Бен Ааронович - The Hanging Tree

So I water bombed Lesley instead.

It’s a harder spell, third order, based on two formae – aqua , impello – and a couple of extras we call adjectivium which modify the way other formae work. The result generates a ball of water the size of a party balloon which, when properly applied to a suspect’s face, often causes them to cease and desist in their activities – whatever these might be. Fireballs are much simpler and easier to cast under pressure, but I’d been practising the water spell by playing dodgeball with one of Beverley’s younger sisters and, trust me, if you do that with a hyperactive nine year old river goddess then you pick up the skills fast.

Nightingale says that one of the prefects at his old school claimed there was a variation that created a ball of gin, but try as they might nobody ever found the spell or worked out how to recreate it.

‘And, as you can imagine,’ Nightingale told me, ‘a great deal of effort was expended in that direction by the sixth form.’

Water was fine for my purposes, and I’m sure Lesley appreciated the elegance of my approach when it smacked her in the face. She went down swearing and I ran forward, flicking out my baton as I closed the distance.

I didn’t make it because, when I was almost there, Lesley threw Crew Cut at me. It was impello , of course, but that didn’t make 140 kilos of bad suit any less painful when it sails through the air and hits you in the chest – especially when you also have a duty of care and have to catch the bastard. So, while I was putting Crew Cut in the recovery position, Lesley went haring after Reynard.

Not far away I heard shouting and the sound of things breaking and, because I’m police, that’s the direction I ran in.

Guleed met me in the next room, running in with David Carey and a bunch of uniforms. He peeled off to deal with a member of the public who’d obviously been knocked down.

Guleed pointed to a ramp.

‘That way,’ she shouted.

‘Unconscious suspect on the floor back there,’ I said to one of the uniforms. ‘White male, cheap suit. Non-life-threatening injuries. Had a firearm but now disarmed, check for other weapons, hold him for assault and check welfare.’ I told him he needed to find and secure the firearm so an AFO could bag it. He nodded and sensibly grabbed a mate before heading back the way I’d come.

Me and Guleed advanced cautiously up the ramp – there was a short corridor at the top with entrances to the public toilets.

‘They didn’t stop,’ said Guleed.

‘Where’s Nightingale?’ I asked.

‘Back at the café,’ she said. ‘Dealing with something Falcon.’

Presumably whoever had been throwing the crimson smoke around.

We navigated the corridor and looked out onto a long, wide room filled with flat screen televisions lined up like the suspiciously convenient cover in a third person shooter. It was empty of staff and customers and Guleed said that Stephanopoulos had moved her troops in from the other side as soon it all went pear-shaped.

‘We should have a security perimeter,’ said Guleed, which meant that Reynard and Lesley were somewhere in there amongst the Panasonics and Toshibas.

‘Was that really Lesley?’ asked Guleed.

‘Large as life,’ I said. ‘And twice as beautiful.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘You grab Reynard,’ I said. ‘I’ll grab Lesley and then we can ask her.’

Which is what we in the business call an operational plan.

‘Okay,’ said Guleed. ‘Slow and quiet, or fast and loud?’

‘Loud,’ I said.

So we marched out amongst the televisions bold as brass, although both of us had our batons resting on our shoulders and left arms extended in the recommended manner. Around us the big LCDs showed Jeremy Kyle getting self-righteous with Sharon and Darren, although a couple near the end of a row were showing Alpha and Omega 2 . I couldn’t tell which was worse.

‘Lesley,’ I shouted. ‘You know how this works, you know you’ve lost your opportunity to escape, so you might as well put the fox down and show yourself.’

Guleed snorted quietly.

‘Come on, Lesley – do us a favour.’

A couple of uniforms appeared in the archway opposite, but Guleed signalled them to stay put. Others took up positions at the remaining exits. Near the centre of the room where the aisles from one exit to another formed a crossroad was an old fashioned jukebox, which I noticed wasn’t turned on. As we approached the centre, me and Guleed let the distance between us widen. I swear I could almost hear Lesley breathing.

In the corner to my left I noticed that one of the TVs was off. So was its power indicator and that of the Bluray player below it.

‘Hey, Peter,’ called Lesley from behind the TV. ‘Heads up.’

Something small, flat and metallic flew through the air to land where I’d have been standing if I hadn’t immediately jumped backwards. It was an iPhone, and from its screen came a little wisp of blue flame. I opened my mouth to shout ‘Get back!’ But of course by then it was too late.

The phone exploded in a most peculiar way.

I actually saw the pressure wave, a hemisphere of distorted air that expanded out in a lazy, unstoppable fashion. And, as it did, everything with a microprocessor blew out. And then the wave reached me and knocked me on my back.

There was a sensation like static electricity and the smell of ozone and the taste of lemons.

Fuck me, I thought, she’s weaponised her iPhone.

And then the lights went out.

When we briefed Seawoll later all he said was ‘That could have gone better.’ Which, as portents of disaster go, is pretty fucking portentous.

The blast didn’t knock me out. I’ve been unconscious before and this was different. It did knock out every light in a thirty metre radius, plus the CCTV and everyone’s Airwave. Not to mention a couple of million quids’ worth of top of the line consumer electronics.

Seriously, I thought, we couldn’t have met in a Greggs? I really hoped that Harrods’ insurance covered them for Acts of Lesley.

What CCTV we had left showed Reynard making his escape down the central stairwell and out through the Food Hall. There was no sign of Lesley and, although Stephanopoulos shut down the store for a thorough search, nobody had any doubt that she was long gone. How was another question.

Crew Cut had escaped as well, but we did recover his pistol which turned out to be a suspiciously clean Glock 17 with the serial numbers erased and no matches in our or Interpol’s databases. Seawoll thought it stank of spook, but nobody was in a hurry to get CTC involved – we figured they’d be along soon enough.

It wasn’t a total loss, because back at what was left of the Montreux Jazz Café Nightingale had a strangely familiar suspect in custody.

‘Did you use the proper caution?’ I asked.

‘I believe so,’ said Nightingale.

Lesley May’s name hung between us but we had other things to deal with first.

Even though she was sitting down on a plastic chair salvaged from the café, the suspect was still obviously very tall – taller than me, in fact. She was dressed in an expensive black wool suit jacket – a Stella McCartney, we learned when Guleed surreptitiously checked the label later – a white male dress shirt and pre-faded skinny jeans. She’d dropped her chin down to her chest as I approached and let her long straight weave fall over her face but it was too late – I’d recognised her.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Obviously the cleaning gigs are paying well.’

Guleed asked if I knew her.

One thing you acquire as police is a good memory for names and faces, not only because of the long parade of villains you encounter but also because most of them are repeat offenders. It’s considered bad form not to know someone’s name when you’re arresting them for the fourth time. I’d met this one while raiding a County Gard office near Liverpool Street the year before. Just before I was distracted by the whole being on the roof of a tower block when it was demolished thing.