The Hanging Tree

5 Mother’s Little Helper

When we briefed Seawoll later all he said was ‘That could have gone better.’ Which, as portents of disaster go, is pretty fucking portentous.

The blast didn’t knock me out. I’ve been unconscious before and this was different. It did knock out every light in a thirty metre radius, plus the CCTV and everyone’s Airwave. Not to mention a couple of million quids’ worth of top of the line consumer electronics.

Seriously, I thought, we couldn’t have met in a Greggs? I really hoped that Harrods’ insurance covered them for Acts of Lesley.

What CCTV we had left showed Reynard making his escape down the central stairwell and out through the Food Hall. There was no sign of Lesley and, although Stephanopoulos shut down the store for a thorough search, nobody had any doubt that she was long gone. How was another question.

Crew Cut had escaped as well, but we did recover his pistol which turned out to be a suspiciously clean Glock 17 with the serial numbers erased and no matches in our or Interpol’s databases. Seawoll thought it stank of spook, but nobody was in a hurry to get CTC involved – we figured they’d be along soon enough.

It wasn’t a total loss, because back at what was left of the Montreux Jazz Café Nightingale had a strangely familiar suspect in custody.

‘Did you use the proper caution?’ I asked.

‘I believe so,’ said Nightingale.

Lesley May’s name hung between us but we had other things to deal with first.

Even though she was sitting down on a plastic chair salvaged from the café, the suspect was still obviously very tall – taller than me, in fact. She was dressed in an expensive black wool suit jacket – a Stella McCartney, we learned when Guleed surreptitiously checked the label later – a white male dress shirt and pre-faded skinny jeans. She’d dropped her chin down to her chest as I approached and let her long straight weave fall over her face but it was too late – I’d recognised her.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Obviously the cleaning gigs are paying well.’

Guleed asked if I knew her.

One thing you acquire as police is a good memory for names and faces, not only because of the long parade of villains you encounter but also because most of them are repeat offenders. It’s considered bad form not to know someone’s name when you’re arresting them for the fourth time. I’d met this one while raiding a County Gard office near Liverpool Street the year before. Just before I was distracted by the whole being on the roof of a tower block when it was demolished thing.

‘She gave her name as Awa Shambir,’ I said.

‘I seriously doubt that,’ said Guleed and then spoke to the woman in a language I assumed was Somali or a dialect thereof.

The woman kept her face down but I could tell she was smiling.

‘You couldn’t repeat that, but a smidge slower,’ she said. ‘I’m a little rusty.’

‘Not Somali,’ said Guleed. ‘Ethiopian maybe.’

Pure Home Counties, I thought, with a side order of posh school. Not the accent she’d used to talk to me when we last met.

‘What’s your real name?’ I asked, but the woman kept her head down and refused to speak. Nightingale and I left her with Guleed and retreated into the café for a quick bit of post incident assessment.

‘There are undoubtedly going to be consequences,’ he said. Which was Nightingale for: Look out, here comes the shit avalanche. ‘We need to make good use of our available time.’

We decided that I would stay with our mysterious not-Somali and bang her up in one of the special cells back at Belgravia.

‘Be careful,’ said Nightingale. ‘I didn’t recognise the formae per se, but her technique was very clean – I’d say she’s been training for a long time.’

I asked how long.

‘Difficult to say,’ he said. ‘But since she was a child for certain. Stay behind her and keep your hand on the cuffs.’ During the war, the Folly had developed techniques for dealing with captured practitioners – Nightingale had dusted off an old manual, I kid you not, complete with cheap khaki cardboard covers and line drawings. Basically it amounted to keep an eye on them and don’t let them get anything started.

‘I don’t think she’s going to be very co-operative,’ I said.

‘You don’t get that well trained without a master,’ said Nightingale. ‘Let’s keep her under lock and key and see who comes to fetch her.’

So while Nightingale and Stephanopoulos stayed to face the music, me and Guleed took our prisoner and legged it back to Belgravia to see whether a Sith lord turned up to bail her out.

