Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch [52]
I’d found a seventeenth-century map of the rivers of London. ‘That would be the Fleet and the Tyburn?’ I asked.
‘You can call her Tyburn if you want to spend the rest of the day dangling from a noose,’ said Beverley. ‘If you ever meet her, you better make sure you call her Lady Ty. Not that you ever want to meet her. Not that she ever wants to meet you.’
‘So you don’t get on with them?’ I asked.
‘Fleet is okay,’ she said. ‘But nosy. Ty is just stuck up. She lives in Mayfair and goes to posh people’s parties and knows “people that matter”.’
‘Mum’s favourite?’
‘Only because she fixes stuff with the politicians,’ said Beverley. ‘Has tea on the terrace at the Palace of Westminster. I get to sit in a car with Nightingale’s errand boy.’
‘If I remember, you’re the one who didn’t want to go home,’ I said.
I spotted Lesley’s car pulling up behind us. She flashed her lights and got out. I quickly leaned back to open the passenger door for her. Rain hit me in the face hard enough to make me splutter, and Lesley practically threw herself onto the back seat.
‘I think it’s going to flood,’ she said and seized my towel, using it to dry her face and hair. She jerked her head at Beverley. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked.
‘Beverley, this is PC Lesley May.’ I turned to Lesley. ‘This is Beverley Brook, river spirit and winner of the London Regional All-comers Continuous Talking Championship five years running.’ Beverley punched me in the arm. Lesley gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Her mother is the Thames, you know.’
‘Really,’ said Lesley. ‘Who’s your dad, then?’
‘That’s complicated,’ said Beverley. ‘Mum said she found me floating down the brook by the Kingston Vale dual carriageway.’
‘In a basket?’ asked Lesley.
‘No, just floating,’ said Beverley.
‘She was spontaneously created by the midichlorians,’ I said. Both women gave me blank looks. ‘Never mind.’
‘Has your man arrived yet?’ asked Lesley.
‘Nobody’s arrived since we got here,’ I said.
‘Do you know what he looks like?’ said Lesley.
I realised that I didn’t have the faintest idea what Dr Framline looked like. I’d been expecting to interview him at home before I followed him. ‘I have a description,’ I said. Lesley gave me a pitying look and pulled out A4 hard copy of the photo from Dr Framline’s driving licence. ‘He’d be a decent copper,’ she told Beverley, ‘if he could just keep his mind on the details.’
She handed me something that looked like the chunky mutant offspring of a Nokia and a walkie-talkie – an Airwave handset. I stuffed it in the inside pocket of my jacket. The handset is a bit heavier than a mobile phone, and was going to make me lopsided.
‘Is that him?’ asked Beverley.
We peered out into the rain and saw a couple approaching from the Covent Garden end of Neal Street. The man’s face matched the photograph apart from the bruising around his left eye and the railway track of adhesive strips holding the cut on his cheek together. He held an umbrella over himself and his companion, a stocky woman in a lurid orange waterproof. They were both smiling and seemed happy.
We watched in silence as they reached the gastropub and, with a pause to shake out his umbrella, went inside.
‘Remind me why we’re here again?’ asked Lesley.
‘Have you found the cycle courier yet?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Lesley. ‘And I don’t think my governor likes your governor treating him as his errand boy.’
‘Tell him, welcome to the club,’ I said.
‘You tell him,’ said Lesley.
‘So what’s in the sandwiches?’ asked Beverley.
I opened the Tesco’s bag and unwrapped the packets to find crusty white bread filled with roast beef and mustard pickle garnished with horseradish – very nice, but once my packed lunch had been fried calves’ brain, so I tended to approach Molly’s sandwiches with caution. Lesley, who eats without fear and thinks eels in jelly are a delicacy, dived in but Beverley hesitated.
‘If I eat these, you’re not going to expect an obligation, are you?’ asked Beverley.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘I have