‘I’ll drive you over,’ he said. He was in his heavy dark blue suit with a matching Aran jumper and his serious plain brown lace-ups. His Crombie greatcoat was hung up in the back of the car.
‘Are you supervising tonight?’ I asked once we were seated.
Nightingale started the Jag and let the engine warm for a bit. ‘I thought I’d spell Lesley,’ he said. ‘Dr Walid doesn’t want her getting overtired.’
I often forget how good a driver Nightingale is, especially in the Jag. He insinuates himself through the traffic like a tiger padding through a jungle, or at least how I imagine a tiger pads through a jungle. For all I know the damn things swagger through the forest like Rottweilers at a poodle show.
While he drove I filled him in on the complex details of tonight’s operation.
‘Me and Kumar are going to drop down through the hatch, meet up with his patrolman and see if we can track where the veggies went,’ I said.
‘Kumar and I,’ said Nightingale. ‘Not “me and Kumar”.’ Nightingale periodically attempted to improve my grammar and was curiously deaf to what I consider a pretty convincing and sophisticated argument that the rules of English grammar are largely an artificial construct with little or no bearing on the language as it is spoke.
‘Kumar and I,’ I said to keep him happy, ‘will descend while Lesley and a couple of bods from the Murder Team will hang about on the tracks just in case.’
‘Just in case of what?’ asked Nightingale. ‘What are you expecting to find?’
‘I don’t know, tramps, trolls, sentient badgers – you tell me.’
‘Not trolls,’ said Nightingale. ‘They prefer riverbanks, particularly spots overshadowed by stone or brick.’
‘Hence the stories about bridges,’ I said.
‘Precisely,’ said Nightingale. ‘As far as I’m aware, nothing
‘That was a film,’ I said.
‘
Actually I’d always thought he sat in the library with a slim volume of metaphysical poetry until the Commissioner called him on the bat-phone and summoned him into action. Holy paranormal activity, Nightingale – to the Jag mobile.
‘The cinema of David Lean – yes,’ I said. ‘Low-budget British horror films – no.’
‘It was filmed just around corner from the Folly,’ he said. ‘I was curious.’
‘Any rumours that weren’t made into a film?’ I asked.
‘An old school-chum of mine called Walter once tried to convince me that any system, such as an underground railway or indeed the telephone network, could develop genius loci in the same fashion as the rivers and other sacred sites.’ Nightingale paused to negotiate a tricky knot of traffic as we got off the Harrow Road.
‘Was he right?’ I asked.
‘I couldn’t say,’ said Nightingale. ‘Once he got going I never really understood more than one word in ten, but he really was terribly bright so I’m at least willing to entertain the possibility. Certainly if a Scotsman introduced himself to me as the god of telephones I’d be inclined to take him at his word.’
‘Why a Scotsman?’
‘Because of Alexander Graham Bell,’ said Nightingale, who was obviously in a whimsical mood that night.
We did the strange square Bayswater one-way system and turned up Queensway, which had opted for Christmas lights this year. Many of the shops were open late and the pavements were crowded with shoppers. The weather had obviously concentrated the pre-Christmas rush into a mad panic.
‘Have you found time to buy your presents yet?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Already sorted,’ I said. ‘Got my mum’s’ – an envelope full of cash because my mum is definitely not of the
‘On Hathor?’ asked Nightingale. I was impressed; this was some seriously obscure West Coast jazz we were talking about. I complimented him on his jazz erudition. Buying for Lesley had been a pain and in the end I’d settled for a chunky Aran jumper as worn by Danish TV detectives on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Nightingale didn’t ask me what I’d got him, and I didn’t ask what he’d got me.
The night was still and cold as we pulled up outside the fake houses which conveniently served as staging area and changing room. Kumar had brought me a wetsuit and a bright orange overall with yellow reflector patches to go over it. The neoprene was thinner and the fit looser than I was expecting and I wasn’t going to be making any kind of a fashion statement.
‘I don’t expect us to get that wet unless we end up in the drains,’ said Kumar. ‘You want it loose for movement – and you definitely don’t want to overheat.’ He handed me a set of boots that looked like the unfortunate love child of a pair of Doc Martens and a pair of Wellington boots but were surprisingly comfy. We were changing in what everyone had started calling the trapdoor room, with the hatch closed to prevent me falling down it while I hopped about trying to get my boots on.
‘Do we wear our vests?’ I asked.
‘What do you expect to find down there?’ asked Kumar.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ I said.
The Metvest was especially developed for the Met to be both stab and bullet resistant – emphasis on the word ‘resistant’ you notice, not ‘proof’. I’d worn one for two years while in uniform but the last year had got me out of the habit. Still, a Metvest was a comfort in a tight spot, so on they went.
Our helmets were the same high-visibility orange as our overalls and supported state-of-the-art LED headlamps. We divvied up the remainder of the essentials, Kumar got the rope and rescue tools while I took the first aid kit, the emergency food and the water.
‘Damn,’ I said. ‘This is worse than riot training.’
Lesley, who’d been waiting in the next room while we changed, walked in.
‘Nightingale wants to know when you’re going,’ she said.
‘We’re just waiting for the patrolman,’ said Kumar and opened the hatch and stuck his head down to have a look.
‘Are we going to have the place to ourselves?’ I asked.
Kumar climbed to his feet.
‘It’s actually going to be quite crowded down there,’ he said. ‘TfL has every work gang that would take overtime down there tonight. Tomorrow is the last full shopping day before Christmas and it’ll be the first full service day this week – it’s going to be brutal.’
‘Your engineers,’ I said. ‘Are they roughnecks?’
‘The roughest of the rough,’ he said.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘We know where to run for help, then.’
The flaring beam from a torch flashed suddenly up through the open hatch, followed by a piercing shepherd’s whistle.
‘That’ll be the patrolman,’ said Kumar and then called down into the dark – ‘David. Up here.’
As Kumar exchanged shouts with the patrolman, Lesley fetched Nightingale. The idea was that he’d keep an eye out on the world above ground and be ready to rush to the rescue or, more likely, pick us up if we surfaced far away.
‘We might as well lower the stairs then,’ I said.
‘If they are stairs,’ said Lesley.
I lay down on the floor-boards and put my head through the hatch, looking for the brass handle to operate the folding staircase. From below a light shone in my face.
‘You might want to stand back a bit,’ I shouted down and the light retreated. I was just reaching for the handle when Lesley spoke in my ear.
‘Are you sure that’s safe?’ she asked.
I looked to find that she’d lain down beside me and had hung her head out the hatch as well.
