Бен Ааронович - The Hanging Tree

Crew Cut had come with friends, three other white guys with the same army-surplus muscularity and haircuts. They all wore off the peg black suits cut baggy for comfort, and all the better to cover any concealed weapons.

En masse they couldn’t have stood out as Americans more if they’d painted their faces red, white and blue. They went up the steps and paused in front of the door; two kept watch while a third bent over to do something to the lock. I couldn’t see what, but I doubted it was anything legal. Whatever it was, it was quick. The door opened and the whole group slipped inside with a practised lack of fuss.

I had a horrid feeling I’d just met the ‘gentlemen visitors’ that Kim had warned me about.

Where had they come from? I doubted they’d sauntered here from the tube station. I glanced up the road and spotted a black Ford Explorer hiding amongst the other Chelsea Tractors. It had the traditional tinted windscreen but we could still make out the figure of a white guy in the driver’s seat.

‘Can’t leave him there,’ said Guleed.

She was right. If we went in after the goon squad, their man in the Explorer would tip them off. So we quickly concocted one of our better plans – better insofar as that just for once it went as planned.

I approached on the pavement while Guleed strolled up the middle of the street and caught the driver’s attention. As soon as she had it, she pulled out her warrant card and held it up as she advanced. We’d both decided that when dealing with a possibly armed American it was better to avoid any potential ambiguity.

‘Especially since I’m the one being ambiguous,’ said Guleed.

The driver might have sussed me for police as well, but it didn’t matter. He hesitated for long enough for me to slap a car killer into the bonnet of the Explorer and that’s all she wrote for that particular electronic ignition system. I kept it low key enough to avoid frying any phone he might be carrying – just in case we might need it later.

Because he was American, he instinctively kept his hands on his steering wheel where we could see them.

‘Good evening, sir,’ said Guleed. ‘Would you step out of the car, please?’

And that was that.

He got out and we conducted a search in full compliance with Code A, Paragraph 3.1 of the Code of Practice – to whit, that all searches must be carried out with courtesy, consideration and respect for the person concerned.

Apart from, sensibly, keeping his mouth shut he cooperated with the search. Which was just as well because he was tall and fit and carrying a semi-automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. He also had a Samsung Galaxy with a retro modded hard ‘off’ switch not entirely unlike the phones me and Nightingale carried. And when I checked his wrist I saw he had a wind-up diver’s watch. It was practitioner’s gear and, coupled with the absence of anything identifiable on his person – not even a driver’s licence – pretty much confirmed that these were magic spooks. They might even have some legal standing in the states.

But not in London, so Guleed arrested him for carrying a firearm, driving without a licence and being suspiciously foreign in a built-up area. By the time we had him cuffed, the first IRV had arrived and we cheerfully handed him over to be tucked up in the back.

And I was quite happy to wait for back-up at that point – up to and including SCO19, the SAS and/or Nightingale in full tank-destroyer mode – except I got a blast of vestigia from the house. Nothing I could identify beyond a whiff of oily water and a chill across my back.

According to the Human Rights Act (1998) as interpreted in my dog-eared copy of Blackstone’s Police Operational Handbook: Practice and Procedure , I had a ‘duty of positive action’ with regards to protection of the public. This meant I had to at least make a token attempt to make sure Phoebe Beaumont-Jones was not this moment being waterboarded by the Jack Bauer wannabes I’d watched walk in not five minutes previously.

Assuming, of course, that they weren’t in league with our Phoebe and even now sitting down for a nice cup of tea and conspiracy. And assuming that she was inside the house in the first place.

Normally the Metropolitan Police frowns on its officers rushing in without a risk assessment and/or the appropriate specialist unit. Unfortunately in this case I was the appropriate specialist unit, and the firearms officers who were on their way were unequipped to deal with a Falcon scenario. Not least because the first draft of Procedures Relating to Serious Falcon Incidents a.k.a. How to Deal with Weird Bollocks was currently sitting as a half-finished Word document on my hard drive back at the Folly.

I called Nightingale, who said he was fifteen minutes away and asked him to authorise a little look.

‘Yes,’ he said immediately. ‘But carefully, Peter.’

I told Guleed that it was standard procedure for a second officer to stay outside the immediate Zone of Potential Magical Effect (ZPME) in order to facilitate communications should my Airwave and personal phones be compromised. Guleed was rightly suspicious.

‘Is that true?’ she asked.

Just as soon as I get back to the Folly and add it to the Word document, I thought.

‘Just make sure nobody rushes in,’ I said. ‘Especially you.’

‘And when things start to explode?’ she asked, but I didn’t dignify that with an answer.

‘I’m coming at least as far as the door,’ she said.

As we approached the front door I saw that there were strips of thick perspex or glass embedded into the front lawn – skylights for a basement. I pointed them out to Guleed, who frowned.

The very rich, having fundamentally missed the point of urban living, have long been frustrated by the fact that it’s impossible to squeeze the amenities of a country mansion – car showroom, swimming pool, cinema, servants’ quarters etc. – into the floor space of your average London terrace. Those without access to trans-dimensional engineering, a key Time Lord discovery, have had to resort to extending their houses into the ground. Thus proving that all that stands between your average rich person and a career in Bond villainy is access to an extinct volcano.

They are also a bugger to raid, because you need twice as many bodies to secure the premises. Stephanopoulos once told me that it was like watching a clown car in reverse. Once, during a raid in Kensington, she said that after waiting outside for half an hour she went in herself to make sure none of the entry team had got lost or, worse, been distracted by the bowling alley that reputedly occupied the bottommost level.

The front door was ajar – the lock had been drilled.

Not a friendly visit, then.

I put the Airwave in my pocket on open mic. Before I could move, the door was opened from the inside. They’d left someone to guard the perimeter – of course they had.

He was shorter than the driver, blond haired, oval faced with a surprisingly weak chin. He only opened the door half-way and he kept his right hand hidden behind it so I didn’t think trying to nut him was a viable tactical option.

‘Hi,’ he said brightly. ‘Can I help you?’ I’m not that good at American accents but I guessed East Coast.

For a mad moment I was tempted to ask him if he had a personal relationship with Jesus and, if not, would he like one? But I think that was the adrenaline talking. The pistol I suspected he was concealing behind the door was weighing heavily on my mind.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘My name’s Peter Grant. I’m with the police. Is Phoebe Beaumont-Jones available for a chat?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Come on in.’

He opened the door wider and stepped to the side to let me in.