Ben Aaronovitch - Rivers of London

‘’Course you can, squire. My name’s Nicholas Wall-penny, but don’t ask me how to spell it because I never really got my letters.’

‘Are you a street performer?’ I asked.

‘You might say that,’ said Nicholas. ‘Certainly my performances have hitherto been confined to the street. Though on a cold night like this I wouldn’t be averse to bringing some interiority to my proceedings. If you catch my meaning, squire.’

There was a badge pinned to his lapel: a pewter skeleton caught mid-caper. It seemed a bit goth for a short cockney geezer, but then London is the pick ’n’ mix cultural capital of the world. I wrote down Street performer .

‘Now sir,’ I said, ‘if you could just tell me what it was you saw.’

‘I saw plenty, squire.’

‘But you were here earlier this morning?’ My instructors were also clear about not cueing your witnesses. Information is only supposed to flow in one direction.

‘I’m here morning, noon and night,’ said Nicholas, who obviously hadn’t gone to the same lectures I had.

‘If you’ve witnessed something,’ I said, ‘perhaps you’d better come and give a statement.’

‘That would be a bit of problem,’ said Nicholas, ‘seeing as I’m dead.’

I thought I hadn’t heard him correctly. ‘If you’re worried about your safety …’

‘I ain’t worried about anything any more, squire,’ said Nicholas. ‘On account of having been dead these last hundred and twenty years.’

‘If you’re dead,’ I said before I could stop myself, ‘how come we’re talking?’

‘You must have a touch of the sight,’ said Nicholas. ‘Some of the old Palladino.’ He looked at me closely. ‘Touch of that from your father, maybe? Dockman, was he, sailor, some such thing, he gave you that good curly hair and them lips?’

‘Can you prove you’re dead?’ I asked.

‘Whatever you say, squire,’ said Nicholas, and stepped forward into the light.

He was transparent, the way holograms in films are transparent. Three-dimensional, definitely really there and fucking transparent. I could see right through him to the white tent the forensic team had set up to protect the area around the body.

Right, I thought, just because you’ve gone mad doesn’t mean you should stop acting like a policeman.

‘Can you tell me what you saw?’ I asked.

‘I saw the first gent, him that was murdered, walking down from James Street. Fine, high-stepping man with a military bearing, very gaily dressed in the modern fashion. What I would have considered a prime plant in my corporeal days.’ Nicholas paused to spit. Nothing reached the ground. ‘Then the second gent, him what did the murdering, he comes strolling the other way up from Henrietta Street. Not so nicely turned out, wearing them blue workman’s trousers and an oilskin like a fisherman. They passed each other just there.’ Nicholas pointed to a spot ten metres short of the church portico. ‘I reckon they know each other, ’cause they both nod but they don’t stop for a chat or nothing, which is understandable, it not being a night for loitering.’

‘So they passed each other?’ I asked, as much for the chance to catch up with my note-taking as to clarify the point. ‘And you thought they knew each other?’

‘As acquaintances,’ said Nicholas. ‘I wouldn’t say they were bosom friends, especially with what transpired next.’

I asked him what transpired next.

‘Well the second, murdering gent, he puts on a cap and a red jacket and he brings out his stick and as quietly and swiftly as a snoozer in a lodging house he comes up behind the first gent and knocks his head clean off.’

‘You’re having me on,’ I said.

‘No I’m never,’ said Nicholas, and crossed himself. ‘I swear on my own death, and that’s as solemn a swear as a poor shade can give. It was a terrible sight. Off came his head and up went the blood.’

‘What did the killer do?’

‘Well, having done his business he was off, went down New Row like a lurcher on the commons,’ said Nicholas.

I was thinking that New Row took you down to Charing Cross Road, an ideal place to catch a taxi or a minicab or even a night bus if the timing was right. The killer could have cleared central London in less than fifteen minutes.

‘That wasn’t the worst of it,’ said Nicholas, obviously unwilling to let his audience get distracted. ‘There was something uncanny about the killing gent.’

‘Uncanny?’ I asked. ‘You’re a ghost.’

‘Spirit I may be,’ said Nicholas. ‘But that just means I know uncanny when I see it.’

‘And what did you see?’

‘The killing gentleman didn’t just change his hat and coat, he changed his face,’ said Nicholas. ‘Now tell me that ain’t uncanny.’

Someone called my name. Lesley was back with the coffees.

Nicholas vanished while I wasn’t looking.

I stood staring like an idiot for a moment until Lesley called again.

‘Do you want this coffee or not?’ I crossed the cobbles to where the angel Lesley was waiting with a polystyrene cup. ‘Anything happen while I was away?’ she asked. I sipped my coffee. The words — I just talked to a ghost who saw the whole thing — utterly failed to leave my lips.

The next day I woke up at eleven — much earlier than I wanted to. Lesley and I had been relieved at eight, and we’d trudged back to the section house and gone straight to bed. Separate beds, unfortunately.

The principal advantages of living in your station’s section house is that it is cheap, close to work and it’s not your parents’ flat. The disadvantages are that you’re sharing your accommodation with people too weakly socialised to live with normal human beings, and who habitually wear heavy boots. The weak socialisation makes opening the fridge an exciting adventure in microbiology, and the boots mean that every shift change sounds like an avalanche.

I lay in my narrow little institutional bed staring at the poster of Estelle that I’d affixed to the wall opposite. I don’t care what they say: you’re never too old to wake up to the sight of a beautiful woman.

I stayed in bed for ten minutes, hoping that my memory of talking to a ghost might fade like a dream, but it didn’t, so I got up and had a shower. It was an important day that day, and I had to be sharp.

The Metropolitan Police Service is still, despite what people think, a working-class organisation and as such rejects totally the notion of an officer class. That is why every newly minted constable, regardless of their educational background, has to spend a two-year probationary period as an ordinary plod on the streets. This is because nothing builds character like being abused, spat at and vomited on by members of the public.

Towards the end of your probation you start applying for positions in the various branches, directorates and operational command units that make up the force. Most probationers will continue on as full uniformed constables in one of the borough commands, and the Met hierarchy likes to stress that deciding to remain a uniformed constable doing vital work on the streets of London is a positive choice in and of itself. Somebody has to be abused, spat at and vomited on, and I for one applaud the brave men and women who are willing to step up and serve in that role.

This had been the noble calling of my shift commander, Inspector Francis Neblett. He had joined the Met back in the time of the dinosaurs, had risen rapidly to the rank of Inspector and then spent the next thirty years quite happily in the same position. He was a stolid man with lank brown hair and a face that looked as if it had been struck with the flat end of a shovel. Neblett was old-fashioned enough to wear a uniform tunic over his regulation white shirt, even when out patrolling with ‘his lads’.