Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch [26]
The Commissioner gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘Does he know what he’s getting himself into?’
‘Does any copper?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Very well,’said the Commissioner. ‘On your feet, son.’
We stood. Nightingale told me to raise my hand and read me the oath: ‘Do you, Peter Grant of Kentish Town, swear to be true to our sovereign Queen and her heirs. And well and truly serve your Master for the term of your apprenticeshood. And ye shall be in obedience to all the wardens and clothing of that fellowship. In reverence of the secret of the said fellowship ye shall keep and give no information to any man but of the said fellowship. And in all these things ye shall well and truly behave yourself and secretly keep this oath to your power so help you God, your Sovereign and the power that set the universe in motion.’
I so swore, although I did almost stumble over the clothing bit.
‘So help you God,’ said the Commissioner.
Nightingale informed me that as his apprentice I was required to lodge at his London residence in Russell Square. He told me the address and dropped me back at the Charing Cross section house.
Lesley helped me pack.
‘Shouldn’t you be at Belgravia,’ I asked, ‘doing Murder Team stuff?’
‘I’ve been told to take the day off,’ said Lesley. ‘Compassionate – don’t get on media’s radar – leave.’
That I could understand. A family annihilation involving charismatic rich people was going to be a news editor’s dream story. Once they’d picked over the gruesome details, they could extend the mileage by asking what the tragic death of the Coopertown family told us about our society, and how this tragedy was an indictment of modern culture/secular humanism/ political correctness/the situation in Palestine – delete where applicable. About the only thing that could improve the story would be the involvement of a good-looking blonde WPC out, I might add, unsupervised on a dangerous assignment. Questions would be asked. Answers would be ignored.
‘Who’s going to Los Angeles?’ I asked. Somebody would have to trace Brandon’s movements in the States.
‘A couple of sergeants I never got a chance to meet,’ she said. ‘I only worked there a couple of days before you got me into trouble.’
‘You’re his blue-eyed girl,’ I said. ‘Seawoll’s not going to hold it against you.’
‘I still reckon you owe me,’ she said as she picked up my bath towel and briskly folded it into a tightly packed cube.
‘What do you want?’ I asked.
Lesley asked if I was likely to get the evening off and I said I could try.
‘I don’t want to be stuck here,’ she said. ‘I want to go out.’
‘Where do you want to go?’ I asked, and watched as she unfolded the towel and refolded it into a triangle shape.
‘Anywhere but the pub,’ she said and handed the towel to me. I managed to stuff it into my rucksack, but I had to unfold it first.
‘What about a film?’ I asked.
‘Sounds good,’ she said, ‘but it’s got to be funny.’
Russell Square lies a kilometre north of Covent Garden on the other side of the British Museum. According to Nightingale, it was at the heart of a literary and philosophical movement in the early years of the last century, but I remember it because of an old horror movie about cannibals living in the Underground system.
The address was on the south side of the square where a row of Georgian terraces had survived. They were five storeys high, counting the dormer conversions, with wrought-iron railings defending steep drops into basement flats. The address I wanted had a noticeably grander flight of stairs than its neighbours, leading to double mahogany doors with brass fittings. Carved above the lintel were the words SCIENTIA POTESTAS EST.
Science points east, I wondered? Science is portentous, yes? Science protests too much. Scientific potatoes rule. Had I stumbled on the lair of dangerous plant geneticists?
I hauled my rucksack and two suitcases up to the landing. I pressed the brass doorbell but I couldn’t hear it ring through the thick doors. After a moment, they opened on their own. It might have been the traffic noise,