Hard Light (15 page)

So might have an intruder, looking for something they hadn't found in the desk or cabinet: the thaumatropes.

I raced to the kitchen. On the windowsill between the geraniums was the orange plastic Sainsbury's bag. I grabbed it, reached inside, and felt three soft bundles of chamois cloth. Folded inside each was a thaumatrope. There was also a business card for a curator of European Archaeology at the British Museum, presumably the woman Poppy had mentioned.

I stuffed the business card into my pocket. Then, clutching the plastic bag, I returned to Poppy's office and searched through drawers until I found several coiled lengths of rawhide. My hands shook as I peeled off my gloves and threaded a length of rawhide through each thaumatrope. I knotted the cords, slid each over my neck and beneath my black turtleneck, the bone discs cool against my bare skin. I put on my gloves and turned to go.

A chime sounded—the incongruously sweet tone of a Tibetan temple bell. Panicked, I looked around and saw something glowing on the desk. Poppy's mobile. I grabbed it and hurried to the front door to retrieve my bag and cowboy boots. Peering outside, I saw it was pissing down rain again. A small crowd of kids swarmed around a bus shelter halfway down the block, and a police siren wailed. I closed the door, turned the dead bolt, and headed back to the kitchen, my bag in one hand and my boots in the other.

As I passed the living room I paused. The doorway neatly framed the dim space: Poppy seemingly asleep on the couch with her silvery wig askew, a scattering of dark petals and that tiny bright dart glinting in one arm. It looked like one of Cindy Sherman's early Untitled Film Stills.

I shifted my bag and cursed under my breath. Like Weegee used to say, a camera's like a gun—useless if it's not loaded. I hadn't yet loaded another roll of Tri-X in my Konica. I had Poppy's smartphone but no clue how it worked.

Probably this was for the best. I stared at Poppy, fixing the image in my mind, and turned away.

In the kitchen, a back door led to a fenced-in area that had once been a garden. There was no dead bolt, just a cheap metal knob with a button you could depress so it would lock. I wondered why the killer hadn't left this way. Too much of a hurry, maybe, or maybe they'd had a last-minute change of heart and hoped someone might find Poppy before she died. I stared out at a dreary dripping jungle of dead nettles, piles of moldering leaves, a sickly plane tree. I grabbed Poppy's old yellow mackintosh from its hook beside the door and pulled it on, tugged the hood over my head, and shoved my feet into my boots.

I let out a stifled shout as something nudged my ankle. The white cat. I opened the door and tossed it outside. I didn't like thinking about what it might get up to, locked in a house with a corpse.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and stepped out into the rain. I made sure the door was locked, then walked slowly down the steps. It was now dark enough that anyone who saw me might think I was Poppy.

At the back of the garden was a derelict wooden fence. A stone Buddha guarded its sagging door, the statue's face leprous with lichen. I raised the door latch and stepped into an alley. When I glanced back, I saw a ghostly white shape creeping through the darkness, its beryl eyes flaring as they caught the light.

I walked as quickly as I could for several blocks, dodging crowds until I eventually managed to push my way onto a bus. I tried to catch my breath, staring fixedly at my soaked Tony Lamas while a young couple talked about the apocalyptic weather.

“… six inches in Reading. Stanstead's shut down.”

“Gatwick, too.”

“Cop killed some kid in Alperton, see that?”

“Fuck.”

I staked out a place near the bus's rear door and pulled out Poppy's mobile. I might have been looking at a cartouche from Third Dynasty Egypt. Back in the city, my old connection Phil Cohen had given me shit for refusing to get a cell phone or digital camera.

“Yeah yeah, I get it—you're
old school.
” He'd twitch even more than usual as he pronounced the last two words. “Graduation day, Cassandra Android. Stop being a fucking Luddite.”

Truth was, a few months ago I couldn't have afforded a cell phone or new laptop. Now, with a few thousand quid stashed in my boot, I could.

Still, Phil was right—I
was
a Luddite. But I'd watched enough people with cell phones to have a vague idea of how to use one. I ran a finger across the screen of Poppy's mobile. It lit up, and I stared at the rows of candy-colored icons. If they'd been pills, I would've popped a few. Instead I dropped the phone back into my bag and stared out at the rain.

