The October Man

by Ben Aaronovitch

  It was the research department at Meckenheim, who’d dug up a picture of the Staphylos statue in its undamaged state. They’d isolated the face and done some image processing before sending it to me. I emailed it to Vanessa so she could put it on her laptop and compare it to pictures of the Good Wine Drinking Association while I went back to the kitchen.

  “It’s not anyone in the association,” called Vanessa from the dining room.

  “Have you checked it against Jason Agnelli’s face?” I asked.

  “It’s not him either,” she said.

  They say that in police work, as in science, a negative result is as good as a positive. The people that say that, says my father, have never had to justify the overtime payments to their budget review board.

  “If the statue wasn’t defaced to hide the identity of the original model,” said Vanessa, “why was it defaced?”

  “Anger perhaps,” I said. “Envy?”

  Having inspected Vanessa’s kitchen knives and determined she was safe from any psychopathic intruders, I carefully cleaned the vaguely sharp one and carved the lamb into strips. She did have a nice blue and white serving platter so the final result—once I’d thrown in the tomatoes and cheese—looked better than it deserved to. You’re supposed to use watercress as well, but no one ever seems to stock it.

  “Do you think it’s natural?” asked Vanessa as she helped me find the plates and place mats.

  “Do I think what is natural?” I said and realised I’d forgotten to buy bread.

  “This improvement in their lives,” said Vanessa, clearing space on the kitchen table. “Five middle-aged men and one guy in his thirties, all miserable, all going nowhere, they meet up, form a club and miraculously they all turn their lives around.”

  “Why not?” I asked as I dished the food out.

  “Some of them I could believe,” said Vanessa poking suspiciously at the lamb. “Maybe even most of them—but all of them?” She tried a bite of the lamb and looked surprised. “You can cook,” she said.

  She was right. The lamb was practically melting in my mouth.

  “I like to eat,” I said. “And I like to know what it is I’m eating.”

  “This is excellent,” said Vanessa.

  “Thank you,” I said. “And if it’s unnatural, them all turning their lives around, then what do you think caused it?”

  “Isn’t unnatural your speciality?” she said.

  While we ate I ran through the possibilities.

  “Assuming for a second that the source of their good fortune is supernatural,” I said, “it could have been one of our friendly neighbourhood location spirits.”

  “Kelly maybe,” said Vanessa. “But isn’t Morgane a bit young? Does she even know what middle age is?”

  “There’s a whole library of books discussing whether location spirits bestow their favours consciously or unconsciously.” Perhaps not a whole library, but certainly quite a large section. “That impromptu picnic after the theatre might have triggered something. And rivers are not the only features of the landscape that can have location spirits.”

  “The picnic up at the Mariensäule,” said Vanessa.

  “I’d say possibly but that was only two years ago,” I said. “And their good fortune predates that.”

  “So what else?”

  “Houses, crossroads, woods,” I said. “They don’t all have anthropomorphic extensions, and they can be as nebulous as a feeling of unease or a strange sense of the numinous. The livelier ones are often mistaken for poltergeists.”

  “Are these the things our ancestors used to worship?” she asked.

  “Probably.” I once got into quite a serious fight with a Lutheran pastor over this issue, so I’ve learned to be cautious. “There’s no consensus.”

  “But our ancestors used to make sacrifices to their gods,” she said. “To the spirits of the forest and the sky.”

  I deliberately took a large bite so that all I could do was make a vague non-committal sound.

  “What if Jörg Koch was the sacrifice?” she said. “The price paid for his comrades’ good fortune.”

  “And who did the sacrificing?”

  “One of the others,” she said. “Or all of them.”

  “Jason Agnelli wasn’t part of their group.”

  “Perhaps they wanted to see if they could use a substitute.”

  “It’s a good theory,” I said.

  “And?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Vanessa finished the last of the lamb and neatly laid her knife and fork across the plate.