The custody sergeant gave us a strange look when we booked her in.

‘How many more of these posh young ladies are you planning to bring in?’ she asked. ‘Or are we going to have start sending out to Fortnum and Masons for refs?’

‘This one has to go in a Falcon cell,’ I said, which wiped the smile off her face.

The same wartime manual with the prisoner management rules also contained instructions for creating cells for magical POWs. Nightingale decided that it would be an interesting way to combine training and necessity if we were to enchant the ‘wards’ together. These proved to be strips of iron inlaid with a crude copper filigree in loops and whirls. You enchant them as you beat them into shape – it’s very therapeutic and good for your upper body strength. We selected two cells in Belgravia’s custody suite and fused the strips across the front of the doors and then painted them over with institutional blue paint. Nightingale did the fusing and I did the painting.

I then spent a fun afternoon locked in one of the cells trying to magic my way out – followed by an unpleasant evening when I realised that I’d been abandoned by Nightingale, who’d put the fix in with the custody sergeant. I had just resigned myself to a night in the cells and was wondering what time refs were up when Guleed took pity on me and let me out.

When the custody sergeant asked for a name I expected our suspect to refuse but to my surprise she gave the sergeant a cheerful smile and said – ‘Lady Caroline Elizabeth Louise Linden-Limmer’. She turned that smile on me and Guleed. ‘Mum’s a viscountess.’

‘Very nice,’ said the custody sergeant. ‘And mine’s a Jaffa Cake.’

Thirty seconds looking for Caroline’s mother on Google led to the Lady Helena Louise Linden-Limmer, or rather to a famous picture of her wearing nothing but a leopard skin fur coat taken by David Bailey in 1964. After that in the listing came her autobiography, Growing up Wild: A Childhood in Africa, and a scanned article from the Observer Colour Supplement circa 1988 about her menagerie – as she called it – of adopted and fostered kids. There had been six at that point. All girls. I looked at the photographs. Two were black, one was brown, one was possibly Chinese or South East Asian. Of the white girls one had cerebral palsy and other had been a victim of thalidomide. According to the article, Lady Linden-Limmer had run a health clinic in Goa and then in Calcutta, and had worked with people suffering from leprosy.

You can’t just return home and stop caring, she told the interviewer.

One of the black girls in the photographs was about four, wearing a grubby blue smock and a sly expression that was an echo of the woman we had in the cells – Caroline, I presumed.

I attached the article to Caroline’s HOLMES nominal and was about to request an IIP on her mother when Guleed kicked me under the desk and jerked her head in the direction of the door. Just coming in was a tall white DI from the Department of Professional Standards called William Pollock – SIO for Operation Carthorse, the hunt for Lesley May. He saw me, made sure he’d caught my eye and beckoned me over. I gave Guleed a cheery wave and off I went. Guleed, who knew she was going to be next, sighed and turned back to her work.

In the initial months following Lesley’s defection to the dark side I was treated with a certain amount of suspicion. Yes, she had tasered me in the back of the neck just as I was about to arrest the Faceless Man. But they only had my word for it that things had gone down the way they had, and the ABC of policing literally goes: Assume nothing, Believe no-one, Check everything. Still, about a year of continuous suspicion had convinced DI Pollock that it was just possible I wasn’t as bent as a threepenny bit and so instead of an ‘interview’ in an interview room, I got what’s known as a hot briefing in a meeting room. I’d know my rehabilitation was complete when DI Pollock had me in the local for a chat over a pint.

He asked me whether we’d had any prior intelligence that Lesley might turn up at the meeting or even that FAM ONE, which was how Operation Carthorse referred to the Faceless Man, had an interest in Reynard Fossman.

I told him that had we had any fucking inkling whatsoever we probably would have revised our operational plan for the meeting.

‘In what way?’ asked DI Pollock.

‘We would have held it in a more secure location,’ I said.

‘Why didn’t you?’ asked DI Pollock.