I got off at the first stop where the announcement was for an Underground station and made my way into the street. In an alcove beside a shuttered Ladbrokes, a teenage girl wrapped in a garbage bag had passed out. Her dark hair was matted, and the soles had peeled from her zebra-striped Converse hightops. At her feet, a filthy baseball cap held a few coins.

I walked past her, then doubled back and ducked into the alcove. I stuffed a few ten-pound notes in a pocket of Poppy's mackintosh along with my wet gloves, pulled off the raincoat, and draped it across the girl. Then, reaching beneath my layers of clothing, I touched the three bone discs.

These are my daughters.

I chose one at random, tugged the rawhide cord over my head, and held up the disc to see the faintly etched outline of a woman's pregnant form. I bent and carefully looped the cord over the girl's head, poking it beneath the plastic trash bag and the grimy sweatshirt she wore. She sighed but didn't move. I headed for the Underground.

 

18

Inside the station I perused a map for the best route back to Camden Town. When the train arrived, it was so jammed I could barely edge my way onboard. I hate crowds, but for the first time since leaving the Blackbird I relaxed. I closed my eyes and let the surrounding throng hold me upright.

Half the subway car cleared out when we reached Camden Town, mostly kids tricked out in some variation of Doc Martens and black leather. Camden Town was definitely where punk had gone to die its slow death. Everyone crowded onto the escalators, exhilarated from the cold and all but spitting out sparks at the buzz of bad news—rumors of looting, flashmobs, a riot in Birmingham.

“Another eruption.”

“Plane went down in Indonesia.”

“No, Indiana.”

At the station exit, a dozen or so cops in fluorescent vests stood chatting, eying the crowd as we shuffled through the gates. There were more cops outside the station, some in riot gear, but they seemed less interested in hassling people than in observing them. Two mounted police guided their horses at a slow gait along the sidewalk, lords surveying their domain, and pairs of cops strolled among the throng on the other side of the High Street, like uniformed window shoppers. Double-decker buses and cabs inched along the High Street. A few brave cyclists zipped between stopped vehicles.

I pulled up the collar of my leather jacket. Adrenaline and nerves had kept me from feeling the cold; now it washed over me as though I'd fallen into an icy sea. Drumbeats echoed from somewhere close by, and amplified voices chanting words to a song I didn't recognize. The wind carried the smells of cannabis and frying garlic. On the corner, a bubble machine sent iridescent clouds whirling overhead as a girl handed out flyers for a vegan takeaway.

The rain gave everything the sheen of a midnight carnival. But there was a malignant undercurrent to all the revelry—not just the presence of so many cops, but the sense that everyone was waiting impatiently for some prearranged signal. I'm all for chaos, but only if I have a good view of the exit.

I thought of what Adrian had said about kettling, and pushed my way through the throng until I reached a less crowded side street. I was wary of returning to the Banshee. Adrian knew I'd met Krishna there; if Poppy's death had leaked and anyone was looking for me—Mallo, the police, Adrian—the Banshee would be the first place they'd check.

Still, “anyone” included Quinn, and I had no idea where else I might find him. I decided to hold off on the Banshee, but I was freezing and needed a drink. I saw a pub on the next corner, a few smokers huddled out front in the rain. I went inside and ordered a double shot, then found my way to a nearly empty side room where two men sat arguing drunkenly.

I headed for a wood-paneled booth with half doors that reminded me of a confessional. It had worn maroon velvet banquettes with a narrow trestle table between them. I went inside and pulled the half doors closed, dumped my bag on the bench, and had just started in on my whiskey when one of the doors creaked open and a young woman slid onto the bench across from me.

“I'm surprised you didn't want to sit with them,” she said very loudly, and pointed at the drunk couple. “Make some new friends—oh, too late,” she said, as the two men slid from their table and left. “Guess they had to be somewhere.”

It was the platinum-haired woman I'd seen on the street outside Mallo's place that first night, and again in Stepney. The same topaz eyes and frayed military parka; the same pointed face, now split by a grin that displayed white, slightly protruding teeth. I grabbed my bag, but she'd already shut the booth door and tripped the latch.

“No rush,” she said. “Sit and finish your drink.”

