Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(34)

‘Almost as if something was messing with his head,’ she said. ‘Right?’

So I told her about the dissimulo spell and the theory that something had invaded Coopertown’s mind, forced him to change his face, kill William Skirmish and then his family. This led, naturally, to a description of my visit to Mama Thames, the magic lessons and Molly the ‘God knows what she is’ Maid.

‘Should you be telling me this?’ asked Lesley.

‘I don’t see why not,’ I said. ‘Nightingale’s never told me not to. Your boss believes this stuff is real, too; he just doesn’t like it very much.’

‘So something was messing with Coopertown’s mind – right?’ asked Lesley.

‘Right,’ I said.

‘And whatever that was,’ continued Lesley, ‘could have been interfering with William Skirmish’s mind as well. It could have made him come down West just so he could have his head knocked off. I mean, if it can mess with one person’s mind, why not another, why not yours or mine?’

I remembered the horror of Coopertown’s face as he lurched towards me across the balcony, and the smell of blood. ‘Thank you for that thought, Lesley,’ I said. ‘I shall certainly treasure it for ever – probably late at night when I’m trying to sleep.’

Lesley glanced at where Celia Monroe sat demurely. ‘She had the same kind of sudden mad rage,’ she said. ‘What if her mind had been messed with too?’

‘Her face didn’t fall off,’ I said.

Celia Monroe caught us looking at her and flinched. ‘What if Coopertown was the big splash,’ said Lesley, ‘and she was just an echo? There could have been other incidents going on all over the place, but we just happened to be there when this one blew.’

‘We could check the crime reports and see if anything fits,’ I said. ‘See if there’s a cluster.’

‘That would be Westminster and Camden,’ said Lesley. ‘That’s a lot of crime.’

‘Limit it to physical assaults and first offences,’ I said. ‘The computer should do most of the work.’

‘What are you going to be doing?’ she asked.

‘I shall be learning to make light,’ I said loftily.


Two days later Nightingale called me downstairs just as I left the bathroom. Practice was cancelled and so, it seemed, was breakfast. Nightingale was wearing what I recognised as his ‘working suit’, light brown herringbone tweed, double-breasted, leather patches on the elbow. He had his original Burberry trench coat folded over his arm and he was carrying his silver-topped cane – something I’d never seen him do in daylight before.

‘We’re going to Purley,’ he said, and to my surprise threw me the keys to the Jag.

‘What’s in Purley?’ I asked.

‘I’m not going to tell you,’ he said. ‘I’d rather you gathered your own impressions.’

‘Is this police business or apprentice stuff?’ I asked.

‘Both,’ said Nightingale.

I climbed behind the wheel of the Jag, turned the key in the ignition and took a moment to savour the sound of the engine. It’s important not to rush the good things in life.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ said Nightingale.

She didn’t handle as well as I had expected, but the way the engine responded to my foot on the accelerator made up for any other faults, including the oversteer and the heater that periodically blew hot stale air into my face.

I took us across Lambeth Bridge. Weekday traffic in London is always bad, and we stop-started all the way past the Oval, through Brixton and on to Streatham. Further beyond, we were into the south London suburbs, hectares of Edwardian two-storey terraced housing interspersed with interchangeable high streets. Occasionally we passed irregular rectangles of green space, the remnants of ancient villages that had grown together like spots of mould on a Petri dish.

The A23 morphed into Purley Way, and we passed a pair of tall chimneys crowned with the IKEA logo. Next stop was Purley, famous place, Purley, know what I mean?

A red VW Transporter with LFB trimming was waiting for us in the car park at Purley Station. As we pulled up beside it a big man got out of the side door and raised his hand in greeting. He was in his forties; he had a broken nose and hair cut down to a brown fuzz. Nightingale introduced him as Frank Caffrey.

‘Frank works out of the New Cross station. He’s our Fire Brigade liaison.’

‘Liaison for what?’ I asked.

‘This,’ said Frank, and handed me a canvas satchel. It was unexpectedly heavy and I almost dropped it. Something metal clonked inside.

‘Be careful,’ said Nightingale.

I opened the flap and had a look. Inside were two metal cylinders the size of aerosol cans but much heavier. They were white with No. 80 WP Gren. stencilled around the body. At the top there was a spring-release trigger held in place by a large metal pin. I’m not a military buff, but I know a hand grenade when I see one. I looked at Nightingale, who gave me an irritable wave.

‘Put them away,’ he said.

I closed the satchel and settled it gingerly over my shoulder.

Nightingale turned back to Frank. ‘Are your people ready?’ he asked.

‘Two appliances on standby – just in case.’