‘Our assessment was that any potential additional security provided by a new venue was outweighed by the risk that Fossman wouldn’t show,’ I said. ‘In which case we would have had to mount a resource intensive search for him – particularly since he’d become a person of interest to Operation Marigold.’

‘And you received no intelligence, no intelligence at all, that Fossman was connected to Lesley May or FAM ONE?’ asked Pollock.

‘None whatsoever,’ I said.

‘And you’re certain Lesley May wasn’t there because of you?’ he asked.

‘Sir?’

‘Perhaps she was there to see you,’ he said. ‘Have you considered that?’

‘She went after Reynard at every opportunity,’ I said. ‘She was there for him.’

‘And you yourself have had no contact with Lesley May since Herefordshire,’ said DI Pollock.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Were you aware of any links between Reynard Fossman and Lesley May?’

Round and round and round we go and where we stop nobody knows.

He was particularly interested in my identification of Lesley – was I sure about her face or was I unconsciously picking up cues from her voice or body language.

‘It was definitely her face,’ I said. But smoother, paler, unblemished and disturbingly like the skin of the Faerie Queen – when she was on this side of the border.

Because I’d graduated to ‘briefings’ rather than ‘interviews’, DI Pollock actually fed some information my way – almost as if we were colleagues.

‘We can’t find evidence of her entering or leaving the store,’ said Pollock. ‘Security there is tight and the CCTV coverage is extensive, it covers all points of entry both public and staff – we’ve done a preliminary check and she’s not there.’

Pollock wanted to know whether someone could magic themselves invisible or teleport themselves from one place another. He even asked if there were ‘roads through other realms’ that a practitioner could walk, the better to pass unseen. Which shocked me because I didn’t have DI Pollock pegged as a romantic. I swear he was going to ask about hyperspace next, but I made it clear that as far as I knew practitioners couldn’t teleport or walk faerie roads. As for invisible, I thought of the unicorns I’d met in Herefordshire. Still, I didn’t think it was feasible, at least not without shutting down the CCTV cameras as a side effect.

I asked if I could review the footage myself and he said he’d see what he could do.

‘How did it make you feel?’ asked DI Pollock.

‘How did what make me feel, sir?’

‘Seeing Lesley again?’

Shock and anger and betrayal and vain hope that she’d changed her mind and anger at myself for having that hope.

‘I was surprised, sir,’ I said. ‘I thought she’d know better.’

They let me out midafternoon and I was hoping for a fry-up, but Nightingale and Stephanopoulos intercepted me and guided me into the ABE suite where Lady Helena Linden-Limmer had been stashed.

‘Guleed will interview the daughter and you can use your charms on the mother,’ said Stephanopoulos.

I looked to Nightingale, who just nodded in agreement.

I did manage to grab an emergency sandwich, which I stuffed down during my truncated pre-interview strategy meeting with Guleed, Stephanopoulos and Nightingale. Basically our plan was to see how both of them reacted to an initial set of questions, then stop for a break and then base further sessions on their responses. These were also going to be what Stephanopoulos called ‘Falcon interviews’ – ones where we would decide after the fact if they officially took place or not.

Guleed passed me the completed IIP on Caroline Linden-Limmer and pointed out a note which registered that she’d been granted a Gender Recognition Certificate when she was eighteen – changing her legal gender from male to female.

‘So . . .’ I started, but was cut off by the vast silence emanating from Stephanopoulos behind us.

I looked over at Nightingale, who looked quizzically back, and decided to explain the implications later. Surprisingly, when I did, his reaction was outrage that somebody had to apply to a panel to determine what gender they were – he didn’t say it, but I got the strong impression that he felt such panels were intrinsically un-British. Like eugenics legislation, banning the burka and air conditioning.

I thought of the little girl in the blue dress – you can’t get a certificate until you’re 18 – it must have felt like a long wait.

Her mother, when I met her, didn’t strike me as someone who liked to wait.

