Broken Homes (PC Peter Grant) (28 page)

This is why proper undercover operations have rules and procedures for handling this kind of shit.

The lift was too old and vandalised to go ‘ding’, so the doors merely opened on to the ground floor and me and Lesley dashed out, and then slowed to creep through the foyer doors and out onto the walkway.

We heard it as soon as we were in the open air, a power tool whine over to the right and men’s voices below and to the left. Unmistakably the sound of two people who were having a knock-down, drag-out argument while trying desperately not to raise their voices.

Then I recognised the noise the power tool was making, the crunching yammer of a chainsaw cutting into wood. I felt a cold flush as I realised what was going on and what the likely consequences were.

‘They’re going after the trees,’ I hissed. ‘We have to stop them now.’

‘Peter, it’s just trees,’ she whispered back. ‘They can plant new trees.’

I didn’t try to explain because there’s no pithy way of explaining that you believe that Sky the wood nymph is likely to be symbiotically linked, certainly to her own particular tree but also I suspected, to all the trees in the garden. At least no way I could think of on the spur of the moment.

I keyed Nightingale, warned him they were going after the trees and, before Lesley could ask any questions, ran for the ramp down to the garden.

Lesley followed me.

I came off the ramp at a dead run and headed straight for the chainsaw noise. With only the walkway lights the garden was a confusion of shadows. But I’d walked Toby down there enough times to keep me from running into a tree.

Then a bright light blossomed overhead and I thought wildly that a police helicopter had stupidly turned its sungun on the wrong person, when I realised that the light was everywhere.

Ahead of me was a chunky white guy in jeans and a leather biker jacket who was using a chainsaw on one of the cherry trees by the dismantled playground. The vibration had dislodged the blossom which swirled like pink snow in the harsh white light.

‘Oi,’ I yelled as I charged him. ‘Step away from the tree.’

Startled he turned to face me and instinctively raised the chainsaw. I skidded to a halt and eyed the whirring chain warily. If you’re an old school zombie or trapped in a lift, a chainsaw is a fearsome weapon. But outside, where there’s room to manoeuvre, you end up being more worried about what the stupid gits might do to themselves with it than anything they might do to you.

‘Police,’ I shouted. ‘Put the chainsaw down before you hurt yourself with it.’

He paused and then took a hesitant step forward as if he was actually going to charge me with the thing, but then I think it dawned even on him how stupid that would be.

‘Dave,’ called a voice some distance behind him. ‘We are leaving?’

Dave vacillated for a second then slowly shrugged out of the shoulder strap.

He’s going to throw it at me, I thought, just as he threw it at me and ran.

I dodged right, stupidly because it barely travelled a metre and a half towards me, which gave Dave a lead as he hared off towards the New Kent Road. I went after him but he was utterly reckless and I was unlucky enough not to notice the felled silver birch lying across the path. Down I went, throwing up my arms to protect my face as I skidded across the grass. I rolled over, grabbed my airwave and told Nightingale that two, maybe more, suspects were on foot and heading for the New Kent Road.

‘Roger,’ said Nightingale.

I got up to follow, but suddenly I heard Lesley call my name.

‘Peter,’ she yelled. ‘Get the fuck over here.’

The tone of her voice stopped me in my tracks – I’d only heard that tone twice before – when the Coopertown child had fallen to her death in front of us and again in the minutes before she’d lost her face.

I shouted back and followed her voice to the base of a huge plane tree, starkly outlined by what I realised was a super werelight that Nightingale had fixed in the air above the garden.

Lesley was crouched over a figure stretched amongst the roots, I recognised the yellow and green dress and slim bare feet. It was Sky, her face pale, her eyes open, staring and unresponsive. I reached for her neck, but Lesley grabbed my hand.

‘She’s dead, Peter,’ she said and her voice was muffled and indistinct behind the roaring in my ears.

I tried to open my mouth to ask the right questions, but nothing happened. In my mind I saw myself standing up, stepping back from the body, making a preliminary visual sweep of the locus and then securing the scene while we waited for the Homicide Assessment Team to arrive. But all that happened was I felt my face bend out of shape.

It was established later that Sky’s plane, like all the mature trees in the garden, had had a ten centimetre deep wedge cut out of its trunk all the way around in a ring. It’s a common enough technique used by disgruntled landowners or exasperated neighbours to kill trees that they think are getting in their way.

