Бен Ааронович - The Hanging Tree

I motioned her to stand to one side of the doorway while I took the other.

‘It pays to be careful,’ I said.

There was the distant crash of breaking glass that was definitely not vestigium and then a series of high pitched barks.

‘Reynard?’ said Caroline.

I shrugged.

There was a sound like somebody running the tape of a Michael Bay action sequence backwards and something thumped into the door with enough force to make the frame rattle.

‘Nightingale,’ I said.

Then it went suspiciously quiet and we both tensed, and then forced ourselves to take deep breaths to clear our minds. Nothing fancy, I thought. Water balloon in the face and then knock him back into the arms of Nightingale, who would likely be just behind.

We waited what seemed like a long time while the congestion roared past and the carbon monoxide infiltrated our red blood cells – then the door opened and Nightingale stuck his head out.

‘You can come in now,’ he said. ‘We’ve got him.’

Reynard was not a happy fox as we manhandled him through the gloomy halls of Gothdom and out the front door to where Nightingale had left the blue Asbo, the Jag being a bit conspicuous, and plonked him in the back. Then, once he was sure Reynard was safely hand-cuffed, Nightingale cautioned him – using the proper modern caution, I noted.

To give him his due, Reynard looked like he was going to go for defiance – before suddenly deflating and dropping his chin onto his chest.

‘So where you taking him?’ I asked – while technically the Folly is a nick, it bears the same relationship to basic human rights legislation as Camp X-Ray.

‘Belgravia,’ said Nightingale and, smiling, held up an honest to god sky blue Metropolitan Police issue Evidence & Actions Book and flipped it open to the PERSONS CONCERNED/ARRESTED page to show me where Reynard Fossman’s name had been filled in in nice clear capitals.

I wondered what Reynard was going to ask to put in the self-defined ethnicity slot – there wasn’t enough room for ‘anthropomorphic fairy tale animal’.

‘Stephanopoulos said she wanted to be present for the interview,’ said Nightingale.

I glanced over to where Lady Helena and Caroline were standing, just within not-too-obvious eavesdropping distance.

‘And our friends?’

‘They’re waiting for Harold, who’s making haste from Oxford even as we speak,’ said Nightingale.

‘So you found it?’ I asked. If Harold Postmartin was abandoning his Oxford comforts it could only be for The Third Principia .

‘We’ve found something that might be it,’ he said. ‘With luck Harold can verify it.’

‘You seem to have everything sorted,’ I said.

‘You don’t need to sound quite so disappointed,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve always been a quick study, Peter. But if you wish to keep an eye on my progress you’re welcome to come along.’

‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I promised Guleed I’d be back before dinner.’ I explained where we were on Phoebe Beaumont-Jones and her upcoming involuntary stint helping the police with their inquiries.

‘In that case,’ said Nightingale, ‘would you like any assistance with that?’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I think we can handle it.’

Famous last words.

So I headed back to the improbably named Woronzow Road in St Johns Wood, home of the mysterious Phoebe Beaumont-Jones. On the way Stephanopoulos called me.

‘You haven’t disappeared a suspect have you?’ she asked.

We better not have, I thought.

‘Not that I know of,’ I said in the vain hope that Stephanopoulos wouldn’t notice the plausible deniability aspect.

‘Only Bromley Crime Squad have lost track of a minor little scrote called Aiden Burghley who they said was talking to you this very morning,’ she said.

I assured her that not only hadn’t I disappeared him, but the last time I saw him he was in the care of said Crime Squad and in the presence of his lawyer.

‘His brief says she took her eyes off him for five seconds and he was gone.’

‘Wasn’t me, boss,’ I said.

‘Was it your boss?’ she asked because she’s police and had spotted the plausible deniability bit.

I said it wasn’t him either because, au contraire , he was bringing in Reynard the chicken worrier even as we spoke. In that case, Stephanopoulos decided, Aiden Burghley had gone walkabouts on his own recognizance and it was Bromley’s problem not ours.

It was a couple of hours past the school rush and the sun was setting and the four by fours were nestled up against the pavement. I spotted the Asbo hiding amongst them two doors down from the Beaumont-Jones house and headed over. I saw Guleed’s face reflected in the wing mirror as she clocked my approach – nobody sneaks up on the Muslim ninja.

I climbed in beside her and traded the chicken kebab I’d picked up from a Halal café in Tufnell Park for her tablet. After a slow start the police have taken to mobile technology in a big way – mainly because it means you can pretend to work anywhere: at home, the canteen, the local boozer. Senior officers favoured using iPads because the find function allowed them to track how much time you spent in the boozer, and to find lost tablets before they’re picked up and their contents sold to the Guardian newspaper.

So, even sitting in the car, Guleed had been busy collating.

‘It turns out the father is really rich,’ she said.

‘What’s he do?’

‘Invests,’ she said.

Jeremy Beaumont-Jones had been lucky enough to be born rich. He wasn’t in the mad oligarch class but once you’re past a certain point, the sheer weight of your money sucks in wealth like a financial singularity. If you’re sensible enough not to blow it on race horses, cocaine or musical theatre, then it becomes a perpetual-motion money making machine.

He’d also been to Oxford, although he wasn’t on any of the Little Crocodile lists.

‘Where is he now?’

‘The Bahamas,’ said Guleed. ‘Business convention.’

‘Do you think he’s on his way back?’ I asked. Having the daddy arrive with a legal posse would put a crimp in the investigation. Since Lady Ty had all but shut us down, I really didn’t think we wanted another pile of influence landing on our heads.

‘He’s at least five hours away,’ said Guleed. Although apparently there was a private jet.

I eyed the, it had to be said, fairly nondescript late Victorian terrace – even in this area it couldn’t have been worth more than three million, four million pounds tops.

‘This is a bit pokey for someone with big money,’ I said.

‘It’s one of five,’ said Guleed. ‘Oh look, there goes the maid.’

A thin, washed-out white woman with sandy hair opened the front gate and headed up the road towards Swiss Cottage. Probably Polish or Romanian. Mum said the rich private clients always preferred to use white cleaners rather than Africans. Actually they’d prefer Filipinos or Vietnamese or, well, anyone really rather than Africans. Mum said she preferred offices anyway, because you didn’t have to deal with some posh woman standing over you and telling you your business.

And the way she said it was a lot ruder in Krio – trust me.

Guleed hadn’t spotted anyone else going in or out, and if it turned out Phoebe was currently residing at one of the other four properties – Lombardy, Ireland, the Cotswolds or Santa Barbara – then there was no point us sitting outside like muppets.

We were just gearing ourselves up to leave the car when Crew Cut from Harrods arrived.

I recognised him immediately and so did Guleed, who was calling for back-up before I’d finished swearing.