Бен Ааронович - The Hanging Tree

I slowed to a walk, then stopped and took a deep breath of chill air.

‘Well, for a start, I wasn’t going to do it over the phone,’ I said. ‘Where did you hear that from?’

‘Tyburn ran into me “by accident” yesterday,’ said Beverley. ‘Couldn’t wait to tell me. And what have you done to piss her off?

‘I didn’t fulfil my wool quota,’ I said.

‘And Lesley?’

‘Tried to kill me a couple of times,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think it was personal.’

‘Wait,’ said Beverley. ‘Was that Harrods?’

‘Maybe,’ I said.

‘So you roughed up the top shop,’ she said. ‘No wonder Ty is pissed. Did you get me a present?’

‘I was busy at the time,’ I said. ‘Was there something you wanted?’

‘Always,’ said Beverley. ‘You chasing Lesley now?’

‘Not my job,’ I said. ‘The DPS is responsible for Lesley, and they don’t want me anywhere near the case. And if you like being police – and I do – then you don’t mess with the DPS.’

‘And the real reason?’

‘She’s taunting me,’ I said. ‘What with the texts last year and popping up at Harrods like that. I think she’s trying to pull me off balance.’

The breeze down the Mall was making the sweat chill on my legs and back. I started walking again.

‘Maybe she’s trying to tell you something,’ said Beverley.

‘Then she can send me a letter,’ I said. ‘Or, better still, turn herself in.’

‘Hey,’ said Beverley. ‘Just saying.’

‘Sorry, Bev,’ I said.

‘Are you coming over tonight? I’ve got to do an essay on the atmospheric carbon cycle for tomorrow – you could help me with my chemistry.’

‘Can’t,’ I said. ‘I’m planning to blow up some phones for science.’

Someone had left a copy of the Sun on my desk. It had a good photograph of some TSG officers milling about under the Harrods awning – the headline read HARRODS HORROR. A quick flick through indicated that they didn’t have the faintest idea what had happened, but that wasn’t going to stop them from devoting six pages to it. It turned out to be the lead with most of the papers except for the Express which went with UKIP TO ROCK WESTMINSTER.

I knew Stephanopoulos and Seawoll were shielding me from a ton of shit already, but after the mess at Trafalgar Square Seawoll had admitted that my career’s strange ability to survive its excursions into major property damage owed more to the fact that – should the Met actually get rid of me – they couldn’t guarantee my replacement wouldn’t be worse.

‘Nightingale is fucking untouchable,’ Seawoll had said. ‘And you’re the lesser of two evils.’

Still, I happened to know for a fact that the whole of Belgravia nick were running a pool on how long I would last and how I would go – the options being death, medical discharge (physical), medical discharge (psychological), indefinite disciplinary suspension, sacked for misconduct, secondment to Interpol and, with just one vote, ascension to a higher plane of existence.

I suspected the last one was a bit unlikely.

Guleed turned up a few minutes later wearing her leather jacket, the Hugo Boss she said her mum had bought her, which meant she’d been out doing some serious police work.

‘Entry codes,’ she said when she saw me. According to their statements, the kids had gained access to One Hyde Park via the underground staff tunnel that ran from the Mandarin Oriental Hotel next door. Two of them had identified James Murray, the victim’s official boyfriend, as the one who’d possessed the passkey and security codes. There had been multiple actions including one to re-interview James Murray re: where he got the codes, but it was still pending until Guleed preempted it that morning.

‘Christina Chorley gave him the codes,’ said Guleed. ‘And the passkey.’

Since James didn’t know where Christina had got them, and she was seriously dead, Guleed decided to work the other side of the problem and find out who owned the flat.

‘I thought all those things were actioned already?’ I said.

‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed but just about everyone else is off working that murder in Fulham,’ said Guleed. ‘It’s basically you, me and whatever time we can bully out of David.’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ I said, although it did explain where everyone else was that morning.

‘Not surprising,’ said Guleed. ‘You were too busy blowing up Harrods.’

‘Are we getting leaned on?’ I asked.

‘What do you think?’ asked Guleed.

I didn’t ask who by and I was pretty certain that the ‘how’ was Deputy Assistant Commissioner Folsom, he of the unfortunate eyebrows and midlife opera crisis. He was one of Tyburn’s circle and, while he didn’t have any direct influence over Belgravia MIT, he’d know a man who did – probably the Assistant Commissioner.

The AC would be asking whether this particular suspicious death was worth the resources, what with the current government cutting budgets and the sudden proliferation of expensive historical abuse investigations.

And you couldn’t argue, because deciding on resource allocation is what ACPO officers are all about – and, let’s face it, there’s always more crime than budget. So Seawoll and Stephanopoulos had pulled most of their team off Operation Marigold, but left Guleed. Because, while those two liked a result as much as the next copper, they preferred it when it corresponded with your actual truth – they were very modern that way.

So, actions were still being actioned and me and Guleed were actioning them, and the wheels of justice ground on. Albeit in first gear.

So the low ratio wheels had taken Guleed to a civilian employee at Serious Fraud who was a friend of her brother’s who had helped her untangle the – deliberately complex – web of fronts and shell companies that surrounded the flat at One Hyde Park.

‘And then one name tripped a flag to a certain Operation Wentworth.’ She smiled brightly. ‘Sound familiar?’

Wentworth was the investigation into the illegal demolition of Skygarden Tower, with me on it I might add, and the activities of County Gard Ltd which, along with County Finance Management and The County System Company, was a known front organisation for the Faceless Man.

‘Which ties Christina Chorley and Reynard Fossman to the Faceless Man,’ I said. ‘Serious Fraud have been banging their heads against that for a year – this could be their way in.’

‘And it was at County Gard’s offices,’ said Guleed, ‘where you first met the Right Honourable Caroline Linden-Limmer.’

‘Yes.’

‘Who’s linked to Reynard Fossman, who is linked to Christina Chorley, who is linked back to County Gard.’

Unless Reynard was the link to County Gard, I thought. And we knew the Faceless Man loved his hybrids, his tiger-men and cat-girls. So why not a fox?

‘So the Right Honourable Caroline has conveniently turned up at both ends of that trail,’ said Guleed. ‘What I’m asking is, do you really think it’s a good idea to invite her into your secret hideout?’

But invited in they were, and at the appointed time I was in the entrance foyer in my second best suit, waiting for them to knock on the door. They were fifteen minutes late.

The doorbell rang and I triggered the counterweight mechanism that causes the doors to swing open impressively on their own – well, it impressed me once. They opened to reveal Lady Helena waiting with a half-smile on her lips. She’d deeply invested in the ageing bohemian look, with a quilted burgundy jacket and corduroy slacks. Her daughter was dressed in a conservative navy skirt suit that fitted her tall frame too well to be anything but bespoke.