Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch [10]
Both adventures ended the same way – with the realisation that in the end, no matter what, I was going to have to go home. For my nine-year-old self it was the knowledge that the Argos store represented the outer limit of my understanding of the world. Beyond that point was a tube station and a big building with statues of cats and, further on, more roads and bus journeys that led to downstairs clubs that were sad and empty and smelled of beer.
My fourteen-year-old self was more rational. I didn’t know anyone in these cities on the departure boards, and I doubted they would be any more welcoming than London. I probably didn’t even have enough money to get me further than Potters Bar, and even if I did stow away for free, what was I going to eat? Realistically I had three meals’ worth of cash on me, and then it would be back home to Mum and Dad. Anything I did short of getting back on the bus and going home was merely postponing the inevitable moment of my return.
I had that same realisation in Covent Garden at three o’clock in the morning. That same collapse of potential futures down to a singularity, a future that I couldn’t escape. I wasn’t going to drive a fancy motor and say ‘you’re nicked’. I was going to work in the Case Progression Unit and make a ‘valuable contribution’.
I stood up and started walking back to the nick.
In the distance I thought I could hear someone laughing at me.
Ghost-hunting Dog
The next morning Lesley asked me how the ghost-hunting had gone. We were loitering in front of Neblett’s office, the place from whence the fatal blow would fall. We weren’t required to be there, but neither of us wanted to prolong the agony.
‘There’s worse things than the Case Progression Unit,’ I said.
We both thought about that for a moment.
‘Traffic,’ said Lesley. ‘That’s worse than the CPU.’
‘You get to drive nice motors though,’ I said. ‘BMW Five, Mercedes M Class.’
‘You know, Peter, you really are quite a shallow person,’ said Lesley.
I was going to protest, but Neblett emerged from his office. He didn’t seem surprised to see us. He handed a letter to Lesley, who seemed curiously reluctant to open it.
‘They’re waiting for you at Belgravia,’ said Neblett. ‘Off you go.’ Belgravia is where the Westminster Murder Team is based. Lesley gave me a nervous little wave, turned and skipped off down the corridor.
‘There goes a proper thief taker,’ said Neblett. He looked at me and frowned.
‘Whereas you,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what you are.’
‘Proactively making a valuable contribution, sir,’ I said.
‘Cheeky bugger is what you are,’ said Neblett. He handed me not an envelope, but a slip of paper. ‘You’re going to be working with a Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale.’ The slip had the name and address of a Japanese restaurant on New Row.
‘Who am I working for?’ I asked.
‘Economic and Specialist Crime as far as I know,’ said Neblett. ‘They want you in plain clothes, so you’d better get a move on.’
Economic and Specialist Crime was an admin basket for a load of specialist units, everything from arts and antiques to immigration and computer crime. The important thing was that the Case Progression Unit wasn’t one of them. I left in a hurry before he could change his mind, but I want to make it clear that at no point did I break into a skip.
New Row was a narrow, pedestrianised street between Covent Garden and St Martin’s Lane, with a Tesco’s at one end and the theatres of St Martin’s Lane at the other. Tokyo A Go Go was a bent place halfway down, sandwiched between a private gallery and a shop that sold sporting gear for girls. The interior was long and barely wide enough for two rows