London Falling (26 page)

‘So,’ said Sefton, oh so gently, as if he was talking to a lunatic, ‘you think that now you have to be good.’

‘It’s my only chance, yeah? And it’s so bloody hard to think of every single thing, all the time—’

Sefton was shaking his head. ‘Can I say something?’

‘More of your theories,’ said Costain, ‘’cos
that
worked so well! Sorry!’

‘There’s no God, so there’s no Heaven—’

‘How do you
know
?’

‘—and this “Hell” might well be like that, might well have the ghost or the memory or whatever these things are of this informer of yours in it, but it is just the place where the big boss of whatever we’ve found—’

‘How do you
know
?!’

‘If you’d listen! I’ve found out—’

And suddenly Costain was up out of his seat, and had thrown himself at him.

Ross leaped up just as Quill did. She managed to grab Sefton so that a punch that would have taken Costain’s head off went wide. They hauled the pair apart. They fell on the floor as one mass.

Bar staff were running over, shouting. Among all the confusion, as they were being hauled to their feet, Quill’s phone beeped. As he stumbled out onto the street, looking angry as he did so, as he made himself do it – he looked at the screen. ‘The DNA database results are in,’ he said, his voice incredulous. ‘They found nothing.’

SIXTEEN

‘A vicar, a rabbi and an imam walk into a Portakabin,’ said Quill. He was looking up at just that. Sefton and Costain looked over in surprise too.

Ross raised her head from her endless scrolling through computerized bills records from various London boroughs. They’d all got back to that, letting their eyes cover page after page to see if they noticed one of Losley’s edits in the records of a borough where she wasn’t known to have lived. The same effect, frustratingly, didn’t hold for the DNA records. There were no matches with the DNA from any of the child skeletons, or from the skull on the newel post, in the files for any still-open cases. That is to say, none of these victims was listed as a missing child. Having heard that staggering verdict, they’d expected the files to have been edited, and had got copies sent over, but they showed no sign of tampering. It wasn’t that Losley had altered the records of who these children were; it was that the world seemed to have forgotten them. There came with the results a great mass of descriptions, details of hair colour and teeth and ethnic origin (increasingly diverse as the strata approached modern times) and how, on several occasions, there seemed to be groups of three siblings taken together. The West Ham away game against Liverpool had finished in a nil– nil draw. The next home game would be on Wednesday. Costain and Sefton were doing their best to avoid each other, and Sefton hadn’t raised the matter of looking into the background materials again, though Ross saw him poring through pages on the internet.

Quill had been in conference with Lofthouse a great deal, trying to find some resource or clue in the evidence coming out of any of the searched houses, Toshack’s included, but so far there had been nothing. They had so many alerts for missing children in place it wasn’t true, and also a public that was keen to cooperate to the point of being terrorized. Consequently, playgrounds were empty and school runs were packed. The unit had asked to be sent reports of Losley, and now had way too many of them to sort through, from places as far afield as Inverness and Guernsey. An elderly woman in Aldershot had even been forced to leave her house after persistent attacks on her by youths identifying her as Losley. Ross had decided on some filters for sorting these reports, notably instantly chucking away all those from outside London. Still, working through them was another thing each of them could be doing when whatever else they did was proving fruitless and they felt they had to be doing something.

And behind it all was the spectre of that smiling man, Losley’s lord – the shape in the dark whose existence, every now and then, suggested to Ross, on the edge of sleep, that all they were doing was futile.

The Ops Board had only a couple of new things added to it: an explanation of ‘remembered’ by Sefton, and the phone number from which the darkness had texted them. It comprised a string of numbers which appeared in no searches, and which Quill had scribbled at the bottom left of the board. Ross had pinned up a sheet to cover the board a few minutes ago, and it was a bad sign that her workmates hadn’t mentioned that.

‘Detective Inspector Quill,’ she said now, ‘these are my guests.’

Yesterday morning she’d realized what might bring together Costain’s needs and Sefton’s needs, and had arranged it without bothering to ask the increasingly distant Quill if it was a good idea. She got to her feet. ‘This is the Met chaplain, the Reverend Toby Franklin,’ who looked as if he’d come straight from being kicked around on the rugger pitch, ‘Rabbi Peter Shulman,’ who looked as if he’d walked into the wrong room, ‘and Dr Firdos Irfan, who’s an imam,’ and who also looked to be regretting this already. ‘These last two gentlemen work in the prison service in London.’

