Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(97)

‘How much has he got out there?’ asked Fleet.

‘A lorryload,’ said Lea.

‘How big a lorry?’ asked Mama Thames without taking her eyes off me.

‘Big lorry,’ said Brent.

‘Is it all Star?’ asked Mama Thames.

‘I put in some Gulder,’ I said. ‘Some Red Stripe for variety, a couple of cases of Bacardi, some Appleton, Cointreau and a few bottles of Bailey’s.’ I’d liquidated my savings doing it, but as my mum says, nothing worth having is free.

‘That’s a handsome gift,’ said Mama Thames.

‘You can’t be serious?’ said Tyburn.

‘Don’t worry, Ty,’ I said. ‘I threw in a couple of bottles of Perrier for you.’

Someone sniggered – probably Beverley.

‘And what can I do for you?’ asked Mama Thames.

‘It’s a small matter,’ I said. ‘One of your daughters feels that she has a right to interfere in the business of the Folly. All I ask is that she steps back and lets the proper authorities get on with their jobs.’

‘Proper authorities,’ spat Tyburn.

Mama Thames turned her eyes on Tyburn, who stepped before the throne. ‘You think you have a right to meddle in this?’ she asked.

‘Mum,’ said Tyburn. ‘The Folly is a relic, a Victorian afterthought from the same people who gave us Black Rod and the Lord Mayor’s show. Heritage is all very well and good for the tourist industry, but it’s no way to run a modern city.’

‘That is not your decision to make,’ I said.

‘And you think it’s yours?’

‘I know it’s mine,’ I said. ‘My duty, my obligation – my decision.’

‘And you’re asking—’

‘I am not asking,’ I said, pleasantries over. ‘You want to fuck with me, Tyburn, you had better know who you’re messing with.’

Tyburn took a step back and recovered. ‘We know who you are,’ she said. ‘Your father is a failed musician and your mother cleans offices for a living. You grew up in a council flat, and you went to your local comprehensive and you failed your A levels …’

‘I am a sworn constable,’ I said, ‘and that makes me an officer of the law. I am also an apprentice, which makes me a keeper of the sacred flame, but most of all I am a free man of London and that makes me a Prince of the City.’ I jabbed a finger at Tyburn. ‘No double first from Oxford trumps that.’

‘You think so?’ she said.

‘Enough,’ said Mama Thames. ‘Let him into his house.’

‘It’s not his house,’ said Tyburn.

‘Do as I say,’ said Mama Thames.

‘But Mum …’

‘Tyburn!’

Tyburn looked stricken, and for a moment I felt genuinely sorry for her because none of us is ever grown-up enough that our mothers don’t think they can’t beat us. She slipped a slimline Nokia from her pocket and dialled a number without taking her eyes off mine. ‘Sylvia,’ she said. ‘Is the Commissioner available? Good. Could I have a quick word?’ Then, having made her point to her own satisfaction, she turned and walked from the room. I resisted the urge to gloat but I did glance over at Beverley to see if she was impressed with me. She gave me a studiously indifferent look that was as good as a blown kiss.

‘Peter,’ said Mama Thames, and beckoned me over to her chair. She indicated that she wanted to tell me something private. I tried to bend down with as much dignity as I could but I found myself, much to Brent’s amusement, on my knees before her. She leaned forward and brushed her lips against my forehead.

For a moment it was as if I stood high up on the middle cowling of the Thames Barrier looking east over the mouth of the river. I could feel the towers of Canary Wharf rising triumphantly at my back and beyond them the docks, the White Tower and all the bridges, bells and houses of London town. But ahead of me over the horizon I could feel the storm surge, the fatal combination of high tides, global warming and poor planning, waiting. Ready to drive a wall of water ten metres high up the river and bring down the bridges, towers and Uncle Tom Cobley and all.

‘Just so you understand,’ said Mama Thames, ‘where the real power lies.’

‘Yes, Mama,’ I said.

‘I expect you to sort out my dispute with the Old Man,’ she said.

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

‘Good boy,’ she said. ‘And because of your good manners, I have a last gift.’ She bent her head and whispered a name in my ear: ‘Tiberius Claudius Verica.’


The paratroopers were gone by the time I got back to Russell Square. I was back in charge of the Folly, and also responsible. Toby slammed into my ankles as soon as I was across the threshold, panting and thrashing affectionately, although once he’d established that I wasn’t carrying anything edible he lost interest and scampered off. Molly was waiting for me at the foot of the western stairs. I told her that Nightingale was conscious and then lied and said that he’d asked how she was. I told her what I was planning to do and she physically recoiled.

‘I’m just going to my room to get some stuff,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back down in half an hour.’