“No, I don’t mean . . . him being a . . . what did he call it . . . a Sipper . . . I mean as a criminal,” said Susan. “I saw some of his . . . minions . . . I guess. One of them had a sawn-off shotgun in a Sainsbury’s bag. I mean, it was obvious, it stuck out.”
“Why didn’t you leave then? Back off and run away?” asked Greene. “Why were you still there last night?”
“I wanted to ask Frank some questions about his relationship with my mum, and about her other friends at that time,” mumbled Susan. “Frank told me he’d tell me in the morning, offered me the spare room for the night; it had a lock and everything. I didn’t have anywhere to go, and the guy with the shotgun left. Frank himself didn’t feel threatening, to me, anyway. It seemed . . . well, not safe . . . but not immediately dangerous. But then I changed my mind, I was going to leave, but I heard the commotion upstairs and . . . went to look.”
“Must have been some pretty important questions,” said Greene. “Looking for your dad, right?”
“That obvious?” asked Susan. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Maybe,” replied Greene. “But I reckon you knew it wasn’t Frank straight away.”
“I felt he couldn’t be,” said Susan. She frowned. “I don’t know why. . . .”
“Because he was a Sipper,” said Greene. “Humans instinctively feel there’s something ‘off’ about some of the mythic types like a Sipper. Handy for criminal bosses, makes it easy for them to put the frighteners on people.”
“But I still thought Frank might have known my dad; he could have told me something useful. What kind of criminal was Frank?”
“The usual,” said Greene with a shrug. “Protection, drugs, stolen goods. You name it. He was the boss of a big territory, everywhere north of Seven Sisters Road to the North Circular.”
“Why did Merlin turn him into dust?”
“Ah, now you’re asking,” said Greene. “I wish I knew. The booksellers usually tell us if someone . . . something . . . from the Old World is causing problems with ordinary people and that they’re going to deal with it. Particularly if there’s an overlap with ordinary crime.”
“But they didn’t.”
“Nope. You ready to go?”
“Yes,” said Susan.
“Forget all this,” said Greene. “Put it behind you. Move on.”
“I’ll try,” said Susan as they went to the door.
“But if some weird shit does happen, don’t forget to call,” added Greene, handing her a business card. “Our duty officer’s on the first number, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The handwritten one is my home number. I hope that after I drop you at Mrs. London’s you go on to have a nice, normal life. But just in case . . .”
“Okay,” said Susan. “What exactly do you mean by weird shit?”
The constable with the strangely pale moustache was in the corridor outside, loitering as if he wanted to say something. But before he could open his mouth, the expression on Greene’s face—as if she’d spotted a dog turd a step away—made him turn around and flee.
“You’ll know,” said Greene quietly. “Believe me, you’ll know. There is also a chance . . . slim, in the opinion of my colleagues over at Serious Crime, that you might be contacted by your ‘uncle’ Frank’s entirely human criminal associates, since some of them will know you were there on the night of his . . . well, let’s call it death. But provided you stay out of seedy pubs and betting shops north of Holloway, you should be safe enough. Most ordinary criminals steer clear of the weird shit. There are the Death Cults, but . . . I trust you’ll never need to know about them.”
Susan nodded slowly. She didn’t want to be involved in anything to do with anything Greene had mentioned.
“What about the whatever-handed booksellers?”
“They should leave you alone, too,” said Greene. “But stay away from their shops.”
“They have actual shops?” asked Susan in disbelief.
“Two in London. Big one in Charing Cross Road for new books and a smaller one in Mayfair for the collectors,” replied Greene, opening a side door to the car park and going out ahead of Susan. She paused to look carefully around and then beckoned. “Watch the steps.”
Chapter Four
Most strange dreams I had, and
Waking, had them still
Of storied creatures, good and ill
Under the bookseller’s right hand
MRS. LONDON’S BOARDINGHOUSE WAS INDEED FAR BETTER THAN anything Susan could have afforded by herself. A four-story early Victorian town house on Milner Square, it was clean, immaculately maintained, and everything worked. Susan was even allowed a choice of rooms and took one at the top, which—though she didn’t say so—was considerably larger than her bedroom in her mother’s very old and rambling farmhouse. It was certainly cleaner and tidier and it came furnished. Even the bed was more comfortable.
But it was being paid for by Special Branch, and that meant not only being observed—Susan had a very jaundiced view on what Inspector Greene’s “keep a bit of an eye on” actually meant—but also beholden to the police. This made Susan feel more than uncomfortable and she wasn’t prepared to put up with it for long. She told herself it would only be until she could find a job and some doubtless far worse accommodation that didn’t come with strings attached.
Susan presumed that her comings and goings would be recorded by the apparently uninterested Mrs. London, and quite possibly all the other inhabitants of the house would be watching her as well. She expected questioning at breakfast, and possibly a handsome young man (or woman) strangely keen on showing her the city or something like that and being a bit too curious about her life, but was surprised to find that there were only three other inhabitants, two women and a man, all much older and all very much dedicated to keeping to themselves. There was hardly any talk at breakfast, and after the barest introductions—and those with patently false names—Susan was left entirely to her own devices.
Surveillance was another possibility, so she spent some time examining the light fittings and
