Ben Aaronovitch - Rivers of London

‘Just as well,’ I said. ‘I think you scared him away last night, anyway.’

Equipment for ghost hunters: thermal underwear, very important; warm coat; thermos flask; patience; ghost.

It did occur to me quite early on that this was possibly the most absurd thing I’d ever done. Around ten I took up my first position, sitting at an outdoor table of a café, and waited for the crowds to thin out. Once the café closed I sauntered over to the church portico and waited.

It was another freezing night, which meant that the drunks leaving the pubs were too cold to assault each other. At one point a hen party went past, a dozen women in oversized pink t-shirts, bunny ears and high heels. Their pale legs were blotchy with cold. One of them spotted me.

‘You’d better go home,’ she called. ‘He’s not coming.’

Her mates shrieked with laughter. I heard one of them complaining that ‘all the good-looking ones are gay’.

Which was what I was thinking when I saw the man watching me from the across the Piazza. What with the proliferation of gay pubs, clubs and chat rooms, it is no longer necessary for the single man about town to frequent public toilets and graveyards on freezing nights to meet the man of their immediate needs. Still, some people like to risk frostbite on their nether regions — don’t ask me why.

He was about one-eighty in height — that’s six foot in old money — and dressed in a beautifully tailored suit that emphasised the width of his shoulders and a trim waist. I thought early forties with long, finely boned features and brown hair cut into an old-fashioned side parting. It was hard to tell in the sodium light but I thought his eyes were grey. He carried a silver-topped cane and I knew without looking that his shoes were handmade. All he needed was a slightly ethnic younger boyfriend and I’d have had to call the cliché police.

When he strolled over to talk to me I thought he might be looking for that slightly ethnic boyfriend after all.

‘Hello,’ he said. He had a proper RP accent, like an English villain in a Hollywood movie. ‘What are you up to?’

I thought I’d try the truth. ‘I’m ghost-hunting,’ I said.

‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Any particular ghost?’

‘Nicholas Wallpenny,’ I said.

‘What’s your name and address?’ he asked.

No Londoner ever answers that question unchallenged. ‘I beg your pardon?’

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale,’ he said, and showed me his warrant card.

‘Constable Peter Grant,’ I said.

‘Out of Charing Cross nick?’

‘Yes sir.’

He gave me a strange smile.

‘Carry on, Constable,’ he said, and went strolling back up James Street.

So there I was, having just told a senior Detective Chief Inspector that I was hunting ghosts, which, if he believed me, meant he thought I was bonkers, or if he didn’t believe me meant he thought I was cottaging and looking to perpetrate an obscene act contrary to public order.

And the ghost that I was looking for had failed to make an appearance.

Have you ever run away from home? I have, on two occasions. The first time, when I was nine, I only got as far as Argos on Camden High Street and the second time, aged fourteen, I made it all the way to Euston Station and was actually standing in front of the departure boards when I stopped. On both occasions I wasn’t rescued or found or brought back; indeed, when I returned home I don’t think my mum noticed I’d gone. I know my dad didn’t.

Both adventures ended the same way — with the realisation that in the end, no matter what, I was going to have to go home. For my nine-year-old self it was the knowledge that the Argos store represented the outer limit of my understanding of the world. Beyond that point was a tube station and a big building with statues of cats and, further on, more roads and bus journeys that led to downstairs clubs that were sad and empty and smelled of beer.

My fourteen-year-old self was more rational. I didn’t know anyone in these cities on the departure boards, and I doubted they would be any more welcoming than London. I probably didn’t even have enough money to get me further than Potters Bar, and even if I did stow away for free, what was I going to eat? Realistically I had three meals’ worth of cash on me, and then it would be back home to Mum and Dad. Anything I did short of getting back on the bus and going home was merely postponing the inevitable moment of my return.

I had that same realisation in Covent Garden at three o’clock in the morning. That same collapse of potential futures down to a singularity, a future that I couldn’t escape. I wasn’t going to drive a fancy motor and say ‘you’re nicked’. I was going to work in the Case Progression Unit and make a ‘valuable contribution’.

I stood up and started walking back to the nick.

In the distance I thought I could hear someone laughing at me.

The next morning Lesley asked me how the ghost-hunting had gone. We were loitering in front of Neblett’s office, the place from whence the fatal blow would fall. We weren’t required to be there, but neither of us wanted to prolong the agony.

‘There’s worse things than the Case Progression Unit,’ I said.

We both thought about that for a moment.

‘Traffic,’ said Lesley. ‘That’s worse than the CPU.’

‘You get to drive nice motors though,’ I said. ‘BMW Five, Mercedes M Class.’

‘You know, Peter, you really are quite a shallow person,’ said Lesley.

I was going to protest, but Neblett emerged from his office. He didn’t seem surprised to see us. He handed a letter to Lesley, who seemed curiously reluctant to open it.

‘They’re waiting for you at Belgravia,’ said Neblett. ‘Off you go.’ Belgravia is where the Westminster Murder Team is based. Lesley gave me a nervous little wave, turned and skipped off down the corridor.

‘There goes a proper thief taker,’ said Neblett. He looked at me and frowned.

‘Whereas you,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what you are.’

‘Proactively making a valuable contribution, sir,’ I said.

‘Cheeky bugger is what you are,’ said Neblett. He handed me not an envelope, but a slip of paper. ‘You’re going to be working with a Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale.’ The slip had the name and address of a Japanese restaurant on New Row.

‘Who am I working for?’ I asked.

‘Economic and Specialist Crime as far as I know,’ said Neblett. ‘They want you in plain clothes, so you’d better get a move on.’

Economic and Specialist Crime was an admin basket for a load of specialist units, everything from arts and antiques to immigration and computer crime. The important thing was that the Case Progression Unit wasn’t one of them. I left in a hurry before he could change his mind, but I want to make it clear that at no point did I break into a skip.

New Row was a narrow, pedestrianised street between Covent Garden and St Martin’s Lane, with a Tesco’s at one end and the theatres of St Martin’s Lane at the other. Tokyo A Go Go was a bent place halfway down, sandwiched between a private gallery and a shop that sold sporting gear for girls. The interior was long and barely wide enough for two rows of tables, sparsely decorated in minimalist Japanese fashion, with polished wooden floors, tables and chairs of lacquered wood, lots of right angles and rice paper.

I spotted Nightingale at a back table eating out of a black lacquered bent box. He stood when he saw me and shook my hand. Once I’d settled myself opposite, he asked if I was hungry. I said no thank you. I was nervous, and I make it a rule never to put cold rice into an agitated stomach. He ordered tea, and asked if I minded if he continued eating.