Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(36)

‘What the hell are you waiting for?’ he hissed.

‘I’m checking the computer,’ I said.

He hesitated, pushed his hair back off his forehead. ‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘Only one last place to look.’

I’d have to remember to come back with an evidence bag and grab the whole computer.

There was a door in the hallway that led to a set of narrow stairs heading down. The steps were worn hardwood planks that I guessed had been laid down when the house was built. A bare bulb dangled just inside the door, half-blinding me and making the gloom at the base of the stairs more intense.

The basement, I thought; why am I not surprised?

‘Well,’ said Nightingale, ‘we’re not getting any younger.’

I was happy to let him go first.

I shivered as we went down the narrow stairs. It was cold, like descending into a freezer, but I noticed that when I breathed out my breath didn’t mist. I put my hand under my armpit but there was no temperature differential. This wasn’t physical cold, this had to be a type of vestigium. Nightingale paused, shifted his weight and flexed his shoulders like a boxer preparing to fight.

‘Are you feeling this?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘What is it?’

‘Tactus disvitae,’ he said. ‘The smell of anti-life – they must be down here.’

He didn’t say what, and I didn’t ask. We started down the stairs again.

The basement was narrow and well lit, I was surprised to find, by a fluorescent tube that ran half its length. Someone had mounted shelves along one wall and optimistically assembled a workbench underneath. More recently an old mattress had been thrown down on the concrete floor and on that mattress lay two vampires. They looked like tramps, old-fashioned tramps, the kind that dressed up in ragged layers of clothes and growled at you from the shadows. The sensation of cold intensified as Nightingale and I got closer. They looked as if they were asleep, but there were no breathing sounds and none of the fug a sleeping human being would produce in a confined space.

Nightingale handed me a framed family photograph, obviously looted from a living-room mantelpiece, and transferred his cane to his right hand.

‘I need you to do two things,’ he said. ‘I need you to confirm their identities and check them both for a pulse. Can you do that?’

‘What are you going to be doing?’

‘I’m going to cover you,’ he said. ‘In case they wake up.’

I considered this for a moment. ‘Are they likely to wake up?’

‘It’s happened before,’ said Nightingale.

‘How often before?’ I asked.

‘It gets more likely the longer we’re down here,’ said Nightingale.

I crouched down and reached out gingerly to draw back the collar of the closest one’s coat. I was careful not to touch the skin. It was the face of a middle-aged man, white with unnaturally smooth cheeks and pallid lips. I checked him against the photograph, and although the features were the same he bore no true resemblance to the smiling father in the picture. I shifted round to get a look at the second body. This one was female, and her face matched that of the mother. Mercifully Nightingale had chosen a photo without the children in it. I reached out to feel for a pulse and hesitated.

‘Nothing lives on these bodies,’ said Nightingale. ‘Not even bacteria.’

I pressed my fingers against the male’s neck. His skin was physically cool and there was no pulse. The female was the same. I stood up and backed away. ‘Nothing,’ I said.

‘Back upstairs,’ said Nightingale. ‘Quickly now.’

I didn’t run, but I wouldn’t call what I did up those stairs casual either. Behind me Nightingale came up backwards, his cane held at the ready. ‘Get the grenades,’ he said.

I took the grenades from the satchel, Nightingale took one and showed me what to do. My hand was shaking a little and the pin proved harder to pull than I expected – I guess that’s a safety feature on a grenade. Nightingale pulled the pin on his own grenade and gestured down the basement stairs.

‘On the count of three,’ he said. ‘And make sure it goes all the way down to the bottom.’ He counted, and after three we threw the grenades down the stairs and I, stupidly, stood watching it bounce down to the bottom until Nightingale grabbed my arm and dragged me away.

We hadn’t even reached the front door when I heard a double thump beneath our feet. By the time we were out of the house and into the front garden, white smoke was billowing out of the basement.

‘White phosphorus,’ said Nightingale.

A thin scream began from somewhere inside. Not human, but close enough.

‘Did you hear that?’ I asked Nightingale.

‘No,’ he said. ‘And neither did you.’

Concerned neighbours rushed out to see what was happening to their property values, but Nightingale showed them his warrant card. ‘Don’t worry; we made sure nobody was inside,’ he said. ‘Lucky we were passing, really.’

The first fire engine pulled up less then three minutes later and we were hustled away from the house. The Fire Brigade recognise only two kinds of people at a fire, victims and obstacles, and if you don’t want to be either it’s best to stay back.

Frank Caffrey arrived on the scene, and exchanged nods with Nightingale before striding over to the leading fireman to get briefed. Nightingale didn’t have to explain how it would go down; once the fire was out, Frank, as Fire Investigation Officer, would examine the scene and declare that it was caused by something plausible and sanitise any evidence to the contrary. No doubt there were equally discreet arrangements for dealing with the remains of the bodies in the basement, and the whole thing would pass off as just another daytime house fire. Probably an electrical fault, lucky no one was in there at the time, makes you think about getting a smoke detector, doesn’t it?