Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(81)

Sure enough, there were crowds of people streaming out of the doors marked stalls and heading left, presumably towards the loos and the bar – probably in that order. I stayed where I was and let the people go past – Seawoll at least, because of the sheer size of the man, should be easy to spot. Sartorially I was disappointed; everyone was dressed expensively but it was all smart casual with the occasional evening dress to relieve the boredom – I’d expected better of my betters. The crowd thinned and I merged with the flow and let it carry me left, past the cloakroom and up a flight of stairs into the main bar. According to the sign this was the Balconies Restaurant, and as far as I could see had been created by throwing several metric tons of stripped pine into a Victorian cast-iron greenhouse. Designed to serve the interval crowd, when a thousand lightly stunned punters would rush in and attempt to drown out the singing with gin and tonics, it featured large open spaces and plain padded furniture with clean brass fittings. Under the vaulted arch of its white iron and glass roof it was as if IKEA had been hired to refit St Pancras Station. If Thomas the Tank Engine had been Swedish, then his living room would have looked just like this.

Although he probably would have been a lot less cheerful.

There was a balcony six metres up that ran all the way around the room, wide enough for chairs and tables laid with white linen and silver. The crowds were thinner up there, presumably because most people had headed straight for the bar and as many gins as they could chuck down their necks before the music started again. I headed for the nearest flight of stairs, hoping to get a better look from above. I was halfway up when I realised that the mood of the room was changing. It wasn’t much of a sensation, but it was like a dog barking late at night and far away.

‘That bitch can fuck off,’ came a woman’s voice, shrill, from somewhere below me.

It was the same feeling of tension as I’d felt on Neal Street – just before Dr Framline went psycho on the cycle courier. Somebody dropped a tray, metal clattered on the expensive wooden floor, a couple of glasses smashed. There was an ironic cheer nearby.

I reached the balcony level, stepped between two unoccupied tables and looked out over the crowd.

‘Wanker,’ said a man somewhere below, ‘you fucking wanker.’

I spotted a fit-looking man in his late forties, salt and pepper hair, conservative suit, distinctively bushy eyebrows. It was Deputy Assistant Commissioner Folsom – because my life was not complicated enough. I drew back from the balcony railing and as I did, I saw Lesley leaning on the railing of the balcony opposite, staring right at me. She looked normal, active, happy, wearing her on-duty leather jacket and slacks. When she was sure that I was watching she gave me a happy little wave and nodded down at the main bar, where Seawoll was getting himself a drink.

A voice announced that the performance would be restarting in three minutes.

Down in the main bar a guy in leather-patched tweed slapped one of the men he was talking to. Somebody shouted, Lesley glanced down and I sprinted down the length of the balcony shoving members of the public out of the way. I glanced over at Lesley, who was staring at me in shock as I rounded the first corner and charged across the balcony that bridged the width of the room. Whoever was doing the thinking in Lesley’s head at that moment, her or Henry Pyke, hadn’t expected me to push my way through a crowd of well-dressed worthies. Which was what I was counting on. It’s not easy to fumble a syrette full of tranquilliser out of your pocket while forcing your way past protesting opera lovers, but somehow I managed to get everything ready by the time I rounded the last corner and headed straight for Lesley.

She was watching me with quiet amusement, head cocked on one side, and I thought, you can be as cool as you like because you’re going to be sleeping soon enough. By that point, members of the public were getting out of my way of their own accord and I had a clear run for the last five metres. Or would have, if Seawoll hadn’t come up the stairs and hit me in the face. It was like running into a low ceiling beam: I flipped straight over onto my back and found myself contemplating a blurry view of the roof.

Damn, but that man could move fast when he wanted to.

Clearly Henry Pyke could influence other people, even hard-headed sods like Seawoll – that couldn’t be good.

‘I frankly don’t care,’ brayed a woman somewhere to my right. ‘It’s just fucking men singing about fucking men.’

A voice announced that the performance would recommence in less than a minute, and that people should return to their seats. A young man with a Romanian accent and a waiter’s uniform told me that I should stay where I was and that the police had been called.

‘I am the police, you pillock,’ I said, but it came out muffled on account of the fact that my jaw felt as if it was dislocated. I found my warrant card and waved it at him, and to be fair, he did give me a hand up. The bar was empty except for the staff cleaning up. Somebody had stepped on the syrette, crushing it flat. I felt my face. Since I still had all my teeth, Seawoll must have pulled his punches. I asked where the big man had gone and the staff said he’d headed downstairs with the blonde woman.

‘Into the theatre?’ I asked, but they didn’t know.

I ran down the steps and found myself staring at the long marble counter of the cloakroom. The good thing about Seawoll is that he’s hard to miss and difficult to forget – the attendant said he’d headed for the stalls. I went back to the lobby where a polite young lady tried to block my way. I told her I needed to see the manager, and when she tripped off to get him I slipped inside.