In the black and white world of the David Bailey photographs, Lady Helena seemed taller than she was in real life. In the photos she’d had a pixie bob haircut that had emphasised the smooth oval of her face, and her large eyes with their drag queen lashes. Now her face was in colour, with the wrinkly brown chamois leather complexion that white people get if they spend their lives under a hot sun. The bob was longer, shaggier and streaked with grey.

‘You’ve seen my glamour pics haven’t you?’ she said before I could introduce myself. ‘I can always tell.’

She stood up to greet me and held out a hand. It was slender but her palms were rough and her grip was strong.

She sighed. ‘What a difference a lifetime makes, eh?’

We sank down onto the chairs which, this being the ABE suite, were low-slung 1970’s wooden frame things with square foam cushions zipped into hard wearing pastel covers. Very useful if you have to crash somewhere over night – although you generally have to beat the CID nightshift to them first.

‘Where’s my daughter?’ she asked as soon as I’d finished the caution plus two.

I explained that Caroline was along the corridor being interviewed about her role in this morning’s Harrods incident. I prefixed it with the word ‘serious’, which usually gets a reaction, but Helena seemed a bit too sanguine for my taste. Generally when you’re interviewing somebody and they seem remarkably calm about one crime, it’s because they’re relieved you haven’t found out about something else. You hope this is going to turn out to be some major case-breaking bit of information but, people being people, it’s often the most mundane shit – affairs, porn stashes, secret second families, that sort of thing.

‘What is she supposed to be responsible for?’

‘Assault,’ I said, ‘assault on a police officer, criminal damage, obstruction, assisting an offender and wasting police time.’

Lady Helena gave me a long look.

‘Assault?’ she asked. ‘Did she physically assault someone?’

You see, even the clever ones can’t resist being clever and the next move, if you want them to stay being clever, is to play dumb.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ I said.

Lady Helena leaned forward and looked me in the eye.

‘Did my daughter at any point physically strike another human being?’

Which answered my and Nightingale’s first question – did the mother know about the magic?

‘Assault doesn’t actually require physical contact,’ I said.

‘So how exactly did my daughter assault a policeman?’ she asked. ‘Was it you, by the way?’

‘Your daughter gave your house in Montgomeryshire as her home address,’ I said. ‘Does she still live with you?’

Lady Helena settled back in her chair. ‘That’s children these days,’ she said. ‘They don’t ever seem to want to fly the nest. I blame the parents.’

‘How about the rest of your kids?’

‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked.

The other five members of the ‘menagerie’ had all shown different addresses on the DVLA.

‘They all moved out, didn’t they?’

‘I raised them to be independent.’

‘But not Caroline?’

‘Caroline is joining the family business,’ she said.

‘And what is the family business?’ I asked.

‘Helping people,’ she said. ‘We run a retreat for those who need to rebalance their lives.’

‘Rebalance in what way?’ I asked.

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes before answering.

‘Mind, body and spirit,’ said Lady Helena. ‘For a person to be healthy each must be in balance with itself and with the others. We help people restore those balances.’

‘And how do you do that?’

‘Mostly by providing them with a bit of peace and quiet,’ she said and then shrugged. ‘And charging them vast sums of money – the money is an important part of the process. People don’t appreciate things they don’t pay for.’

I asked whether Christina Chorley had ever attended her clinic, but she said she didn’t recognise the name. I ran through the names of the attendees at the ill-fated party and threw Reynard’s name casually in the middle. She denied knowing any of them but there was definitely a response at Reynard’s name – a twitch of her eyes to the side.

My phone buzzed against my leg.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’m just going to get myself a cup of coffee. Would you like one? Anything else?’

‘Would you recommend the coffee?’ asked Lady Helena.

‘Only as a last resort.’

She declined and I popped out into the corridor where Nightingale met me with a cup of coffee. Guleed and Stephanopoulos hurried to join us.

I sipped the coffee – I hadn’t been kidding, it was terrible.

