Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(75)
‘Deputy Assistant Commissioner Folsom is particularly worried about any threat to the Royal Opera House,’ said Seawoll. Apparently he was a bit of a connoisseur, having been introduced to Verdi soon after rising to the rank of Commander. A sudden attack of culture snobbery is a common affliction among policemen of a certain rank and age; it’s like a normal midlife crisis only with more chandeliers and foreign languages.
‘We think that the focus of activity may be on Bow Street,’ I said. ‘But as yet our investigations have discovered no tangible link to the Royal Opera House.’
By six o’clock we ended up with a statement of events that Seawoll could sell to Folsom, and I was falling asleep in my chair. I expected to be suspended, or at least warned that I was facing disciplinary action or an investigation by the Independent Police Complaints Commission, but it was just coming up to seven when they let me go.
Seawoll offered me a lift, but I refused. I walked up St Martin’s Lane shaky with tension and lack of sleep. The weather had turned during the night. There was a chill wind under a dirty blue sky. The rush hour starts late on a Saturday, and the streets retained some of their early-morning quiet as I crossed New Oxford Street and headed for the Folly. I was expecting the worst, and I wasn’t disappointed. There was at least one unmarked police car that I could see parked across the street. I couldn’t see anyone inside, but I gave a little wave just in case.
I went in through the front door because it’s better to face things head on and I was too knackered to walk round to the mews at the back. I was expecting police, but what I got were a pair of soldiers in battledress and carrying service rifles. They wore woodland DP jackets and maroon berets with parachute regiment badges. Two were blocking my way past the cloakroom booths, while two more were tucked away either side of the main doors, ready to catch anyone suicidal enough to attack two fully armed paras in the flank. Somebody was taking the physical security of the Folly very seriously.
The paras didn’t raise their rifles to block me, but they did take on that air of menacing nonchalance that must have enlivened the streets of Belfast no end in the years before the peace agreement. One of them nodded his head towards the alcove where, in the Folly’s more elegant days, the doorman would wait until needed. Another para with sergeant’s stripes resided there with a mug of tea in one hand and a copy of the Daily Mail in the other. I recognised him. It was Frank Caffrey, Nightingale’s Fire Brigade liaison, and he gave me a friendly nod and beckoned me over. I checked the flashes on Frank’s shoulders. This was the 4th Battalion of the Parachute Regiment which I knew was part of the TA. Frank must have been a reservist, which certainly explained where he’d got the phosphorus grenades from. I suspected this was another part of the old boy network, but in this instance I was pretty sure that Frank was Nightingale’s boy. I didn’t see any officers around. I guessed they were back at the barracks turning a blind eye, while the NCOs sorted things out.
‘I can’t let you in,’ Frank said. ‘Not until your governor gets better, or they name an official replacement.’
‘On whose authority?’ I asked.
‘Oh, this is all part of the agreement,’ said Frank. ‘Nightingale and the regiment go back a way; you might say there were some debts.’
‘Ettersburg?’ I asked, guessing.
‘Some debts can never be repaid,’ said Frank. ‘And there are some jobs that have to be done.’
‘I have to get in,’ I said. ‘I need to use the library.’
‘Sorry son,’ he said. ‘The agreement is clear – no unauthorised access beyond the main perimeter.’
‘The main perimeter,’ I said. Frank was trying to tell me something, but sleep deprivation was making me stupid. He had to repeat himself before I realised that he was hinting that the garage was outside of the perimeter.
I stepped back out into the pale sunlight and made my way round to the garage and let myself in. There was a battered Renault Espace outside with such patently fraudulent plates that I knew it could only belong to the paratroopers. I took a moment to check that the Jag was locked before pulling a dust cover from under a workbench and throwing it over the vintage car. I tramped wearily up the stairs to the coach house, only to find that Tyburn had beaten me to it.
She was rummaging through the trunks and other old stuff that I’d piled at the far end. The picture of Molly and the portrait of the man I’d assumed was Nightingale’s dad were propped up against the wall. I watched as she knelt down and reached under the divan to pull out another trunk.
‘They used to call this a cabin trunk,’ she said, without turning round. ‘It’s made low enough to slide under your bed. That way you could pack the things you needed for your voyage separately.’
‘Or more likely your valet would,’ I said. ‘Or your maid.’
Tyburn lifted a carefully folded linen jacket from the cabin trunk and laid it on the divan. ‘Most people didn’t have servants,’ she said. ‘Most people made do.’ She found what she was looking for and stood up. She was wearing an elegant Italian black satin trouser suit and sensible black shoes. There was still a mark on her forehead where a marble fragment had cut her. She showed me her prize, a drab brown cardboard sleeve containing what I recognised as a 78rpm record. ‘Duke Ellington and Adelaide Hall, “Creole Love Call” on the original Black and Gold Victor label,’ she said. ‘And he has it stuffed in a trunk in the spare room.’