  “It can’t be an immortal wizard,” she said. “Because we found Gabriel Beck’s body just where Kelly said she left it.”

  “It might not be him,” I said, just to be thorough.

  Vanessa tilted her head to one side and didn’t comment.

  “What else haven’t you told me about?” she asked.

  “Revenants,” I said.

  “What are they?” she asked.

  I told her as she did the washing up. And afterwards, when she drove me back to the hotel, she was silent the whole way.

  Chapter 12:

  Climate

  Control

  There are bad things in the world, and most of them aren’t my job. But, of the things that are my responsibility, revenants are the worst.

  “They’re like ghosts,” I told Vanessa while she washed up, “in that they’re incorporeal. But unlike ghosts they can get inside your head and make you do things. The term we use is sequestration.”

  Vanessa wanted to know all the answers that I didn’t have to give her.

  “They’re very rare,” I told her. “And their victims rarely survive. So good intelligence is hard to come by. The very powerful ones can affect large groups of people. Remember the riots in London a few years back?”

  “Vaguely,” she said.

  “One of those was directly instigated by a revenant.”

  “Large crowds of people?” said Vanessa.

  “Yes.”

  “So was Hitler one?”

  “No.”

  “You seem very certain of that.”

  “Some very clever people spent at least twenty years establishing that he wasn’t,” I said. “Neither was anyone else in the Nazi hierarchy as far as we can tell. Not even those directly involved in the supernatural side of the war.”

  Vanessa was about to speak but then frowned and looked thoughtful. Most people react this way when I tell them about the Nazis. Would it be more or less comforting if we could attribute that particular part of our history to the supernatural?

  I used the same joke that the Director used on me when I wore the same expression.

  “We’re pretty certain Churchill was a werewolf,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Not really,” I said, and dodged as Vanessa flicked some soap at me.

  “You think that this revenant has possessed—” she said.

  “Sequestrated.”

  “Sequestrated a member of the Good Wine Drinking Association?”

  “Or someone close to them.”

  Vanessa held up a coffee cup and inspected the interior before giving it an extra scrub.

  “So exactly how did they make Jason Agnelli drink the fermented grapes?” she asked.

  “Possibly a direct glamour, like Kelly or Morgane. Alternatively, some revenants are the spirits of powerful practitioners and can perform magic through their hosts.”

  “So Gabriel Beck’s bones may be in our evidence room, but his spirit is—” Vanessa hesitated—“inhabiting one of our witnesses?”

  “Yes.”

  “How the fuck are we supposed to find someone who doesn’t physically exist?”

  “Very carefully,” I said.

  Vanessa waited until I was packing up to raise the question she’d been dying to ask for days, ever since the moment I showed her a palm-light.

  “Can I learn magic?”

  “Anyone can learn
magic if they have a teacher,” I said.

  “Can you teach me?”

  “It’s forbidden,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not qualified to teach,” I said. “Only the Director can do that, and she’s not allowed to either.”

  “Again,” said Vanessa, “why not?”

  “There are agreements,” I said. “International agreements.” Vanessa frowned. “I’m sorry. That’s just the way it is.”

  The next morning I got up early and combined my morning exercise with a run up the hill to the old Roman amphitheatre that overlooked the city. After talking my way in, I did a perimeter check around the top of the earth-covered stands before standing in the middle of the arena and shouting “Are you not entertained?” in my best Russell Crowe voice. The underground area under the arena floor was accessible to the public and when I checked it out there was a definite air of feral excitement and the coppery taste of blood. Ancient vestigia rarely retain any sharpness, but the magic itself lingers and can cause what the Director calls secondary effects. We don’t have to deal with much of this in Germany, but I sometimes wonder what it must be like to be a practitioner in Italy, Greece or Iraq. Perhaps they learn to tune it out.

  I ran back to the hotel and, after a shower, walked over to the Post Office and joined Vanessa in her office.

