‘Nightingale turned up,’ she said. ‘He was hoping to shout at you a bit to show his affection in a gruff manly and safely non-gay way but you were asleep so he just sort of milled around for a while and then off he went.’
‘So,’ I said. ‘How was your end of the operation?’
‘Unlike some people,’ she said. ‘I devoted my time to some actual police work.’
‘Somebody has to do it,’ I said.
Lesley gave me a long look. Sometimes I can tell what she’s thinking even with the mask on. But sometimes I can’t.
‘They’re all linked,’ said Lesley. ‘The Beales, Gallaghers and Nolans. Want to guess how?’
‘The Unbreakable Empire Pottery?’ I asked.
‘Not the Nolans,’ said Lesley, snagging a satsuma from a bowl by my bed. ‘At least not to start with – they came later. The business was started in 1865 by Eugene Beale, Patrick Gallagher and Matthew Carroll – spot the names.’
‘And that’s significant because they’re such uncommon names,’ I said.
Lesley ignored me.
‘I checked with Companies House,’ she said. ‘The Beale family business goes all the way back to Empire Pottery which, by the time it went effectively bust in the 1950s, was but a small adjunct of the seriously large property, construction and engineering subcontracting business. Matthew Carroll’s son William is listed as running the Dublin branch of the firm – now I know what you’re thinking, but guess who that kiln belonged to?’
‘Ryan Carroll.’
‘Correct,’ said Lesley and waved her notebook at me. ‘He’s using that warehouse rent-free, so either he has a direct family connection or the Beales are just sentimental about the name.’
‘Maybe we should interview Carroll.’ I said.
‘You think?’
‘Do you have a firm connection with James Gallagher?’ I asked.
‘You’re going to like this,’ she said.
Because, according to Lesley, US senators don’t have your common or garden blog pages they have huge fuck-off commercial-quality websites, plural, that tell you everything they need you to know about them. Or at least everything the senator needs you to know.
‘Although they don’t have a lot in the way of humorous cats,’ said Lesley.
But they did have a lot about Senator Gallagher’s family, including the story of Sean Gallagher who emigrated to America in 1864 to seek a new life of freedom, liberty and apple pie.
‘And to avoid arrest on suspicion of murder,’ said Lesley. ‘According to the court records. Glassed some guy in an establishment of the type frequented by ruffians, navvies and others of low character.’
‘Did he do it?’ I asked.
‘This was the old-fashioned coppering,’ said Lesley. ‘He was drunk and Irish and the victim was likewise drunk and Irish, they were known to be arguing but there were no witnesses to the actual killing. Everyone in the establishment having been struck suddenly blind and deaf. Although that might have had something to with the gin they were drinking. Anyway, his bail was stood by his brother Patrick and by Eugene Beale and it was them that paid when he did his flit to the States.’
Where he and his descendants became pillars of the notorious New York political system. Lesley didn’t know what it was notorious for, except that’s how it was always described – notorious.
What had we stumbled into in the sewers? A culture, a secret society? Nightingale would have to be told but Detective Chief Inspector Seawoll would want a great deal more ‘real’ evidence before he started bringing in people for questioning.
‘We need to check the mundane library,’ I said. ‘See if there’s anything about the tunnels dating back to before the 1940s.’
‘You know it’s Christmas Eve, don’t you?’ asked Lesley.
‘Really,’ I said. ‘Does this mean you want a present?’
‘It means I’m going home to Essex tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Also, I know you have a strange disregard for basic procedure, but Nightingale is the SIO on the Little Crocodiles case and Seawoll is SIO on the James Gallagher murder. Meaning that you need to talk to at least one of those before you do anything. Including getting out of bed.’
‘At least bring me my laptop,’ I said.
‘Fine,’ said Lesley.
‘And some grapes,’ I said. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been in hospital overnight and nobody brought me any grapes.’
After Lesley had buggered off, I checked in the waste-paper basket and found not one but two flimsy plastic containers with denuded grape stems in them. I then spent a happy half an hour plotting a series of increasingly bizarre revenge pranks on Lesley before Nightingale arrived with a change of clothes. This being Nightingale, he’d brought my fitted M&S navy suit that was, strictly speaking, reserved for funerals and court appearances.
I told him my theories about the Faceless Man and Crossrail and it started sounding thinner the longer I talked. But Nightingale thought it was worth checking out.
‘At the very least,’ he said, ‘we need to eliminate the possibility.’
We were interrupted by a surprisingly young registrar with stumpy brown fingers and a Brummie accent who took my blood pressure and another blood sample. I asked after Dr Walid and was told that, since I wasn’t in any danger, he’d left for Scotland the night before.
‘Amazingly undamaged,’ said the registrar. ‘But he wants you to stay overnight for observation. You’re suffering from exposure so you need to rest, take on fluids and stay warm.’
I told him that I had no intention of getting out of bed and he wandered off, content. Nightingale said I did look tired and that he was going to leave me alone to get some sleep. When I complained I was bored he left me his copy of the
‘Twelve down,’ said Tyburn. ‘To owe much to others – six letters.’
She was standing in the doorway wearing brown slacks and a snowy-white lamb’s-wool rollneck jumper.
‘Aren’t you going to wait for me to recover before calling it in?’ I asked.
She entered and sat primly on the end of my bed and looked around the room – frowning.
‘Why haven’t you got any grapes?’ she asked.
‘I’ve been asking myself the same question,’ I said. ‘You didn’t bring flowers, either.’
‘Do you think there’s people living in the sewer system?’ she asked.
‘Do you?’ I asked.
‘I think it’s a possibility,’ she said. ‘And if it’s true it’s an issue that will have to be addressed carefully.’
‘And you think you’re just the woman for the job?’
‘I’m the goddess on the spot, so to speak,’ she said. ‘If not me, then who?’
I wanted to say that me and Nightingale had it all under control but under the circumstances I didn’t think she’d believe me.
Tyburn leant forward and gave me her sincere look.
‘How long do you think the status quo can last?’ she asked. ‘If there are people living in the sewers wouldn’t it be better to bring them into mainstream society?’
‘Put them on social security, get them a council flat and send their kids to school?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Or perhaps we should regularise where they live now, get them access to healthcare and education. Give them a stake – at least give them a choice.’
‘
‘All I want,’ said Tyburn as she stood up and prepared to leave, ‘is for you to give this some thought.’
I gave a noncommittal grunt and she went. Truth is, I was getting really peckish and was considering getting up and hunting down some food when my parents turned up with a day’s worth of jelof rice, hot beef and, best of all, a freezer container full of freshly cooked deep-fried plantain. My mum, alarmed by the recent
