Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(62)

I hadn’t told Beverley where we were going, but she twigged what we were up to as soon as we swung off the Clockhouse Roundabout and headed down the London Road for glorious Staines.

‘I can’t be coming down here,’ she said. ‘This is off my patch.’

‘Relax,’ I said. ‘This is sanctioned.’

It’s a weird thing that, despite being born and raised in London, there are large stretches of the city that I’ve never seen. Staines was one of those, despite technically not being in London, and to me it looked low-rise and countrified. After we crossed Staines Bridge I found myself on an anonymous stretch of road with tall hedges and fences blinding me on both sides. I slowed down as we approached a roundabout and wished that I’d invested in a GPS system.

‘Go left,’ said Beverley.

‘Why?’

‘You’re looking for one of the Sons of the Old Man?’ she asked.

‘Oxley,’ I said.

‘Then go left,’ she said with absolute certainty.

I took the first exit off the roundabout with that weird sense of dislocation you get when driving under someone else’s direction. I saw a marina on my left – bobbing rows of white and blue cruisers with the occasional long boat to break up the monotony.

‘Is that it?’ I asked.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said. ‘That’s the Thames. Keep going straight.’ We crossed a short modern bridge over what Beverley assured me was Oxley’s river and reached a strange little roundabout. It was like driving into the land of the munchkins, an estate made of little streets lined with pink stucco bungalows. We turned right, parallel to the river. I drove slowly in case some little bugger jumped out into the middle of the road and started singing.

‘Here,’ said Beverley, and I parked the car. When I got out she stayed in her seat. ‘I think this is a bad idea.’

‘They’re really very nice people,’ I said.

‘I’m sure they’re very civilised and all that,’ she said. ‘But Ty is not going to like this.’

‘Beverley,’ I said. ‘Your mum told me to sort things out, and this is me sorting things out. This is you facilitating me sorting things out. Only that’s not going to happen unless you get out of the car.’

Beverley sighed, unbuckled and climbed out. She stretched and arched her back, making her breasts strain alarmingly against her jumper. She caught me staring and winked. ‘Just getting the kinks out,’ she said.

Nightingale had said that eating Isis’s Battenberg cake had been a bad idea, so I couldn’t see him approving of me fraternising with the local water nymphs. So I kept my eyes on Beverley’s round bum and tried to think professional thoughts. Besides, there was always Lesley or, more precisely, the remote hope of Lesley at some point in the future.

I rang the doorbell and stepped back politely.

I heard Isis call from inside. ‘Who is it?’

‘Peter Grant,’ I said.

Isis opened the door and beamed at me. ‘Peter,’ she said. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’ She spotted Beverley behind me, and although she didn’t lose her smile a wariness came into her eyes. ‘And who is this?’ she asked.

‘This is Beverley Brook,’ I said. ‘I thought it was about time proper introductions were made. Beverley, this is Isis.’

Beverley extended a cautious hand, which Isis shook. ‘Pleased to meet you, Beverley. We’re out back – you’d better come through.’ Although she didn’t do anything as undignified as break into a run, Isis did walk at the brisk pace of a wife determined to reach her husband with the shocking news ahead of the guests. I got a brief glimpse of tidy little rooms with floral wallpaper and chintz before we emerged through the kitchen door.

The bungalow backed straight onto the river, and Oxley had built himself a wooden wharf that projected over a wide spot in the water. A pair of magnificent weeping willows, one at each end, screened the pool from the outside. It felt as cool and timeless as the inside of a country church. Oxley was standing naked in the pool with the brown water lapping at his thighs. He was grinning up at Isis who was making frantic behave yourself gestures from the edge of the wharf. He looked past at Beverley and me as we walked out.

‘What’s this?’ he asked. I saw his shoulders tense, and I swear the sun went behind a cloud – although that could have been a coincidence.

‘This,’ I said, ‘is Beverley Brook. Say hello, Beverley.’

‘Hello,’ said Beverley.

‘I thought it was about time you met the other half,’ I said.

Oxley shifted his weight, behind me I felt Beverley take a step backwards.

‘Well, isn’t this nice,’ said Isis brightly. ‘Why don’t we all have a nice cup of tea.’

Oxley opened his mouth as if to speak, appeared to think better of it and, turning to his wife, said, ‘Tea would be nice.’

I breathed out, Beverley giggled nervously and the sun came out again. I took Beverley’s hand and led her forward. Oxley had a labourer’s physique, lean and covered in hard, ropy muscle – Isis obviously liked her bit of rough. Beverley, interestingly, seemed more interested in the water.

‘This is a nice place,’ she said.

‘Would you like to come in?’ asked Oxley.