‘What’s this about?’ said Sefton, standing up. Costain was looking kind of thankful and awkward at the same time. He’d clearly got it straight away.

Quill eyed her questioningly, then nodded. ‘Let’s call it showing initiative.’

‘I was expecting to meet someone with a spiritual crisis . . .’ began Franklin.

‘You might well call it that,’ said Quill. ‘A dirty great spiritual crisis. Tea, Reverend?’

The three clerics started to look concerned as they realized that this was about an operation. Sefton kept his distance as he watched Costain fussing over them. He felt almost betrayed, though Ross kept looking at him encouragingly. It seemed that his colleagues hadn’t heard a word he’d said. If these three men had any power, then the churches and mosques and synagogues of London would be aglow with it. This counted as a wholesale adoption of what the other two probably saw as Costain’s agenda, and if this had been a regular squad . . . well, he supposed he could have complained to somebody. Not that he ever would have.

Sefton had spent every waking moment since the bookshop incident researching the world in which they now found themselves. He’d come up with a lot of theories, only he was sure now that this lot wouldn’t want to hear them. Not after he’d led the group into danger. Not after they’d pulled him off Costain – who’d come at him, not the other bloody way round, but who’d nearly got what was coming to him. Only, because of the situation they were in, there couldn’t be any talk of disciplinary action. It was as if they were all waiting, instead, for some regular police-work-shaped clue to come along, rather than bothering to deal with his stuff. When he’d spoken to Ross about this stuff being for the lost and downtrodden . . . well, maybe he’d got it more right than he’d imagined. For he was the specialist here, slight as his expertise was. These three priests simply didn’t know what the world they’d found themselves in was like. Getting them in here was like getting a bloody psychic into a normal investigation. He pushed the anger down inside, folded his arms across his chest.

‘Reverend—’ Quill began, turning to Franklin.

‘Or Toby,’ said the priest.

‘Yeah . . . Reverend, Rabbi, Imam, we brought you here to ask you . . .’ He looked to Ross.

‘For points four or seven on the Objectives list,’ she said, nodding to the concealed Ops Board, ‘I think we could do with some holy water.’

The clerics stared at her.

‘No,’ said Ross, ‘seriously.’

‘What do you want that for?’ asked Shulman.

‘That would be an operational matter,’ said Quill.

‘Okay . . .’ said Franklin, ‘what exactly do you
mean
by—?’

Sefton couldn’t take it any longer. If they were going to do this, they were going to do it. If he’d known this was what Ross had been after, he’d have been able to provide her with all the details. And, as long as this was all there was going to be to it, he had to admit she had a point. He located on his phone the website he’d bookmarked. “Holy water,” he read out. “A sacramental, as used in baptism, having been blessed by a priest.” We’d need at least several large bottles of it.’ He looked challengingly at Ross. ‘For testing.’

‘Or,’ said Ross, ‘you could just . . .
do
the water supply of this building, so we can get it out of the tap when required.’ She looked hopefully between them.

The clerics stared at each other. They then stood up. ‘All right,’ said Irfan, ‘I’ve had it. Your analyst got us to come all the way over here because it sounded urgent—’

‘No,’ Quill said, ‘listen, this isn’t a joke—’

‘You know,’ said Franklin, ‘even a couple of years ago, nobody would have dared to do this. Now I get kids knocking on my door, I get prank phone calls—’

‘You think we’re
making this up
?’ snarled Costain.

The clerics fell still.

Sefton watched the three men of faith doing what they did. He saw their body-language skills, their active listening, their voices pulling more and more explanation out of the others, to the point where he had to speak up and remind them of what couldn’t be said. They were preying on the group’s tiredness, on the stress, seeing their job as merely ameliorating that. They were also obviously aware that this was the team dealing with ‘the witch of West Ham’, and were excited and alarmed by what their being here meant. Whereas in fact they were here, to give Ross some credit, to demonstrate whether what they represented meant
anything
in this new world the team had found. Proof of meaninglessness would help Costain with his issues.