I thought I was there for a long time, hunched over Sky’s body, trying to breathe, trying to move while silence pounded in my head and Lesley gripped my hand and stopped me from doing anything stupid. Nightingale’s magical star shell faded and the darkness closed around us.

But in the Job you don’t get to be human – not when you’re on the clock.

Nicky came through the dying trees, lit up like a triple-masted man-of-war on fire and screaming like a Stuka in its final dive. I lurched to my feet as the small figure in red-striped pirate pyjamas barrelled across the clearing and threw herself down by Sky’s body.

‘Sky!’ screamed Nicky. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’

She reached out to touch her friend’s face but stopped short.

‘Sky,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Sky?’

I put my hand on her shoulder and found it was soaking wet. Nicky screamed again and the sound was like a solid force that drove me to my knees.

‘Nicky, stop that,’ I said.

She turned to look at me, and her face was twisted out of shape by anger, grief and terrible betrayal. It was the face you see from war zones and crime scenes, from every solemn appeal for emergency aid – it was the shape my own face had made only moments before.

She drew in her breath and I felt the ground beneath my knees tremble and imagined the mains water pipes of Elephant and Castle groan and twist and shiver. Lesley felt it too – I saw her back away.

But then Oberon was there.

In the moments before he arrived I swear I heard horse’s hooves – and then he was in the woods with us. Naked except for a pair of Calvin Klein boxer shorts and brandishing that damn infantry sword. Heat washed off him, and sweat and the smell of blood and the cut of the lash.

‘Nicky,’ he said and his voice rolled out deep as a distant cannonade.

Nicky threw herself into his arms and he scooped her up with his left hand. She put her arms around his neck and howled.

‘Hush, child,’ said Oberon and the howling cut off.

Oberon glanced at me and Lesley, then at Sky and then quickly and efficiently he turned a full circle, checking the whole area around him. As he did, I saw a criss-cross of scars across his naked back.

Satisfied that no threat was near, he lowered his sword and strode across the gap between us.

‘Is it all the trees?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Nightingale, striding out of the darkness and putting himself between Oberon and the corpse. ‘All of them ringed or felled.’

‘This was an egregious act,’ said Oberon, looking around the garden.

Nicky squirmed out of Oberon’s grasp.

‘I want them dead,’ she said. ‘Dead, dead, dead.’

‘No,’ said Nightingale.

‘That’s the law,’ shouted Nicky, her little hands clenched into fists, her head pushed forward. ‘Life for a life.’

‘We will find them and we shall bring them to justice,’ said Nightingale. ‘That is the agreement.’

‘I am party to no such contract,’ said Oberon.

‘Then I beg your forbearance in this matter,’ said Nightingale.

‘My forbearance,’ spat Oberon. ‘Is a well your nation has drunk all but dry.’

‘There will be justice done in this matter,’ said Nightingale. ‘My oath as a soldier on it.’

Oberon hesitated and Nicky, sensing the change, turned on him.

‘No, no, no,’ she shouted and smacked him hard in the stomach with her little fists.

‘Enough,’ said Oberon and took her hands gently but firmly in his own. He looked back at Nightingale. ‘Your oath as a soldier?’

‘Yes,’ said Nightingale.

Oberon nodded, then he stooped and hoisted Nicky into the crook of his arm. She wasn’t that small a child, but it didn’t seem to cost him anything at all.

‘Nightingale,’ he said by way of farewell, and then he was gone.

We all waited a moment and then we all exhaled slowly – including Nightingale.

T
he first thing Nightingale ordered us to do was strip off all our identifiably police gear, stick it back in the go bag and head back up to our flat. Local response units were on their way and he planned to drop Sky’s murder in Bromley’s lap. I doubted DCI Duffy was going to be happy about that, but it was standard procedure in Falcon-related – that is, Folly-related – incidents that the fewer different specialist units involved, the easier it was to pretend nothing unusual was happening.

Me and Lesley, dressed in civvies and with Zach in tow, caught the lift back down to the walkways and joined the other residents staring over the parapets and asking each other what was going on.