Guleed hadn’t been making much headway with Caroline – she claimed she’d been out shopping and had been minding her own business when Nightingale had physically overpowered her and falsely arrested her. She also denied ever meeting me and Lesley on the premises of County Gard the year before. Her lawyer was asking to see evidence that her client had been involved and if none was forthcoming etc., etc. Since the lawyer was working for the mother it was decided that Guleed would keep plugging away to keep daughter and brief pinned in place while I took a more robust approach with Lady Helena.

‘Meaning what?’ I asked.

‘Meaning, Peter,’ said Stephanopoulos, ‘that we want you to go in there and put your foot in it.’

As Guleed said – it’s always good to be playing to your strengths.

So back I went and sat down across from Lady Helena and said, ‘Okay, tell me – how long have you been practising magic?’

Judging from her long hesitation before answering, Lady Helena hadn’t been expecting that question. Which told me quite a lot. One thing being that she didn’t know who I was. In fact, she might not even know about the Folly – which meant that she wasn’t connected to the demi-monde, who definitely knew who we were.

Or she’d just remembered that she’d left the gas on.

‘When you say magic,’ she asked, ‘you mean what, exactly?’

‘The creation of physical effects through the casting of spells,’ I said.

‘My god, you’re serious,’ she said.

I have a nice low powered werelight that I can conjure in an interview room without blowing all the surveillance – you’d be amazed how often I have to use it. My latest refinement was to add a scindere forma so that I can park it over my shoulder and use it as a reading light.

When I started my apprenticeship it took me the better part of two months to learn how to cast a simple werelight – now I barely have to think about it. If you’re an experienced practitioner you can sense another practitioner in the initial stages of spell casting. The more experienced you are the more sensitive and the quicker your reaction.

Lady Helena reacted before I’d finished the metaphorical first syllable and, by the time my werelight hung over the coffee table between us, she knew that I knew and that she was well and truly busted.

‘So, it’s true then,’ she said. ‘The magical gestapo is alive and well.’

You go ahead and liken Nightingale to the gestapo, I thought, and see what that gets you.

‘I take it you’re a practitioner yourself,’ I said.

‘A practitioner,’ she said. ‘Is that what you’re calling yourself?’

I said it was the official term.

‘My,’ she said. ‘What an ugly term. I suppose I should have expected the establishment to try and suck all the joy out of magic. God knows they try so hard with everything else.’

‘What do you call yourself?’ I asked.

‘Oh, I’m a witch, darling,’ she said. ‘Or a sorceress – depends on my mood.’

‘And who trained you?’

Lady Helena smiled.

‘Who do you think trained me?’ she said. ‘My mother, of course. As her mother trained her and hers before her. It all goes back to Queen Caroline, you know.’

Back to the court of Caroline of Ansbach, who was famously brighter than her husband – the future George II. Caroline, who kept company with Walpole and Leibnitz and did medical experiments on condemned prisoners and orphaned children.

‘Early form of vaccination, darling,’ said Helena. ‘And they all lived happily ever after.’

She also had Phillip Boucherett, former protégé of the great Isaac Newton, as a regular guest at court. There he was happy to impart what Nightingale is pleased to call ‘the forms and wisdoms’ of magic to others in her circle – male and female.

‘Of course,’ said Helena, ‘in those days your lot were hardly what you’d call a reputable bunch.’

According to Lady Helena, the Folly at that time had been reduced to a bunch of quacks, grifters and near charlatans meeting at a floating coffee house moored outside Somerset House. The true intellectual heirs of The Second Principia grew out of Caroline’s salons and later those of Elizabeth Montague and her fellow bluestockings.

They called themselves La Société de la Rose – The Society of the Rose.

‘Why was that?’ I asked.

‘I have no idea,’ said Lady Helena.

But this alliance of posh women and pushy middle class entrepreneurs wasn’t going to last. By the end of the century the need for an organised response to all things magical had become obvious to the state – even one as cheerfully laissez-faire and corrupt as the British.