  “Wiesbaden called for you,” she said. “The residue in the demijohns at Uwe Kinsmann’s house matches Jason Agnelli’s stomach contents. Also, I called Kelly and asked what happened to her child.”

  “Interesting—what did she say?”

  “That the Strackers took the child. After all, she and Christian were legally married. So the child was a legitimate Stracker heir.”

  “That means Jacqueline Stracker could be a direct descendent of Kelly’s child,” I said.

  “After ten generations?” said Vanessa. “Half the region will be related to that child. Is being a goddess inheritable?”

  “Nobody’s ever dared ask,” I said. “But it does reinforce the connection. And whoever or whatever we’re chasing, it might have old-fashioned views about bloodlines. The more power something has, the less the actual facts matter.”

  But the actual facts clearly mattered to Jonas Diekmeier, the youngest member of the Good Wine Drinking Association, who arrived for his scheduled interview a quarter of an hour early. He had brown hair, a square face and pale blue eyes. Dressed in a checked shirt and tight jeans, he looked like one of those men who had reached middle age in their teens only to realise their mistake and seek to hang on to their twenties as long as possible. He had that weird intensity, as if he were imperceptibly vibrating, that I’ve noticed amongst members of historical research groups and people from tech support. According to our files he’d been born in 1981 in Mainz and had moved to Trier in 2006 to take up his position at MSW Steelworks.

  He admitted that until Markus Nerlinger had invited him along to his first meeting of the Good Wine Drinking Association he hadn’t had much of a social life.

  “You know how it is,” he said. “You go home from work, eat something, play some video games or watch television and the next thing you know it’s time to go to bed.”

  He confirmed that the Association was breaking up.

  “We all knew it. It had simply run its course. We would have stayed in touch, I think, but the Saturday night meetings were becoming a chore.”

  He had been disappointed when Koch hadn’t phoned to confirm an event last Saturday. Just because it was fading didn’t mean the club wasn’t still fun, and the meal at the Restaurant Eifel had been really good.

  We asked whether he’d spoken to the chef—Jason Agnelli.

  “He came out to visit our table and chatted with the others,” said Jonas. “But his German wasn’t good and my English is terrible, so he mostly spoke to Uwe and Kurt.”

  It turned out that Jonas spoke good French and some Italian, but could never seem to get English to stick in his head.

  “I know. Strange, isn’t it?” he said.

  We asked him if he’d ever heard the names Heinrich Brandt, our statue attacker and the assailant of the young Frau Stracker. Or Gabriel Beck, entombed wizard. But he said he hadn’t and showed no reaction to the question. I asked him a series of standardised questions designed to elicit whether he’d been exposed to the supernatural without ever mentioning it directly. When I’d showed them to Vanessa earlier she’d asked why we didn’t just come out and ask if they’d seen anything unnatural recently.

  “You know what witnesses are like,” I said. “Mention the supernatural and the next thing you know they’ll be telling us about the time they saw angels at the bottom of the garden.”

  But Jonas probably didn’t have angels at the bottom of his garden, and probably wouldn’t have noticed them in any case. He was obviously one of those people who basically ignore the parts of the world that don’t interest him. The Good Wine Drinking Association, with its compulsory variety, must have been good for him.

  We thanked him for his time, gave him a card with my number on it, and sent him on his way. While I wrote up my notes Vanessa finally managed to ferret out Heinrich Brandt’s former address from the old case files.

  “It’s off Quinter Straße” she said. “In Ehrang—so he wasn’t lying when he said he could see his house from the top of the ridge.”

  We asked K11 to see if they could determine who the current owners were, and set out for the hospital to see if Uwe Kinsmann was ready to talk.

  Uwe had his very own room at the hospital, guarded by Max, who must have been racking up the overtime this week, and one of Elton’s Special Circumstances team because the BKA were paying for the room. They went off for coffee while we informed Uwe of his rights and conducted a formal interview.

