weeks ago, a traffic warden on duty in Dollis Hill walked into her local police station to report that a gang of youths on bikes had stolen her hat and cycled off, in her words, ‘laughing and calling me racist names’. The police report says she was extremely distressed, which may be understandable in light of the fact that this was her third visit to the police station in three months. Two weeks before she had been spat at in the street. A month before that, and the driver of a Corsa parked illegally on a double yellow line had beaten her so badly she had required stitches, and treatment for two days in the local hospital. It was the opinion of the writer of the police report that having her hat stolen by a boy who laughed at her as he cycled away was the last straw. An act of random, careless cruelty by a stranger to a stranger; the kind of thing that, to the right mind, in the right place, with the right . . . disposition . . . could push you to do unwise deeds.
“The day after her hat was stolen, she quit her job as a traffic warden.
“I should also add further that our credit-check service reported a bad rating on her financial situation. Her family were immigrants; she was granted leave to stay by grace of being born in the UK, but her parents quickly abandoned her and ran back off to wherever it was they came from, leaving the state to handle matters in their usual way.
“Gentlemen, may I be bold to say that this is the kind of extremely flawed and volatile individual who could well, if circumstances were right, be so reckless — perhaps without even knowing what she did — as to cause extreme harm to our city. If we were the Samaritans then I would suggest a nice cup of hot soup and a gentle talk with the counsellor; but this situation is far beyond that. The facts are in front of you to see. If this woman is indeed the reason why Mr Pinner has come to our city — as circumstance suggests she is — then I move immediately to vote on the course of action suggested by our Midnight Mayor. That this woman — this traffic warden whose hat was so unfortunately stolen — be considered a threat intolerable to the safety of the city, and be eliminated before the death that Mr Pinner is clearly seeking comes to London. If there is no objection, let us take this vote now.”
There was no objection.
They took the vote.
Not a hand went against it.
Mr Earle said, “Mr Swift? You haven’t voted for the motion.”
“I didn’t realise I was meant to.”
“You are a member of this board.”
“I am?”
“Yes. This was your idea, your deduction, your motion.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Well? How do you vote?”
“I . . . we . . . I mean, I . . .”
I lowered my head.
“What’s her name?” I said.
“Is it relevant?”
“Just curiosity.”
“Her name is Penny Ngwenya. How do you vote, Mr Swift?”
We studied our feet.
What would the Midnight Mayor do?
I raised my hand.
Penny Ngwenya.
Spat at, assaulted, her hat stolen.
Give me back my hat.
Dollis Hill.
Too much coincidence.
Mo had stolen a traffic warden’s hat in Dollis Hill and was punished for the crime.
And Penny Ngwenya, refugee stuck in the system, no money, spat at, assaulted, robbed, had filed a report, on which no action had been taken.
And Mr Pinner had come to the city.
Penny Ngwenya.
Poor little Penny Ngwenya; she probably didn’t even know what she had done, or what had to be done in reply. I hoped she did. Then it would be easier. Then I could tell Loren.
We drove.
Not that far, as it turned out.
St Pancras International. Some wisecracker had announced in the 1830s that, what with the Houses of Parliament having burnt down, there should be a competition to build the replacement. St Pancras was one of the entries. If British MPs wore sweeping cloaks and cackled at the moon, it would have been the perfect place for government. Red towers with spikes on; a clock that could never quite agree with its neighbour on the tower of King’s Cross; a long, pale blue-grey arch that you could see from on top of Pentonville Hill, or from the tower blocks of Camden. Tiled steps, marbled pillars, red bricks hiding a decayed interior of exposed cables and pipes just locked out of the public’s sight. It was not a delicate building. Nor was there anywhere to park. There are downsides to putting international terminals on main roads.
I said, “You sure . . .?”
“She works here.”
“Doing . . .?”
“Cleaner.”
I looked up at the bright clock on the tallest tower, at the heaving traffic stop-starting down the numberless traffic lights of the Euston Road, at the people waiting for taxis under the metal overhang of King’s Cross. “Let me out here,” I said. “You find a place to park.”
“Where are you going?”
“If this Penny Ngwenya is the cause of all this, I’ll know. Seriously. You find someone better qualified to look, and I’ll give back the coat.”
Oda came with me. No point in saying no. They let us out just past the British Library, pulling, illegally, into the bus lane so I could duck into the shelter of the great beige stone buildings that kept their backs turned to the traffic, their faces towards the quieter streets of Bloomsbury. The wind was nose-bite icy, ear-dropping cold. I pulled my coat up tighter around my neck and hurried towards the traffic lights, while the Aldermen in their big cars that deserved every penny of congestion charge they had to pay went in search of a place to park.
“We’re not doing anything without the Aldermen,” said Oda.
“Sure. Just looking.”
“Sorcerer . . .” Warning in her voice.
“Just making sure. You wouldn’t want an innocent to get blasted, would you?”
“You misunderstand my cause. Bigger pictures.”
“Of course. Silly me.”
The station was divided into three parts: Underground, international and overland. It seemed easier to find our way in through the low sculptured doorways to the Underground at pavement level, than through the high arches above street level leading to the mainline station. Glass and bright lights; beeping gates, whirring ticket machines, men and women in blue uniform: police. Of course — police. An international terminal, where else?
“You know,” I murmured, “if this Ngwenya is the one responsible, St Pancras may not be the best place to . . .”
“There are ways.”
“Really? You mean you can . . .”
“If I told you my methods,” she said calmly, “then I might not be able to use them again.”
We looked away.
The mainline station combined trains to Glasgow with services to Paris, Brussels, Lille and, for the truly