The crossbar beneath the table made it difficult for me to land a kick. I stared at her, and she flashed an ID badge.

ELLEN CONNORS

EUROPOL: ICOTIA

My stomach clenched. “You're a cop?”

“I'm conducting a criminal investigation.”

“I want to know if you're a cop.” I hoped she'd mistake my fear for righteous fury. “You've been following me. I'm an American citizen—”

“I'm with ICOTIA. International Commission on Traffic in Illicit Antiquities.”

“Antiquities.” I picked up my drink and took a sip. Beneath my turtleneck, the two bone thaumatropes burned against my skin. “That what you call antiques over here?”

“Don't be obtuse. I have a few questions, and I suggest you cooperate in answering them.”

“You got a warrant? I'm not saying anything without an attorney.”

“I'm investigating your companion, Adrian Carlisle. He's under suspicion for being part of a black market in illegal artifacts.”

“He's not my companion. I only got here two days ago.”

“I saw you leave Mallory Dunfries's home with Carlisle and accompany him to the Barbican.”

“It was a birthday party for his wife. There a law against that?”

“Mallo Dunfries is a career criminal who's been linked to several unsolved murders. He ran an organized crime ring trafficking in narcotics. Twenty years ago he got his knuckles rapped and spent a few months in prison. When he got out, he changed horses and began dealing in looted artifacts. Do you know who benefits from that?”

“No clue.”

“Terrorists. In Iraq they've looted so many archaeological sites that there's nothing left. Nineveh is gone. The museums are gone. A Sumerian stone seal this big—” She measured out an inch between thumb and forefinger. “Twenty thousand pounds—that's more than thirty thousand dollars. Right into al-Qaeda's pockets.”

I had no idea if this was true, although Poppy's artifacts seemed older than ancient Sumeria by a factor of at least seven, and none had appeared to be from the Middle East. The word
terrorist
freaked me out, though. I drank my whiskey and shrugged. “I told you, I barely know Adrian, and I met Dunfries for about three seconds.”

“That's three seconds too long. You were with Carlisle this morning. He accompanied you to Stepney Green to make some sort of a delivery. I'd like you to tell me what you delivered and to whom. If you cooperate I can ensure you'll be treated fairly.”

I laughed. “Don't you have skulls to split over in Alperton? Or here?” I gestured at a barred window. “It's like the dress rehearsal for the apocalypse out there. Leave me the fuck alone.”

Whoever this chick was, she wasn't a cop: She'd flashed me a badge and was questioning me in a pub, rather than a station house. If anything, her demeanor suggested she was a former cop—in my experience, a lot more of an immediate threat.

Could she be Poppy's killer? Had she followed me to Stepney, waited for me to leave the flat, then somehow gained entry? Had Poppy known her?

That's why they call it trust.

Ellen Connors leaned back, and her uniform jacket flopped open. Beneath it she wore a heavy cable-knit sweater whose bulk suggested it covered a cross-body holster, maybe a Kevlar vest. I wondered what else she had hidden in there. Poppy's artifacts? Another set of heroin works?

Connors cleared her throat. As though following a script, she announced, “Trafficking in antiquities is a crime.”

“So's harassing tourists.” I slung my bag over my shoulder, and before she could stop me I kicked the door open and hopped from the booth. “Fuck off.”

“Wait!” She grabbed my arm—she was fast; also strong. If not an ex-cop, she spent a lot of time at the gym. “Here—”

She thrust a card into my hand. “Call me next time you hear from Mallo Dunfries—”

I pushed her away and took the steps two at a time as I ran upstairs.

 

19

I walked as quickly as I could past Camden Market to the canal path, looking over my shoulder for any sign of Ellen Connors. The card she'd shoved at me was printed with her name, along with a little medallion and the words
International Commission on Traffic in Illicit Antiquities.
The medallion was blurred, as if it had been scanned. It looked like the kind of card you order online, five hundred copies for twenty bucks. I started to toss it, thought better of it, and stuck it in my wallet.

By now I was soaked to the skin. The precipitation shifted from rain to freezing rain to sleet to snow squalls, but with two constants: It was always cold and it was always wet. The whiskey's false warmth had long since worn off. I decided to chance running into Connors and headed back to the High Street.