Бен Ааронович - The Hanging Tree

Guleed, who’d slipped to the side and out of sight when the door opened, tapped her fingernail twice on the wall to let me know that she wasn’t happy – but she stayed out of sight.

There was no sign of a pistol in either hand when I stepped inside. I figured he might have stuck it into the back waistband of his trousers, but I couldn’t be sure. And, from an operational standpoint, you generally want to avoid uncertainty about where a firearm is before you do anything stupid.

I asked for his name and he said ‘Teddy’, which made him a bloody liar.

Inside, the house had obviously been gutted, stripped down and rebuilt in the last five years. The narrow stairway typical of a London terrace had been replaced by the spiral staircase with marble risers so beloved of people who don’t have to lug their own furniture up to the floors above. It also extended down into the basement and I caught a whiff of chlorinated water that indicated a pool. I’m not very fond of the combination of underground and water, so of course down we went.

It wasn’t that super, by the standards of London super-basements, being mostly swimming pool, fitness centre and wine cellar. And it wasn’t that big a pool either, since it had to fit into the narrow footprint of a terraced house – less than ten metres long and three wide. It was lit by underwater lights that cast ripples on the ceiling and pale red marble walls. The designer had probably been going for Turkish Bath but had hit Czech Porn Shoot instead.

There was a tiled space at the near edge of the pool which sported a couple of white plastic chairs, a matching round table and, redundantly, a sun lounger. A young white woman in a blue string bikini was reclining on the lounger. I recognised her face from the pictures on Olivia’s wall – Phoebe Beaumont-Jones. One of Crew Cut’s buddies, jackets unbuttoned, hands loosely held ready by their sides stood on either side of her.

Crew Cut was sitting at the table as if expecting a waiter at any minute.

‘This is unfortunate,’ he said. He still had a wicked bruise across the side of his face – it was going a nice mottled purple and must have really hurt.

I considered telling the lot of them they were under arrest, but even I’m not that stupid. Phoebe was staring at me with a fixed expression but I could see her legs trembling.

‘Hello Phoebe,’ I said. ‘How are you doing?’

She bobbed her head nervously but she couldn’t seem to open her mouth to speak.

‘Why don’t you have a seat?’ said Crew Cut. His accent was Southern-ish but not the caricature I’d heard on TV – it was the deliberately cultured accent of someone working hard to convince you they were a reasonable and civilised man. I was immediately on my guard. Well, even more on my guard, given the room full of armed men.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Let’s not worry about that for the moment,’ said Crew Cut.

‘What should we worry about instead?’

Crew Cut tilted his head slightly.

‘I’d say we’ve managed to get ourselves into one of those unfortunate situations,’ he said, ‘where two parties that should be allies find themselves in a confrontation.’

‘Allies?’

‘We are both the heirs to Isaac Newton,’ he said. ‘A product of the same enlightenment.’

Which made them, after Lady Helena, the second lot of heirs we’d met this week. Now personally I didn’t think of myself as the great man’s heir so much as somebody who’d wandered into his house to borrow his lawnmower, but as Stephanopoulos has indicated, on more than one occasion, sometimes my cheek is inappropriate in a modern policing context.

‘Just to be clear,’ I said, ‘you’re the American wizards?’

Crew Cut shook his head slowly.

‘Specialists, son,’ he said. ‘Our job is to deal with the problems, not create new ones.’

That was bollocks from where I was standing, but I was perfectly happy to keep Crew Cut chatting shit until Nightingale turned up to put him out of my misery. But Crew Cut had to guess back-up was on its way by now, and that it was only a matter of time. He looked a bit too relaxed to me, and it was making me nervous.

‘I think you’re a little bit out of your jurisdiction,’ I said.

‘The whole world is our jurisdiction, son,’ said Crew Cut. ‘And I have the executive order to prove it.’

I looked over at Phoebe who was still shivering – it was noticeably chilly down here and I wondered if the heating had been turned off.

‘I’m going to take off my jacket,’ I said. ‘Nice and slowly.’

Crew Cut told me to go ahead and then he let me pass it to one of his men who passed it to Phoebe who put it on. She was much smaller than she looked in the pictures and seemed even more childlike as she tried to tuck her legs up inside the jacket.

‘Pity,’ said Crew Cut as Phoebe stopped visibly shivering. ‘Another fifteen minutes and she might have told us something useful.’

I told him I thought it might be better if Phoebe were allowed to leave.

‘Better for who?’ he asked.

I wondered again what he was waiting for – what did he think was going to happen?

‘Better for her,’ I said. ‘And, in the long run, better for you.’

Crew Cut made an elegant shooing gesture at Phoebe, but she just stared at him.

I told her that it was going to be all right and was amazingly convincing, all things considered.

Phoebe hopped up smartly and, keeping an eye on Crew Cut, edged past me.

‘Go out the front door,’ I said. ‘And keep going until you see someone in uniform.’

She nodded and headed for the stairs. Just to try my luck I turned to amble after her, but Crew Cut shook his head.

‘Not you, Peter,’ he said and then lifted his wrist to his mouth and spoke into his sleeve. ‘Teddy – we’re letting the shade go.’

That he knew my name pretty much confirmed that these were Kim Reynolds’ visitors, but I did wonder what a ‘shade’ was – and how come this lot were so relaxed. Crew Cut didn’t strike me as stupid. He had to know we would have the house surrounded, and that an armed breach would be next – if they were lucky. If they were unlucky, one of the Met’s highly trained negotiators would turn up and be aggravatingly reasonable to them until the Americans a) surrendered or b) shot themselves in the head in an effort to make it stop.

‘What’s a shade?’ I asked.

‘A creature that looks like a man but walks in the shadows,’ said Crew Cut.

Police doctrine is, even if you’re waiting for someone to do something violent to your suspect, you should deescalate the situation because at the very least a peaceful resolution produces a ton less paperwork.

‘Am I a shade?’ I asked.

‘The jury’s still out on you, son,’ said Crew Cut, and then spoke into his sleeve again. ‘Okay Teddy – time we were leaving.’

I wondered what the hell they thought they were going to do – was there a rear exit, a helicopter on the roof, or had they contracted with International Rescue to lease The Mole and drill their way out?

I never did get to find out, because about then was when the lights went out.

All at once.

I dropped to the floor, on the basis that I was in a room full of excitable men with guns, and I thought it might not be a bad idea to get my centre of mass out of the line of fire. As I went down I heard a cracking noise, a muffled grunt and a rushing sound. A terrible and familiar smell rolled over me, the liquid shit stink of the sewers. Something slapped my leg so I pulled it in under me.

I heard the Americans shouting and something heavy – I hoped it wasn’t a body – hitting the pool with a splash. I needed some light, but I wasn’t stupid enough to want it anywhere near me. So I cast a werelight over at the far end of the basement where it wouldn’t blind or illuminate me. Even as I released the spell I lined up the formae for a shield and had that ready to go.