‘Holy water,’ declared Franklin finally, when it became clear the team weren’t going to share beyond a certain point, ‘is the water that’s blessed during the Easter vigil, after sunset on the day after Good Friday. Or at least that’s the only time it’s done.’

‘And it lasts all that time?’ asked Ross. ‘I mean, if you needed to do a baptism right now?’

‘Any water that’s added to the blessed water becomes blessed. I think that’s the rule.’

‘Sorry,’ queried Sefton, ‘you
think
?’

Franklin shrugged. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve run a church. We just performed the one ceremony, and the rest of the year we filled the font up from a bucket. Listen, what can you tell me about the
purpose
this is going to be put to?’

‘Saving the lives of children,’ Costain had said it before Sefton could stop him.

‘And this would be saving them from . . . a suspect that’s into the occult?’ said Shulman. ‘This “witch” of yours? And so, because they believe in the power of Toby’s “holy water” . . ?’

Costain looked to Quill, and didn’t continue.

Franklin looked frustrated. ‘It’s very hard for me to provide something like this when I don’t believe in the system it represents.’

‘You don’t believe in holy water?’ said Sefton.

‘I believe the power of God can do anything, but He doesn’t need any particular thing to do it.’

‘That’s idolatry,’ agreed Irfan. ‘I’m not comfortable with any of this.’

‘Holy water, as you call it,’ said Shulman, ‘this means nothing to me and my colleague here. And I think even for Toby this is . . . a metaphor.’

Sefton turned away so they wouldn’t see him rolling his eyes. ‘No good to us, then.’

‘You don’t believe in the devil?’ That was Costain again.

‘I think the “adversary” in the Bible is a metaphor, too,’ began Franklin, ‘for Christ’s hunger and fear—’

‘Like the Yetzer Hara,’ said Shulman, ‘the evil inclination of human beings. It’s sometimes personified in art—’

‘And in the words of my faith also, but “shaitan” is also an adjective, absolutely, that can be applied to people too,’ joined in Irfan.

It sounded as if they were going to go on like this for some time. Sefton sighed, glancing at Ross. ‘You should have got a Catholic.’

‘I tried to find a Hindu and a Buddhist too.’

‘Thank God you didn’t.’

Franklin spoke up then, and when Sefton turned to look, he saw that all the clerics were giving him a rather offended look. ‘All we’re saying,’ he said, ‘is that we believe in evil done by people.’

‘That is, and I’m sorry this displeases you so much,’ added Shulman, ‘because I’m a Reform rabbi. But even an Orthodox rabbi will tell you the time of ghosts and shades and shedim is in the distant past.’

‘And I,’ Irfan joined in, ‘spend my whole life trying to make people see how
my
tradition is a modern, relevant—!’

‘Please, Imam . . .’ Quill raised a hand, ‘Rabbi, Reverend, we’re working against the clock here.’

‘I’ll provide you with whatever . . . symbols you want,’ said Franklin.

‘As long as you realize—’ Shulman raised his hands warningly.

‘—that they are just
objects
,’ finished Irfan.

‘Thanks,’ said Sefton, ‘but we’ll be the judge of that.’

Ross produced some large bottles of mineral water. Meanwhile, Sefton watched as Franklin got a book out of his pocket, and found what he needed to say.

‘Father,’ he began, ‘you give us grace through sacramental signs, which tell us of the wonders of your unseen power. In baptism we use your gift of water, which you have made a rich symbol of the grace you give us in this sacrament . . .’ When he’d finished, he took the tops off all the bottles. ‘And we need salt,’ he said.

‘What for?’ said Sefton.

‘What’s
anything
for? It’s what we do in my church.’

Quill found some sachets. Franklin blessed that also, and added it to the bottles. ‘Salt has always been regarded as a protection against evil,’ he said. ‘Maybe that’s because it preserved meat.’

‘Oh, that’d be science,’ said Sefton, failing to keep the triumph out of his voice. He could see what the others were seeing, and what had made Costain look awkward. Like the bastard had half wanted this to be true, because then there’d be rules and something they could fight for, even if it meant he himself was going to Hell. The blessing hadn’t made any difference to the water. Adding the salt hadn’t changed that.