you weren’t doing anything. I’d be glad of the company.’
It was hard to tell whether Brewer was flattered or horrified by the idea. He was probably intrigued at the prospect of accompanying a police inspector, but the pleasure was offset by the embarrassment of being seen with an elderly man. Either way, it had to be more fun than watching other kids have battles in canoes.
‘You see, Brewer, I’m starting to think there’s something very peculiar going on around here, and I could really use a little help. I need someone who knows the area, someone who’s been keeping their eyes and ears open. I thought that person might be you.’
‘Dad’s at work. Mum’s out. I’m not allowed to go anywhere. And she says don’t talk to strangers,’ said Brewer uncomfortably.
‘Oh, you’re not a stranger,’ said Bryant airily. ‘I know a little about you. I saw you at the party, watching everyone. I bet I could tell you something about yourself.’
‘You couldn’t.’
‘A challenge, eh? I’ll make a deal with you. If I can, you have to give me a hand and put in a full day’s police work with me. I’ll clear it with your mum.’ Bryant narrowed his eyes and studied the boy. ‘I know something you probably haven’t told anyone. You really hate your name. You wish you’d been called something else.’
The boy’s continued silence betrayed him.
‘In fact, it isn’t even your first name.’ From the corner of his eye, Bryant could see the nylon football bag hanging in the hall. The initials printed on it were D.B.W. Nobody was called Derek any more, and middle-class parents were unlikely to have opted for Darren or Dale. Damien had passed the peak of its popularity. ‘Your first name is David,’ Bryant told him, ‘which is good enough for David Beckham, but apparently not for your dad. He wants to move you to a private school, where they play rugby.’ This was a combination of intuition and common sense. Tamsin was Oliver’s second wife, a fair bit younger and more of a trophy than his first. Oliver was clearly trying to pull the boy up a few social rungs to please her. He held down a decent job, was making money, and had mentioned the poor quality of the local schools at the party. On the morning of Ruth Singh’s death, Bryant had seen the boy leaving his house with football boots slung over his shoulder.
‘You’ve talked to him.’
‘Not since your party, and never about you. Grab yourself a coat, David, while I call your mother. I won’t come in-I don’t want to fill your house with water.’
Brewer hesitated for a moment. Hanging out with a disreputable-looking policeman could prove dangerous, and would probably get him into trouble with his father. The offer was worth accepting for that reason alone. He scampered off down the hall.
It was unorthodox, Bryant knew, but he needed some deeper attachment to the residents of Balaklava Street that went beyond question-and-answer, and looking after the boy was a good way of making friends.
As they splashed off along Balaklava Street a few minutes later, David felt comfortable enough to fall into step beside Bryant. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘First we’re looking up an old colleague of mine who’s moved in just a few roads away. She knows all about the area.’
‘Is she a teacher?’
‘Sort of,’ Bryant smiled. ‘She’s a witch.’
‘What do you think of the new place?’ asked Maggie Armitage with some pride. The doorway of the small nineteenth-century brick building on Prince of Wales Road was illuminated by a garish red neon sign that read: CHAPEL OF HOPE. ‘I got it from the council when the old tenants moved out. Not enough hope in the vicinity, apparently. We’ve been shifted from our eyrie above the World’s End pub in Camden Town.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Bryant. ‘Don’t tell me the landlords disapproved of your pagan gatherings.’
‘They turned a blind eye to our midnight madrigals, but drew the line at our attempts to summon Beelzebub. Now they’re planning to build a mall on the site. Have you noticed that every London building eventually becomes a shoe shop? Camden is already the bad-footwear capital of the world. Old gods are no match for new money. But it’s nice to be in a real chapel. I had a bash at deconsecrating the area of worship this morning, but I’ve run out of salt. Spiritual decommissioning isn’t a straightforward process. The guidebooks all differ. Some people say you’re supposed to return the sanctified altar sheath to a church. Others simply recommend a lick of paint. Wendy, our organist, says you can sing hymns backwards over it, but frankly she has enough trouble playing forwards. I think we’ve lessened the aura of sanctimonious monotheism, but we can’t get rid of the damp. And the local drunks have a habit of weeing in the porch. Is that why Christian temples reek of rot, I wonder? Who’s your friend?’
‘This is David, honorary junior police officer for today. He lives nearby.’
‘Come in.’ Maggie took his hand. ‘Are you a believer?’
‘In what?’ asked the boy.
‘The darker arts, the lost spirituality of a doomed and wandering humankind.’
David stared at her as if she was mad.
‘Do you at least try to keep an open mind?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘That’s the best we can expect these days, I suppose. Come through.’ She led the way between the oaken pews of the dingy main hall to a small paper-strewn office at the rear. Silver chains, icons and baubles hung from her bosom like miniature wind-chimes. Maggie’s eyes closed to crescents when she smiled, which she did often and broadly, revealing strong white teeth. Bedecked in bracelets, with tortoiseshell slides and two pairs of spectacles in her fiery red hair, the diminutive witch was as merry as a Christmas tree.
‘What’s that extraordinary odour?’ asked Bryant, sniffing the air.
‘My new herbal incense. Can you smell lavender?’
‘No, it’s more like burning ants.’
‘Oh,
‘How strange. I just found a cat called Crippen. At least, that’s what I named it.’
‘Small, black and white, male? Piece missing from the left ear? A bit squiffy-eyed?’
‘Exactly so.’ Bryant was delighted.
‘Benign fate! You’ve found my familiar. That means his aura is intact.’
‘Perhaps, but his toilet training leaves much to be desired. I’ll bring him round later.’
Maggie handed out some brochures. ‘We’re on a membership drive. If you know anyone who’s interested in the occult and can handle a hod, we need some strong hands to help us restore the place.’ A huge bearded man suddenly lurched into the doorway. ‘I was just making tea for an old friend of yours.’
‘Arthur, dear fellow! How delightfully efficacious!’ Raymond Kirkpatrick, English-language professor, gripped Bryant’s hand and pumped it hard. Tall and stooped, he appeared at first to be covered in a light shower of grey dust, and on closer inspection, was. ‘I’m helping Margaret clear out her reliquary. I thought we might find something of epistolary antiquarian value, but so far all I’ve found is several dozen copies of
‘Professor Kirkpatrick is one of England’s leading experts in semantics and cryptography,’ Bryant explained to the dumbfounded boy. ‘He likes words.’ He decided not to describe the bizarre circumstances that had led Kirkpatrick to be dishonourably discharged from the Met. The professor had once dated a six-foot Zimbabwean girl, who had, to his shame and horror, turned out to be fifteen, false documents having been provided by her parents in an effort to marry her off. The Home Office had branded him a paedophile and arranged his expulsion, and, although the subsequent investigation had exonerated him of everything but poor judgement, Kirkpatrick had become an unemployable outcast. Every time the PCU used him, Bryant logged Kirkpatrick’s invoice under an assumed name. He hated seeing a good mind go to waste.
‘Mr Bryant usually brings me his palaeographic conundrums for reinterpretation,’ Kirkpatrick explained, ‘although, alas, I fear his recent reluctance to employ my services suggests that the age of the erudite criminal has passed along with the locked-room mystery, clean public toilets and a quality postal service.’
‘I think we have some of the information you’re after,’ said Maggie, pouring ginger tea for everyone as Bryant snatched a recruitment brochure away from David. ‘John told me about the man who died in Balaklava Street, and it doesn’t come as a surprise.’
‘Oh, really? Why?’
‘Because it appears to be a hot spot of psychic activity. There have always been strange stories surrounding
