Mike Carey - Vicious Circle

But when I got back to Pier 17, all my well-chosen phrases died on my lips as I stared, nonplussed, across a widening swathe of water towards the Collective ’s receding stern rail. The gap was a good ten yards already, and the ship was heading out into the river at a slow, shuddering two knots.

Reggie was standing up on deck, a black silk jacket thrown on over his vest and pants, his hands thrust deep into the pockets. He favoured me with an unfriendly, appraising stare.

‘Go on home, man,’ he said, sounding stern and sad. ‘Have some fucking self-respect and go on home.’

For one crazy moment I actually contemplated trying to make that jump. I’d have ended up trapped in the viscous Thames sludge until someone came and got me with a block and tackle and a tow bar. Instead, I stood and watched the ship out of sight around the next bend. Reggie stayed up on deck the whole time, watching me as though he wanted to be sure I didn’t try anything. After a while, Greg Lockyear came and stood next to him, a hand on his shoulder. Then the graceless curve of Ferry Approach intervened, the Collective slid out of sight, and I was left alone on the pier, looking – if I can get technical for just a moment – like a complete fuckwit.

I headed back west. Switching onto the Jubilee Line, I passed within a stone’s throw of Paddington – at least, if the stone was fired out of a field mortar. At some point I’d probably have to drop in there for a word or two with Rosie Crucis. But now wouldn’t be a good time. I was still feeling a bit seedy and hung-over, and you need a full set of options to stand a chance against Jenna-Jane Mulbridge; anyhow, Rosie is more nocturnal even than Nicky.

Yeah, maybe I was just putting off the inevitable, but right now that worked for me.

So I dropped in at the office instead, and dug out some emergency supplies from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. It was just a foil-backed bubble sheet with eight slightly odd-looking pills on it – white squares with rounded edges, marked with a cursive D. There’d been space for twelve pills originally, but four had already gone. The nurse who’d given them to me in the course of a brief, tempestuous relationship had said the D stood for Diclofenac , although the tablets had a couple of other active ingredients as well. ‘They’re magic,’ she said, sliding them into my breast pocket with a wicked grin. ‘Strongest painkillers you’ll ever take, but they leave you as sharp as if you’d just popped a handful of dex. Only don’t drink too much booze with them. Or . . . umm . . . go out in direct sunlight, because with this stuff in your system you’ll burn like a sausage on a grill.’

It was probably the most thoughtful present anyone had ever given me – as I’d had cause to find out when I took the other four. I swallowed two now, and the pain and stiffness in my shoulder receded almost immediately. I was back in the game.

With Nicky still fresh in my mind, I checked the answerphone in the office as well as the messages on my mobile: nothing doing on either one, so I was still on my own as far as that went. The good news, though, was that in among all the bills and other love letters from local government and national utilities, there was a heartwarmingly fat envelope with no stamp on it and just my name written in a flowing hand.

I opened it up and found a short note from Stephen Torrington, along with a cheque for a thousand pounds and a further five hundred in cash. The note just said that this was to be considered as a payment on account, and that I could send along a receipt whenever it was convenient. It occurred to me that that was going to be fairly difficult to do, because all I had by way of contact details for the Torringtons was Steve’s mobile number. I dialled it now, and he picked up on the first ring. Either he had spectacularly good reflexes or he lived with the thing in his ear.

‘Torrington.’

‘Castor,’ I said, answering in kind. ‘I got the money. Thanks.’

‘Mister Castor. No problem: as I said, we’ve got more money than we need, and nothing could possibly be better than this to spend it on.’

‘You asked for a receipt. But I don’t have your address.’

He laughed self-deprecatingly. ‘The ordinary niceties break down at a time like this. I’m sorry, I should have given you my card. And Mel’s, of course, in case I’m in a meeting or something. Send it to the house. We live on Bishop’s Avenue. Number 62.’

Nice address: London’s first gated community, in fact if not in name: millionaires and former government ministers only, and if you play the stereo too loud nobody will care because you’ve got at least two hundred yards of garden and so have they. The downside is that it’s a three-day expedition to nip next door and borrow a cup of sugar. ‘I’ll slip it in the post today,’ I said.

‘No hurry. Is there anything new to report?’

I considered lying, but again it went against the grain: if this guy was paying my wages, the least I could give him by way of value for money was the truth. ‘I think I met our Mister Peace this morning,’ I admitted.

‘Met him? But—’

‘It was a brief encounter. He was running like a bat out of Hell and I couldn’t quite keep up.’

Torrington blew out what sounded like a deep lungful of breath. ‘My God. So close! Where? Where was he hiding?’

‘The Thames Collective . It’s a houseboat on the river where London-based exorcists sometimes stay. I don’t think Peace was in residence, though: it’s a bit too public. Most likely he was just visiting. Borrowing money, maybe, I don’t know. He was seen at another exorcist haunt in Soho, too, so I guess he’s shaking the tree for something – something that’s worth the risk of being seen. Anyway, the bottom line is that even if he was staying at the Collective , the Collective just up and left. Until it comes into another mooring and I can find out where, I can’t check it out again.’

‘But you actually walked in on him? You saw him?’

‘Almost felt him, too – the tip of his boot, anyway. I’m really sorry. Next time I’ll be more—’

‘No, no.’ Torrington’s tone was sharp. ‘You’re as good as we were told you’d be, Mister Castor. You actually found your man within forty-eight hours, with little more than his name to go on – that’s nothing short of incredible. I don’t think it’ll be too long before you find him again, and I know you won’t let him take you by surprise this time. Thank you. Thank you for everything you’re doing for us. And if there’s anything else that I can provide that will make the job easier, just call me. Any time of the day or night.’

After a few more awkward pleasantries, we hung up. I wished I could live up to the Torringtons’ touching faith in me, but right then I felt like one of those poor guys in Plato’s cave, trying to make sense out of things I couldn’t see directly, just by squinting at the shadows that the fire cast on the cave wall. And to make things worse, I was standing in the goddamn fire.

I thought of Reggie Tang’s parting words, and the implication behind them. Peace was a bad lad, Bourbon Bryant had said – a bit wild and unpredictable – but all the same he seemed to have more friends in the London ghost-hunter community than I did right now: enough so that a lot of avenues I might normally have used seemed like bad ideas right then. Nicky still hadn’t got me anything beside stirring tales of the guy’s criminal past, and Rosie wouldn’t be open for business until midnight. I was meant to be having dinner with Juliet, of course, but that was more than eight hours away, so I was looking down the barrel of a wasted day unless there was something I could follow up by myself in the meantime.