Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch [55]
I slid my palm under the flap of skin, flinching at the warm wetness, and tried to fold it back over the face. I had some vague idea that I should at least try and stop the bleeding.
‘Let me go,’ yelled Dr Framline. I looked over and saw that Lesley already had him in handcuffs. ‘Let me go,’ he said. ‘I can help him.’ Lesley hesitated.
‘Lesley,’ I said, and she started uncuffing the doctor.
Too late. The courier went suddenly rigid, his back arched and a tide of blood welled up from his neck and forced itself out through the rips in his skin and the gaps between my fingers.
Dr Framline scrambled over and jammed his finger into the courier’s neck. He shifted their position, looking for a pulse, but I could see in his expression that there was none. Finally he shook his head and told me to let go. The courier’s face flopped open again.
Somebody was screaming and I had to check it wasn’t me. It could have been me. I certainly wanted to scream, but I remembered that, right then and there, Lesley and I were the only coppers on the scene, and the public doesn’t like it when the police start screaming: it contributes to an impression of things not being conducive to public calm. I got to my feet and found that we’d attracted a crowd of onlookers.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ I said, ‘police business. I need you to stand back.’
The crowd stood back – being covered in blood can have that effect on people.
We preserved the scene until back-up arrived, but two-thirds of the crowd had their phones out and were taking video and stills of me, Lesley and the mutilated remains of the cycle courier. The images had already hit the internet before the ambulance arrived and the paramedic had covered the poor sod with a sheet. I spotted Beverley hanging around near the back of the crowd and when she saw that, she caught my eye, gave me a little wave, turned and walked away.
Me and Lesley found a place under a shop awning and waited for the forensic tent, the swabs and the replacement bunny suit.
‘We can’t keep doing this,’ said Lesley. ‘I’m running out of clothes.’
We laughed – sort of. It’s not that it gets easier the second time, it’s just that by then you know you’re still going to wake up the next morning the same person who went to sleep.
A DS from the Murder Team arrived and took charge. She was a squat, angry-faced middle-aged woman with lank brown hair who looked like she fought Rottweilers for a hobby. This was the legendary Detective Sergeant Miriam Stephanopoulos, Seawoll’s right-hand woman and terrifying lesbian. The only joke ever made at her expense goes: ‘Do you know what happened to the last police officer who made a joke about DS Stephanopoulos?’ ‘No, what did happen to him?’ ‘Nobody else knows, either.’ I said it was the only joke, not a good one.
She seemed to have a soft spot for Lesley, though, so we got processed much faster this time, but as soon as we were done we were bundled into an unmarked car and driven to Belgravia. Nightingale and Seawoll debriefed us in an anonymous conference room at which nobody took notes, but at least we were offered tea.
Seawoll glared at Lesley; he wasn’t happy. Lesley glared at me; she wasn’t happy that Seawoll wasn’t happy. Nightingale wasn’t anything except distracted; he only seemed interested when I reported my sense impressions just prior to the attack. After the briefing we trooped over to the Westminster mortuary, where surprisingly both Seawoll and Stephanopoulos attended the autopsy. Lesley and I made a point of standing behind them in the hope they wouldn’t notice us.
The cycle courier lay on the table with his face splayed open in a way that was becoming horribly