The Scottish led the way, with many from the famed Edinburgh Club arriving in London. And, by the 1760’s, they were calling themselves practitioners, greasing up their patrons and hoovering up the cash.

‘As soon as they got a whiff of respectability they couldn’t dump the women fast enough,’ said Lady Helena. Being a female practitioner became as disreputable as being a female . . . well, anything not connected with maintaining a household. The men moved into their brand new club house on Russell Square and slammed the door in the face of the women following behind.

Actually, I had noticed that the Folly’s lecture hall had a separate ‘Ladies Gallery’ which you reach via a back passage off the east staircase. Presumably it was there so proud mothers, sisters and wives could watch their menfolk demonstrate particularly clever new formae or spells. There was a discreet brass plaque and everything.

I decided not to mention this.

‘Women carried on “practising”,’ said Lady Helena, ‘just as they carried on composing, painting and all the other professions from which history has erased them. Mother taught daughter, who passed on the skills through the generations – just as women have always had to do. My mother petitioned the War Office to be allowed to serve. Do you know what they said?’

I admitted that I did not.

‘Nothing,’ said Lady Helena. ‘Not even a polite “piss off.” It’s no wonder she buggered off to Kenya, a new country with new possibilities.’

‘Did she practise in Kenya?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Lady Helena, ‘Mum was so good at that point that she didn’t have to practise.’

‘And you?’

‘I was mother’s little helper,’ said Lady Helena. ‘We used to find wounded animals and nurse them back to health.’

‘Using magic,’ I asked, trying to be casual.

‘That would be telling,’ said Lady Helena. ‘Although if you really want to know, I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.’

She’d been working towards this, I realised, dangling her information in front of us in the hope that we’d bite. I was willing to bet cash money that she had known all about the Isaacs and the Folly and probably about Nightingale before she so much as set foot in Belgravia nick. We’d been outplayed. But that’s the beauty of being the police – you get to cheat.

‘First you’re going to tell me what your interest in Reynard Fossman is,’ I said. ‘Then I might go to talk my governor about how we’re going to sort this out.’

Lady Helena made an airy gesture.

‘He offered to sell us something,’ she said. ‘An antiquity.’

‘What kind of antiquity?’ I asked. ‘A family heirloom, a genuine Chippendale, a licence to crenelate?’

‘Jonathan Wild’s final ledger.’

‘And why would you want that?’ I asked.

‘You know damned well why,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But I want you to say it out loud.’

‘The Third Principia,’ said Lady Helena.

‘You’re that keen to turn lead into gold?’

‘Never mind filthy lucre,’ she said. ‘The philosopher’s stone, eternal life and therefore by extension a cure for all that ails you.’ She leant back in her seat and folded her arms. ‘And that’s enough for the starling. You want more, send in the Nightingale.’

‘Do you think there’s more?’ asked Nightingale.

We’d left Lady Helena and the Right Honourable Caroline to stew, on the general police principle of when in doubt keep them waiting. You never know when something incriminating might turn up – it’s happened before, even if you sometimes have to nudge the process along.

Nightingale and Stephanopoulos had made themselves comfortable in her office and sent me off for coffee and biscuits. Once we’d divided up the chocolate hobnobs we got down to the business

‘She knows who we are,’ I said. ‘Which means she probably walked in with a plan.’

‘To what end?’ asked Nightingale.

‘It can’t be to spring her daughter,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘Her brief’s going to have her out in less than two hours. We don’t have enough to charge her with anything more than making an affray and she’s going to maintain that she was out shopping when she was caught up in a police operation.’

‘That’s unfortunate,’ said Nightingale.

‘That’s the consequence of having a branch of the Met operating without statutory authority,’ said Stephanopoulos. ‘We can’t really explain to a jury that she obstructed the police in their lawful activity by shooting smoke out of her fingertips – can we?’

‘Quite,’ said Nightingale. ‘Which is why I’m going to take a leaf out of Peter’s book and invite them round for tea.’

