Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(5)

‘Is it cold?’ I asked.

‘I knew you’d be upset,’ she said.

I put my coat on. ‘Have you told the tribe yet?’ I asked. In addition to her mum, her dad and nan, Lesley had five older sisters, all still resident within a hundred metres of the family home in Brightlingsea. I’d met them once or twice when they’d descended upon London en masse for a shopping expedition. They were loud to the point of constituting a one-family breach of the peace, and would have merited a police escort if they hadn’t already had one, i.e. Lesley and me.

‘This afternoon,’ she said. ‘They were well-pleased. Even Tanya, and she doesn’t even know what it means. Have you told yours yet?’

‘Tell them what?’ I asked. ‘That I work in an office?’

‘Nothing wrong with working in an office.’

‘I just want to be a copper,’ I said.

‘I know,’ said Lesley. ‘But why?’

‘Because I want to help the community,’ I said. ‘Catch bad guys.’

‘Not the shiny buttons, then?’ she asked. ‘Or the chance to slap the cuffs on and say, “You’re nicked, my son”?’

‘Maintain the Queen’s peace,’ I said. ‘Bring order out of chaos.’

She shook her head sadly. ‘What makes you think there’s any order?’ she said. ‘And you’ve been out on patrol on a Saturday night. Does that look like the Queen’s peace?’

I went to lean nonchalantly against a lamp post but it went wrong and I staggered around a bit. Lesley found this much funnier than I thought it really deserved. She sat down on the step of Waterstone’s bookshop to catch her breath.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Why are you in the job?’

‘Because I’m really good at it,’ said Lesley.

‘You’re not that good a copper,’ I said.

‘Yes I am,’ she said. ‘Let’s be honest, I’m bloody amazing as a copper.’

‘And what am I?’

‘Too easily distracted.’

‘I am not.’

‘New Year’s Eve, Trafalgar Square, big crowd, bunch of total wankers pissing in the fountain – remember that?’ asked Lesley. ‘Wheels come off, wankers get stroppy and what were you doing?’

‘I was only gone for a couple of seconds,’ I said.

‘You were checking what was written on the lion’s bum,’ said Lesley. ‘I was wrestling a couple of drunken chavs and you were doing historical research.’

‘Do you want to know what was on the lion’s bum?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Lesley, ‘I don’t want to know what was written on the lion’s bum, or how siphoning works or why one side of Floral Street is a hundred years older than the other side.’

‘You don’t think any of that’s interesting?’

‘Not when I’m wrestling chavs, catching car thieves or attending a fatal accident,’ said Lesley. ‘I like you, I think you’re a good man, but it’s like you don’t see the world the way a copper needs to see the world – it’s like you’re seeing stuff that isn’t there.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Lesley. ‘I can’t see stuff that isn’t there.’

‘Seeing stuff that isn’t there can be a useful skill for a copper,’ I said.

Lesley snorted.

‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘Last night while you were distracted by your caffeine dependency I met an eyewitness who wasn’t there.’

‘Wasn’t there,’ said Lesley.

‘How can you have an eyewitness who wasn’t there, I hear you ask?’

‘I’m asking,’ said Lesley.

‘When your eyewitness is a ghost,’ I said.

Lesley stared at me for a moment. ‘I would have gone with the CCTV camera controller myself,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Guy watching the murder on CCTV,’ said Lesley. ‘He’d be a witness who wasn’t there. But I like the ghost thing.’

‘I interviewed a ghost,’ I said.

‘Bollocks,’ said Lesley.

So I told her about Nicholas Wallpenny and the murdering gent who turned back, changed his clothes and then knocked poor– ‘What was the victim’s name again?’ I asked.

‘William Skirmish,’ said Lesley. ‘It was on the news.’

‘Knocked poor William Skirmish’s head clean off his shoulders.’

‘That wasn’t on the news,’ said Lesley.

‘The murder team will want to keep that back,’ I said. ‘For witness verification.’

‘The witness in question being a ghost?’ asked Lesley.

‘Yes.’

Lesley got to her feet, swayed a bit and then got her eyes focused again. ‘Do you think he’s still there?’ she asked.

The cold air was beginning to sober me up at last. ‘Who?’

‘Your ghost,’ she said, ‘Nicholas Nickleby. Do you think he might still be at the crime scene?’

‘How should I know?’ I said. ‘I don’t even believe in ghosts.’