Бен Ааронович - The Hanging Tree

‘It was definitely her face,’ I said. But smoother, paler, unblemished and disturbingly like the skin of the Faerie Queen – when she was on this side of the border.

Because I’d graduated to ‘briefings’ rather than ‘interviews’, DI Pollock actually fed some information my way – almost as if we were colleagues.

‘We can’t find evidence of her entering or leaving the store,’ said Pollock. ‘Security there is tight and the CCTV coverage is extensive, it covers all points of entry both public and staff – we’ve done a preliminary check and she’s not there.’

Pollock wanted to know whether someone could magic themselves invisible or teleport themselves from one place another. He even asked if there were ‘roads through other realms’ that a practitioner could walk, the better to pass unseen. Which shocked me because I didn’t have DI Pollock pegged as a romantic. I swear he was going to ask about hyperspace next, but I made it clear that as far as I knew practitioners couldn’t teleport or walk faerie roads. As for invisible, I thought of the unicorns I’d met in Herefordshire. Still, I didn’t think it was feasible, at least not without shutting down the CCTV cameras as a side effect.

I asked if I could review the footage myself and he said he’d see what he could do.

‘How did it make you feel?’ asked DI Pollock.

‘How did what make me feel, sir?’

‘Seeing Lesley again?’

Shock and anger and betrayal and vain hope that she’d changed her mind and anger at myself for having that hope.

‘I was surprised, sir,’ I said. ‘I thought she’d know better.’

They let me out midafternoon and I was hoping for a fry-up, but Nightingale and Stephanopoulos intercepted me and guided me into the ABE suite where Lady Helena Linden-Limmer had been stashed.

‘Guleed will interview the daughter and you can use your charms on the mother,’ said Stephanopoulos.

I looked to Nightingale, who just nodded in agreement.

I did manage to grab an emergency sandwich, which I stuffed down during my truncated pre-interview strategy meeting with Guleed, Stephanopoulos and Nightingale. Basically our plan was to see how both of them reacted to an initial set of questions, then stop for a break and then base further sessions on their responses. These were also going to be what Stephanopoulos called ‘Falcon interviews’ – ones where we would decide after the fact if they officially took place or not.

Guleed passed me the completed IIP on Caroline Linden-Limmer and pointed out a note which registered that she’d been granted a Gender Recognition Certificate when she was eighteen – changing her legal gender from male to female.

‘So . . .’ I started, but was cut off by the vast silence emanating from Stephanopoulos behind us.

I looked over at Nightingale, who looked quizzically back, and decided to explain the implications later. Surprisingly, when I did, his reaction was outrage that somebody had to apply to a panel to determine what gender they were – he didn’t say it, but I got the strong impression that he felt such panels were intrinsically un-British. Like eugenics legislation, banning the burka and air conditioning.

I thought of the little girl in the blue dress – you can’t get a certificate until you’re 18 – it must have felt like a long wait.

Her mother, when I met her, didn’t strike me as someone who liked to wait.

In the black and white world of the David Bailey photographs, Lady Helena seemed taller than she was in real life. In the photos she’d had a pixie bob haircut that had emphasised the smooth oval of her face, and her large eyes with their drag queen lashes. Now her face was in colour, with the wrinkly brown chamois leather complexion that white people get if they spend their lives under a hot sun. The bob was longer, shaggier and streaked with grey.

‘You’ve seen my glamour pics haven’t you?’ she said before I could introduce myself. ‘I can always tell.’

She stood up to greet me and held out a hand. It was slender but her palms were rough and her grip was strong.

She sighed. ‘What a difference a lifetime makes, eh?’

We sank down onto the chairs which, this being the ABE suite, were low-slung 1970’s wooden frame things with square foam cushions zipped into hard wearing pastel covers. Very useful if you have to crash somewhere over night – although you generally have to beat the CID nightshift to them first.

‘Where’s my daughter?’ she asked as soon as I’d finished the caution plus two.

I explained that Caroline was along the corridor being interviewed about her role in this morning’s Harrods incident. I prefixed it with the word ‘serious’, which usually gets a reaction, but Helena seemed a bit too sanguine for my taste. Generally when you’re interviewing somebody and they seem remarkably calm about one crime, it’s because they’re relieved you haven’t found out about something else. You hope this is going to turn out to be some major case-breaking bit of information but, people being people, it’s often the most mundane shit – affairs, porn stashes, secret second families, that sort of thing.

‘What is she supposed to be responsible for?’

‘Assault,’ I said, ‘assault on a police officer, criminal damage, obstruction, assisting an offender and wasting police time.’

Lady Helena gave me a long look.

‘Assault?’ she asked. ‘Did she physically assault someone?’

You see, even the clever ones can’t resist being clever and the next move, if you want them to stay being clever, is to play dumb.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ I said.

Lady Helena leaned forward and looked me in the eye.

‘Did my daughter at any point physically strike another human being?’

Which answered my and Nightingale’s first question – did the mother know about the magic?

‘Assault doesn’t actually require physical contact,’ I said.

‘So how exactly did my daughter assault a policeman?’ she asked. ‘Was it you, by the way?’

‘Your daughter gave your house in Montgomeryshire as her home address,’ I said. ‘Does she still live with you?’

Lady Helena settled back in her chair. ‘That’s children these days,’ she said. ‘They don’t ever seem to want to fly the nest. I blame the parents.’

‘How about the rest of your kids?’

‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked.

The other five members of the ‘menagerie’ had all shown different addresses on the DVLA.

‘They all moved out, didn’t they?’

‘I raised them to be independent.’

‘But not Caroline?’

‘Caroline is joining the family business,’ she said.

‘And what is the family business?’ I asked.

‘Helping people,’ she said. ‘We run a retreat for those who need to rebalance their lives.’

‘Rebalance in what way?’ I asked.

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes before answering.

‘Mind, body and spirit,’ said Lady Helena. ‘For a person to be healthy each must be in balance with itself and with the others. We help people restore those balances.’

‘And how do you do that?’

‘Mostly by providing them with a bit of peace and quiet,’ she said and then shrugged. ‘And charging them vast sums of money – the money is an important part of the process. People don’t appreciate things they don’t pay for.’

I asked whether Christina Chorley had ever attended her clinic, but she said she didn’t recognise the name. I ran through the names of the attendees at the ill-fated party and threw Reynard’s name casually in the middle. She denied knowing any of them but there was definitely a response at Reynard’s name – a twitch of her eyes to the side.