‘Fucking vandals,’ said Kevin as he nervously watched a couple of IRVs, light bars spinning, pull into the garage circle just below. A bunch of uniforms got out, milled about a bit before realising that they couldn’t reach the garden from there, got back into their cars and drove away.

‘I don’t think they’re worried about your lock-ups,’ I told Kevin.

He eyed me suspiciously. ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked.

I pointed to where a troop of figures in white paper suits threaded ghostly through the trees. ‘They don’t get those out for a garage full of dubious merchandise,’ I said.

‘Somebody’s had it,’ said Kevin when he saw the suits, and relaxed.

We were joined by Kevin’s mum, who’d taken time to put on a coat. ‘It’s diabolical,’ she said. ‘There’s been a girl murdered down there.’

I tried to look suitably fascinated, but what I felt was queasy.

‘Was it someone from the tower?’ asked Kevin.

‘Don’t know,’ she said.

Away to the right of the walkway flood lights kicked in and I could make out the white plastic top of a forensic tent. A woman’s voice filtered through the trees, loud, annoyed, barking out orders – DCI Duffy not being happy, I suspected.

Kevin tapped me on the shoulder and nodded over at where Lesley was standing with Zach. ‘I thought that was your bird,’ he said.

‘Nah,’ I said. ‘We’re just friends.’

On the border between Barking and East Ham, the North Circular meets the A113 amongst a confused tangle of retail parks, sewage plants and scrubby wasteland. According to witnesses, a scruffy old model Ford Transit, indistinguishable from a million other white vans just like it, pulled over suddenly onto the grass verge and bundled a body out the back. I recognised the body as soon as I saw him, lit by the crime scene lights inside the forensic tent. It was chainsaw guy.

It was mid-morning and the traffic would have been thundering past if it hadn’t been squeezed down to one lane by the Traffic officers. Probably slowed even more by drivers trying to get a good look at the crime scene. A forensic pathologist had already arrived, but nobody so far had taken official control of the scene. All the MITs were scrambling to avoid taking on what looked like a seriously dodgy Falcon case, especially Bromley who were making it really clear that they didn’t want it either. Which was why I’d been rousted out of my sofa bed after non-sleeping for three hours and dispatched to identify the victim. Bromley were not going to be happy with me for roping them into this – it would probably be wise to avoid southeast London for a bit.

‘I can live without Bromley,’ I said out loud.

‘Did you say something, Peter?’ asked Dr Walid, who was kneeling by the body and shining a light down its mouth.

‘Just mumbling,’ I said.

Chainsaw guy was lying on his back, still in his biker jacket which was unzipped and splayed open to reveal a grey, white and black checked shirt soaked around the neck with what Dr Walid assured me was water. I asked Dr Walid whether he had any idea of the cause of death.

‘I’m fairly certain he drowned.’

‘So this is the dump site,’ I said.

‘No,’ said Dr Walid. ‘I think he drowned right here.’

‘On dry land?’

‘His lungs seemed to have filled up with fluid – can’t be certain it’s water until I’ve done tests – and he drowned.’

‘From the inside out?’

‘That’s my hypothesis,’ said Dr Walid.

Probably better if I just avoided south London entirely for a year or two, I thought.

‘Are you doing the post-mortem on Sky?’ I asked.

‘Later today,’ he said. ‘It should be very interesting – would you like to attend?’

I shivered. ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll give it a miss.’

Outside the tent, the sun was bright and the air smelled of petrol. I walked up the scrubby grass slope to where Traffic had established a safe parking zone for emergency vehicles. Lesley was there, fast asleep in the passenger seat of the Asbo. I left her to it while I called Nightingale and confirmed the identification – he could pass on the bad news to DCI Duffy. He suggested we wait where we were in case they could get a lead on the van, so I climbed into the driver’s seat and tried to get comfortable. Lesley opened her eyes and took off her mask to rub her face.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘Chainsaw guy,’ I said and explained Dr Walid’s theory.

‘That was murder,’ said Lesley. ‘By your little friend.’

‘You can’t prove that,’ I said.

‘Oh, wake up, Peter,’ she said. ‘He drowned by the side of the road. You heard her say it – “one for one” she said and Oberon didn’t have an answer to that. “One for one.”’ She pointed down the slope at the forensic tent. ‘That’s one right there.’