Lies Sleeping

24 A Fine Distinction

‘I’m not in the mood for this shit today,’ I said wearily and hung up.

The phone rang again, as I thought it might, and I already had my backup phone out and was texting the ‘Help, Lesley has called me,’ code to the Folly. They would try to trace the call, but we knew from bitter experience that Lesley had access to a ton of different ways to spoof that.

Before I answered I plugged my earbuds into the phone.

‘Yeah?’ she said, ‘Why are you in a strop then?’

‘Why do you care?’

With the earbuds in I could hear the background noise that her phone picked up. I heard cars and bigger vehicles, street sounds – she was definitely in a city. I had a feeling she was close, but of course she could have been in Manchester or somewhere equally exotic.

‘Because I worry about you,’ she said.

There – a loud car horn behind Lesley and an instant later I heard the same horn in the distance – east up High Holborn. I twisted in my seat to look up the street towards Chancery Lane, but I couldn’t see her amongst the traffic and the crowds.

‘Yeah, why’s that?’ I asked.

Or it could have been a completely different horn.

‘Because you never think of yourself,’ she said.

The ambience changed. She was now indoors, maybe. I heard the distinctive swish-chunk of a bus door closing. On a bus now – damn – no more helpful car horns.

‘I’m more worried about you than about me,’ I said.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because you’re working for a mad fucker.’

‘I prefer working with,’ said Lesley.

‘I think working without would be better.’

‘Can we have a talk?’ asked Lesley. ‘Like, in person – without your mob interrupting.’

I felt a surge of excitement and I’ll admit a little bit of glee. I’d been right.

I looked out the window and spotted a likely venue.

‘You know that Wetherspoon’s on High Holborn?’ I said.

‘The one opposite the Sainsbury’s?’

‘Meet me there in ten minutes,’ I said.

‘Copy that,’ she said and hung up.

I jumped down the stairs, flashed my warrant card at the driver and got him to open the doors for me. It wasn’t like it wasn’t much of a hassle for him since we were barely moving anyway.

The Penderel’s Oak was your typical Wetherspoon’s pub, its interior a strange theme-park recreation of the old-fashioned British pub caught in a frozen moment between wood-panelled, tie-dyed carpeted 1970s and the rise of cream coloured gastropub. Beverley’s sister Effra, who has a degree in fine arts and considers herself a style guru, calls them the apotheosis of British pub culture.

I ordered a couple of pints of John Smith’s and picked a table near the back with limited sight of the windows and away from the fire exits. While I waited I texted where I was to the Folly and got a sideways smiley face in confirmation. Lesley must be close, but they’d still have to wait until I confirmed her arrival.

Which was before I’d even finished sitting down. Looking back later, I realised she’d probably been on the bus with me. I did catch the tail end of a strange fluttery vestigium like a bloodhound shaking its jowls, which I guessed meant she’d walked in with somebody else’s face.

She sat down, grabbed her pint and took a gulp.

‘Needed that,’ she said, putting the glass down. ‘Is Walbrook safe?’

‘Yes she is,’ I said. ‘Thank you. Does he know you tipped us off?’

‘Of course he does. I told him I wasn’t happy, so he can’t be surprised I took steps.’

‘He’s a very understanding boss.’

‘Like I said, he’s not my boss.’

‘Working with,’ I said. ‘I remember. So since when do you care for supernatural folk?’

I’ve always cared, they’re all people,’ she said. ‘Except for the ones that are not. And anyway you’ve got to have some standards, haven’t you?’

I thought of the woman we found without a face in the dripping woods outside Crawley, the drug dealer who got laminated to a tree, and all the others who got between Martin Chorley and whatever mad scheme he had in mind. But maybe it was the same old story. You’re not that bothered about the people dying far away to make your trainers, but you don’t like it when they die on your doorstep.

‘So, you can’t use my tip-off to drive a wedge,’ she said.

‘What makes you think I’d do that?’

‘Because it’s twisty and clever. I’m vexed with you for hiding that side from me. You see, I know you can do the job now, Peter.’

‘I’m glad you think so,’ I said. ‘You didn’t used to.’

Lesley smiled.

‘I was willing to be convinced,’ she said. ‘And you are full of surprises.’

‘So you reckon I can do the job now?’