‘Sir?’ I said and looked at Stephanopoulos, who shrugged.

‘Lady Helena clearly wants something from us, and equally clearly she has information it could profit us to know,’ he said. ‘I suggest we ask her – politely – what it is.’

‘So, tea this afternoon then?’

‘Good Lord no, Peter,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow afternoon at the very earliest. For one thing we need to gather as much intelligence on Lady Helena as we can, and I need to brief Postmartin about the ledger. But, most importantly, we must give Molly time to prepare for guests. If we spring a member of the aristocracy on her without warning it could go very badly for us indeed.’

So, in the classic manner of a swan, the top half glided effortlessly across the police work while below the surface me and Guleed scrambled to pull together a decent intelligence assessment of a woman who, if I’m any judge, learnt how to be bureaucratically invisible on her mother’s knee.

And how to heal with magic – possibly.

With all that implied.

And having made sure my attention was focused in one direction the universe, which likes a good laugh, smacked me in the face from the other side. Just as I was considering calling the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, formerly the Colonial Office, to see if they had anything on Lady Helena’s activities in Kenya, my phone rang and an American voice said, ‘Hi Peter, how you doing?’

It was Kim or, more formally, Special Agent Kimberley Reynolds of the FBI. We’d met a couple of years back when we’d engaged in competitive car tracking, suspect-losing and the world’s first three-person sewer-luge team. We’d exchanged maybe five emails apiece since then – mostly at Christmas. One had been to alert her to the change in Lesley May’s status.

‘Hi Kim,’ I said. ‘What’s up?’

‘You never write me, Peter,’ she said. ‘You never call – so I thought I’d see how you were doing.’

This seemed unlikely. Now, she couldn’t be worried about being bugged because if you’re taped then someone’s listening and probably isn’t going to fall for ‘this is a casual chat about the snow being particularly severe in Moscow this year’ – so this was more of a plausible deniability sort of phone call. Kimberley wanted to be able say it was a friendly call with no ‘policy’ implications. The question was who she would be plausibly denying it to – a question that, obviously, you couldn’t ask over the phone.

‘You know how it is,’ I said. ‘Fighting crime and stuff.’

‘Well, anyhoo,’ said Kimberley. ‘A real interesting thing happened to me the other day. I was working at my desk when a couple of gentlemen walked up and introduced themselves and started asking after you.’

‘Agents?’ I asked.

‘That was the interesting thing,’ she said, maintaining her bright tone, ‘they had visitor passes. But, you know what, their escort must have wandered off and left them to their own devices.’

‘Is that so?’ I said. Visitors that could wander around an FBI office without an escort had to have some official status, or at least sanction from somewhere. ‘What did they want to know about?’

‘Who you were. What office you work from.’ Kimberley paused. ‘Had you ever done anything extraordinary.’

‘Extraordinary?’

‘Yep, that’s what they asked.’

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck with extra fuck.

‘What did you tell them?’ I asked.

‘I said you were a perfectly nice young low-ranking police officer who was on the task force investigating the murder of a US citizen abroad,’ said Kimberley.

‘And?’

‘They weren’t buying.’

‘Did they ask about anyone else?’ I said, meaning Nightingale.

‘No,’ said Kimberley. ‘They only seemed to know about you.’

Kimberley had left Nightingale out of her – already heavily edited – report when she returned to the US. Operation MATCHBOX, the investigation into the murder of James Gallagher Jr, had left him out too, along with the community of magical folk that lived under the streets of Notting Hill – that was standard policy.

‘Did they say why they wanted to know?’

‘Strangely, they didn’t,’ said Kimberly. ‘But I did get the impression that they might be coming to visit you in the near future, so I thought I’d give you a heads-up.’

‘Thanks for that,’ I said.

‘My pleasure, and you take care now,’ she said and hung up.

‘What was that?’ asked Guleed from the other side of our desk.

‘Big trouble,’ I said. ‘Right here in River City.’