just in case something happens to me.’

The Commissioner gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘Does he know what he’s getting himself into?’

‘Does any copper?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Very well,’said the Commissioner. ‘On your feet, son.’

We stood. Nightingale told me to raise my hand and read me the oath: ‘Do you, Peter Grant of Kentish Town, swear to be true to our sovereign Queen and her heirs. And well and truly serve your Master for the term of your apprenticeshood. And ye shall be in obedience to all the wardens and clothing of that fellowship. In reverence of the secret of the said fellowship ye shall keep and give no information to any man but of the said fellowship. And in all these things ye shall well and truly behave yourself and secretly keep this oath to your power so help you God, your Sovereign and the power that set the universe in motion.’

I so swore, although I did almost stumble over the clothing bit.

‘So help you God,’ said the Commissioner.


Nightingale informed me that as his apprentice I was required to lodge at his London residence in Russell Square. He told me the address and dropped me back at the Charing Cross section house.

Lesley helped me pack.

‘Shouldn’t you be at Belgravia,’ I asked, ‘doing Murder Team stuff?’

‘I’ve been told to take the day off,’ said Lesley. ‘Compassionate – don’t get on media’s radar – leave.’

That I could understand. A family annihilation involving charismatic rich people was going to be a news editor’s dream story. Once they’d picked over the gruesome details, they could extend the mileage by asking what the tragic death of the Coopertown family told us about our society, and how this tragedy was an indictment of modern culture/secular humanism/ political correctness/the situation in Palestine – delete where applicable. About the only thing that could improve the story would be the involvement of a good-looking blonde WPC out, I might add, unsupervised on a dangerous assignment. Questions would be asked. Answers would be ignored.