Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(73)

Sometimes you have to stand still and take the first blow. That way you can see what the other man has in his hand, expose his intentions and, if that sort of thing is important to you, put yourself unequivocally on the right side of the law. And if the blow is so heavy that it puts you down? That’s just a risk you have to take.

The blunt instrument chosen caught me by surprise, although I made sure I kept my face neutral when Seawoll and Detective Sergeant Stephanopoulos entered the interview room and sat down opposite me. Stephanopoulos slapped a folder down on the table. It was far too thick to have been generated in the last couple of hours, so most of it must have been padding. She gave me a thin smile as she ripped the cellophane off the audio cassettes and slotted them into the dual tape machine. One of those tapes was for me, or my legal representative, to prevent me being quoted out of context; the other was for the police to prove that I had copped to the charge without them having to beat me around the back, thighs and buttocks with a sock full of ball bearings. Both of the tapes were redundant because where I sat was neatly framed in the viewfinder of a CCTV camera mounted just above the door. The live feed went to the observation room down the corridor where, judging from the theatrical way Seawoll and Stephanopoulos had made their entrance, someone of ACPO rank was watching – the Deputy Assistant Commissioner at the very least.

The tape machine was turned on, Seawoll identified me, himself and Stephanopouois as being present and reminded me that I was not under arrest but merely helping police with their inquiries. Theoretically I could stand up and walk out any time I liked, provided I didn’t mind kissing my career in the police goodbye. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted.

Seawoll asked me, for the record, to outline the nature of the operation that Nightingale and I had been running when he was shot.

‘You really want that on the record?’ I asked.

Seawoll nodded, so I gave the full account: our theory that Henry Pyke was a revenant, a vampire ghost bent on revenge who was acting out the traditional story of Punch and Judy using real people as puppets, and that together we had devised a way to put ourselves into the story so that Nightingale could track Henry Pyke’s bones and destroy them. Stephanopoulos couldn’t suppress a wince when I talked about the magical aspects of the case – Seawoll was unreadable. When we got to the shooting he asked me whether I recognised the gunman.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Who is he?’

‘His name is Christopher Pinkman,’ said Seawoll, ‘and he denies that he shot anyone. He claims he was walking home from the opera when two men attacked him in the street.’

‘How does he explain the gun?’ I asked.

‘He claims there wasn’t a gun,’ said Seawoll. ‘He stated that the last thing he remembers was leaving the opera, and the very next thing is being kicked in the head by you.’

‘That and the excruciating pain from the fractured bones in his lower leg,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘Plus some serious bruising and contusions from when he was thrown to the ground.’

‘Was he tested for gunshot residue?’ I asked.

‘He teaches chemistry at Westminster School,’ said Stephanopoulos.

‘Bugger,’ I said. The gunshot residue test was notoriously unreliable, and if the suspect handled chemicals for a living then no forensic witness on earth was going to testify in court that it was likely, let alone conclusive, that he’d fired a gun. A horrible suspicion formed in my mind.

‘You did find a gun – right?’ I asked.

‘No firearm was recovered from the scene,’ said Stephanopoulos.

‘I kicked it along the pavement,’ I said.

‘No firearm was recovered,’ said Stephanopoulos slowly.

‘I saw it,’ I said. ‘It was a semiautomatic pistol of some sort.’

‘Nothing was found.’

‘Then how did Nightingale get shot?’ I asked.

‘That,’ said Seawoll, ‘is what we were hoping you could tell us.’

‘Are you suggesting I shot him?’

‘Did you?’ asked Stephanopoulos.

My mouth was suddenly dry. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t shoot him, and if there’s no gun, what am I supposed to have not shot him with?’

‘Apparently you can move things around with your mind,’ said Stephanopoulos.

‘Not with my mind,’ I said.

‘Then how?’ asked Stephanopoulos.

‘With magic,’ I said.

‘Okay, with magic,’ said Stephanopoulos.

‘How fast can you move something?’ said Seawoll.

‘Not as fast as a bullet,’ I said.

‘Really,’ said Stephanopoulos.

‘How fast is that?’

‘Three hundred and fifty metres per second,’ I said. ‘For a modern pistol. Higher for a rifle.’

‘What’s that in old money?’ asked Seawoll.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But if you lend me a calculator I can work it out.’

‘We want to believe you,’ said Stephanopoulos, playing the role of most unlikely ‘good cop’ in the history of policing. I made myself pause and take a deep breath. I hadn’t done any advanced interview courses but I knew the basics, and the conduct of this interview was far too sloppy. I looked at Seawoll and he gave me the ‘at last he wakes up’ look so beloved of teachers, senior detectives and upper-middle-class mothers.