Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(27)

‘Better than watchdogs,’ said Nightingale. ‘Ask the Romans.’

TW-1 wasn’t interested in the geese; she wanted to know about the crime. There’d been multiple 999 calls twenty minutes earlier, reporting a breach of the peace and possible fighting between groups of youths, which in my experience could turn out to be anything from a hen night gone wrong to foxes turning over rubbish bins.

TW-3 reported seeing a group of IC1 males dressed in jeans and donkey jackets fighting with an unknown number of IC3 females on Riverside Road. IC1 is the identification code for white people, IC3 is black people and if you’re wondering, I tend to jump between IC3 and IC6 – Arabic or North African. It depends on how much sun I’ve caught recently. Black versus white was unusual but not impossible, but I’d never heard of boys versus girls before, and neither had TW-1, who wanted clarification.

‘Female,’ reported TW-3. ‘Definitely female, and one of them is stark naked.’

‘I was afraid of that,’ said Nightingale.

‘Afraid of what?’ I asked.

There was a rush of emptiness outside the Jag as we shot across the Chiswick Bridge. Upstream of Chiswick, the Thames throws a loop northwards around Kew Gardens and we were cutting across the base and aiming for Richmond Bridge.

‘There’s an important shrine nearby,’ said Nightingale. ‘I think the boys might have been after that.’

When he said shrine, I guessed he wasn’t talking about the rugby stadium.

‘And the girls are defending the shrine?’

‘Something like that,’ said Nightingale. He was a superb driver, with a level of concentration that I always find a comfort at high speed but even Nightingale had to slow down when the streets narrowed. Like a lot of London, Richmond town centre had been laid out back when town planning was something that happened to other people.

‘Tango Whiskey one from Tango Whiskey four; I’m on Church Lane by the river and I’ve got five or six IC1 males climbing into a boat – in pursuit.’

TW-4 would be Richmond’s second Incident Response Vehicle, meaning that just about every available body was now dealing.

TW-3 reported that there was no sign of the IC3 females, naked or otherwise, but that they could see the boat and it was heading for the opposite bank.

‘Call them and tell them we’re on our way,’ said Nightingale.

‘What’s our call sign? I asked.

‘Zulu One,’ he said.

I keyed the microphone. ‘Tango Whiskey One from Zulu One; show us dealing.’

There was a bit of a pause while TW-1 digested this. I wondered if the duty inspector knew who we were.

‘Zulu One from Tango Whiskey One; copy that.’ The Inspector had sounded flat, neutral. She knew who we were, all right. ‘Be advised that the suspects seem to have crossed the river and may now be on the south bank.’

I tried to acknowledge but it came out strangulated when Nightingale put us the wrong way down the one-way system on George Street, which you’re not supposed to do even with your lights and siren on. Not least because of the risk of coming face to face with something heavy and designed to clean streets in the middle of the night. I braced my legs in the footwell as our headlights lit up a two-metre, cherry-red Valentine’s heart in the window of Boots.

TW-3 called in: ‘Be advised that the suspect boat is now on fire, I can see people jumping off.’

Nightingale put his foot down, but mercifully we turned a corner and were back going the right way down the street. On the right was Richmond Bridge, but Nightingale went straight across the mini-roundabout and down the road that ran beside the Thames. We heard TW-1 calling in the London Fire Brigade fire boat – twenty minutes away at least.

Nightingale threw the Jag into a right-hand turn that I hadn’t even noticed and suddenly we were racing through pitch darkness, jolting along a track with gravel pinging off the bottom of the chassis. A sudden turn to the left and we were running right along the water’s edge, following the river as it curved north again. A line of cabin cruisers was moored close to the opposite bank, and beyond them I could see yellow flames – our burning boat. This was no modern pleasure cruiser, it looked more like a half-length narrowboat, the kind owned by homeopathic entrepreneurs that was supposed to have hand-painted gunwales and a cat asleep on the roof. If this boat had a cat, though, I hoped it could swim because it was on fire from stem to stern.

‘There,’ said Nightingale.

I looked ahead and saw figures caught on the fringes of our headlights. I called it into TW-1: ‘Confirm suspects on the south bank near … where the hell are we?’

‘Hammerton’s Ferry,’ said Nightingale and I passed it on.

Nightingale braked the Jag and we pulled up opposite the burning boat. There were torches in the glove compartment, vulcanised monstrosities with old-fashioned filament bulbs. Mine proved reassuringly heavy in the hand when Nightingale and I stepped out into the darkness.

I swept my light along the path but the suspects – assuming that’s what they were – had scarpered. Nightingale seemed more interested in the river than the path. I used my torch to check the water around the narrowboat which, I saw, was drifting slowly downstream, but there was nobody in the water.

‘Shouldn’t we check there’s no one left on board?’ I asked.