‘That’s what I said, didn’t I?’

But, I thought, I no longer trust the things you say – do I?

‘But that’s not your problem is it?’ she said, and sipped her beer.

‘So now I’ve got a new problem?’

‘When we first met you always wanted to go clubbing,’ she said. ‘You were the one that wanted to catch a film, watch TV, go out for a curry.’

‘Not just me,’ I said. ‘Especially the curry thing.’

‘Yeah, maybe not the curry thing,’ she said. ‘But that’s not my point.’

‘You have a point? I thought we were just chatting – now you’ve got a point?’

‘When was the last time you took leave?’ she said. ‘See? You’ve got to think about it – it’s that rare a thing. You must have accumulated a shitload of holiday time.’

‘Not as much as you’d think,’ I said.

‘I want you to take some time off.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing.’

‘Yeah,’ said Lesley. ‘This is that chance.’

‘For how long?’ I asked, but Lesley wasn’t going to fall for that.

‘Until things have settled down,’ she said. ‘You’ll know when that happens.’

‘You think killing Punch is going to settle things down?’ I said, and shouldn’t have.

Because now Lesley knew that I knew. But sometimes you’ve got to push to win.

‘You always were good at working stuff out,’ she said. ‘Not always exactly quick, but you get there in the end, don’t you?’

‘So what’s it all in aid of?’ I asked. ‘What does Marty want?’

‘He wants to make the world a better place.’

‘How?’

Lesley’s eyes were suddenly cold.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘killing Punch would be a good start.’

‘What if getting rid of Punch fucks everything up?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the city. Maybe he’s part of the ecosystem – maybe he’s necessary.’

Lesley pinched her own cheek and pulled – it stretched a little bit further than was normal.

‘Talk to me about fucking Punch,’ she said. ‘I dare you. The cunt was in my head for months, Peter, fucking with my mind. I don’t care if the whole fucking city falls into a hole. Nobody does. Not really. At least nobody outside the M25.’

‘That’s a bit harsh,’ I said. ‘What’s the city ever done to you?’

‘You don’t get it, Peter,’ she said. ‘London sucks.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Fucking does – London sucks. Sucks the rest of the country dry. You want to get ahead, you have to go to London. You want to get away – go to fucking London. All the jobs, all the money goes to London. The rest of the country gets the leftovers, the bits that London doesn’t want.’

‘Like the DVLA,’ I said.

‘Exactly.’

‘And the BBC, of course.’

‘Not the important bit,’ she said, and checked her watch. ‘Out of time.’ She got up and started pulling on her coat. ‘Any longer and people are going to start looking for you.’

‘I didn’t call anyone,’ I said.

‘More fool you, then.’ She turned to go. ‘Take the holiday, Peter,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘And don’t follow me out.’

I waited until I was sure she couldn’t see me and then scrambled after her – keeping low so the crowd would shield me if she looked back. Dusk had fallen while we talked and I burst out the front door into the warm half-light of Holborn. I looked left and right, but no sign of Lesley or even a stranger with Lesley’s walk.

To the left was Holborn Station, but I didn’t think she’d risk the CCTV coverage on the Underground. Where would she go? Down the back streets and into Lincoln’s Inn, maybe? I was pulling my phone out when an IRV, a silver Astra with Battenberg squares, pulled up with no lights and no siren. The uniform inside leant over and called my name.

‘Yeah?’

‘Get in,’ he said. ‘They’re setting up a perimeter.’

I got in, but even while I was pulling on the seatbelt I was wondering who ‘they’ were since I hadn’t called it in when Lesley arrived. Nightingale wouldn’t have me tracked – right?

I went to click the seat belt in, but an arm wrapped around my chest from behind and I smelt beer and clean hair – Lesley. Something bit into my neck and I heard her tell the driver to cut the lights. Contrary to the films, no safe sedative will put you out instantly. But whatever Lesley had jabbed me with was filling up the corners of my mind with beer flavoured milkshake. I stopped trying to dislodge Lesley’s arm and flailed at the driver. I had some mad idea that if I could distract him we might crash, or at least draw attention to the car. It might have worked. I don’t know, because the milkshake was foaming over my eyes and my last thought was that Nightingale was going to be disappointed and Beverley was going to be really pissed off.