  He was awake, bright-eyed and eager to help.

  If only he could.

  “I don’t remember much,” he said. “Or, rather, I remember some things but not others.”

  Jason Agnelli had been at his house, Uwe explained, because he was offering to rent him a room.

  “We got talking after he visited our table that first time,” said Uwe. “He wasn’t happy with where he was staying. He wanted somewhere with a big kitchen where he could try out new recipes.”

  “Have you ever rented out your rooms before?” asked Vanessa.

  “Never,” said Uwe.

  But wasn’t that the whole point of the Good Wine Drinking Association? To try new things? Uwe had invited Jason to come over to look at the house after his shift on Saturday night.

  “That seems very late,” said Vanessa.

  “I tend to stay up late,” said Uwe. “Reading and the like. Jason didn’t finish work until twelve most nights and he said he was often too keyed up to sleep straight away. I thought he was ideal as a first tenant.”

  “Were you attracted to him?” asked Vanessa.

  “Excuse me?” said Uwe.

  “Were you thinking he might be a potential boyfriend?”

  Uwe gave Vanessa a look of pure incomprehension.

  “Oh,” he said finally. “Right. I see. That.” He gave an apologetic little shrug. “I don’t really go in for that sort of thing.” A pause. “Sex, I mean. Sorry.”

  Which is a pity, because it’s such a reliable motive. We moved on.

  Jason had arrived at the house just after midnight.

  “How did he get to your place?” I asked.

  “By car,” said Uwe.

  K11 had done a thorough check on Jason Agnelli, who’d arrived from the UK without a vehicle and hadn’t had time to acquire one.

  “Did someone drive him over?” asked Vanessa.

  “I don’t know,” said Uwe. “Perhaps he took a taxi?”

  That was a tell—the hesitation as he realised he couldn’t remember, and his mind created a plausible rationalisation. He was either covering a lie or somebody—or something—had tampered with his memory. I asked what happened after Jason Agnelli arrived.
<
br />   “He looked at the kitchen first,” said Uwe.

  The chef seemed satisfied that it was up to his standard, although he did suggest that Uwe buy some new knives. He had to be reminded to look at the bedroom which, after a quick glimpse, he declared perfectly adequate.

  “Were you talking in English or German?” asked Vanessa.

  “English, of course,” said Uwe. “His German was terrible and I had to translate for…” He trailed off—frowning.

  “Translate for who?” I asked.

  “For Jason, I suppose.” He didn’t sound very convinced.

  I asked what happened next and Uwe said that Jason had been delighted to take the room and they were going to have a drink to celebrate.

  There’d been no sign of a bottle or glasses in the kitchen or dining room of Uwe’s house. I made a note to check the logs to see if anyone had searched the recycling.

  “He asked me whether I objected to him having a woman stay over,” said Uwe. “I said I didn’t, and then asked if he had anyone in mind. He said yes, as it happened, he rather thought he was in with a chance with…” Uwe faltered and looked confused again.

  “With?” asked Vanessa.

  Uwe screwed his eyes shut and then opened them again.

  “Jacky,” he said quickly. “I remember because Jörg was so pleased with himself. Ever since he’d got back in touch with his wife he’d become very romantic. Thought everyone should have a soul mate but…”

  He trailed off.

  “But?” I asked.

  “That’s all, that’s where I stop remembering. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just don’t remember anything.”

  “Calm down,” I said gently. “You’ve had a shock and lost a bit of memory. It’s perfectly normal.”

  Vanessa gave me a sceptical look.

  “I’m tired now,” said Uwe. “I’d like to sleep.”

  He lay back down on his bed and pointedly turned away from us.

  K11 still hadn’t determined who was currently living in Heinrich Brandt’s old house, so Vanessa and I fell back on the classic police tactic of driving over and knocking on the door. The day was overcast and the ragged grey clouds were clipping the tops of the ridges and threatening rain.