Dedication
This book is dedicated to all the essential workers everywhere.
What Abigail Did That Summer
Ben Aaronovitch
Contents
Dedication
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgements
Credits
Also by Ben Aaronovitch
Copyright
Все счастливые семьи похожи друг на друга, каждая
несчастливая семья несчастлива по-своему.
All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is
unhappy in its own way.
Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
Oh Bondage Up Yours!
Marianne Joan Elliott-Said (Poly Styrene)
1
Achieving Best Evidence
I’m sitting in an interview room in Holmes Road police station. It’s not like the ones you see on TV, with bare walls, a table and an old-fashioned twin-deck tape recorder. Who makes those machines anyway, and where are they getting the cassette tapes from? Somebody somewhere is making a ton of cash selling obsolete gear to the Metropolitan Police.
Anyway, the room I’m in has low-slung wood seating with foam cushions covered in pastel-coloured fabric. There is an open space with a red and yellow rug and beanbag seats. Against the wall are shelves with the sort of board games and cheap plastic toys you can buy down the market or in Poundland.
The room also has a pair of perspex domes fixed to the ceiling where the CCTV cameras hide, and somewhere nearby will be a room with monitors and recorders and probably a senior police officer of detective inspector rank or higher. I know the Feds. I know how they work. And I know that this is the Achieving Best Evidence suite, ABE, where they interview children and victims of sexual assault.
Or catch a crafty nap on night shift, Peter says. But Peter isn’t here right now. He’s in Herefordshire, hunting his own set of missing kids.
A white woman enters, a typical Fed with an off-the-peg suit, a lying face and suspicious eyes. She says her name is Kay but the name on the warrant card hanging on a lanyard around her neck is Karen Jonquiere. She will be an experienced detective constable with special training in interviewing traumatised children and stroppy teens. This is why she’s stressing her northern accent – going for that no-nonsense Coronation Street mood. She’s impatient, unconsciously tapping her foot. There are missing kids, time is of the essence. Deep down, I know, she wants to grab me and shake me until I tell her what she wants to know. I get that a lot. But the last adult that got physical with me ended up barred from working with children – and that’s after he got out of hospital.
She knows all this, of course. She’s read my file, which means she knows about the Folly and about the magic. But she’s the type that won’t believe in the supernatural until it pops up and slaps her in the face.
She glances down at the untouched plate of biscuits and the drink that sits between us on the coffee table.
‘You’re not hungry?’ she asks.
I’m actually bare hungry and my stomach is growling. But I like being hungry sometimes. I like the feeling of being in control of my own body, my own wants and needs. I’m not anorexic, right? That’s important. When I look in the mirror I see myself the way I am. It’s good discipline not to give in, not to just grab the first tasty thing that comes your way. I’m thirsty, too. But the drink they brought me was easier to resist – I mean, Capri-Sun. What were they thinking?
Hungry and thirsty makes me keen, makes me sharp like a knife. Because whatever Lady Fed thinks, I ain’t here to answer questions. Quite the contrary, really.
‘Who’s still missing?’ I ask.
Lady Fed’s eyes narrow but she says nothing.
‘Did Jessica come home?’ I ask, and there is a tiny reaction. A tightening of the lips.
Yeah, I think, Jessica just walked out, didn’t she? Turned up at her yard as if nothing happened and her mum hadn’t been sticking photos of her on every lamppost from Chalk Farm to Tufnell Park. Some of the kids wandered in and out like the house was a youth centre and they were doing a summer activities course. Some people got to stay. These would be the ones Lady Fed was interested in.
‘What about Natali?’ I ask, and Lady Fed is frowning because she so wants to ask who’s Natali, but can’t because I’ve got to have an appropriate adult because I’m thirteen – that’s the law, that is.
I could name other names but you don’t want to push the Feds too far. They can get obstreperous and this one’s already giving me the squinty-eyed look that adults always give me after meeting me for more than five minutes.
‘We’re trying to help here, you know,’ she says.
To keep her sweet I pick up the Capri-Sun, strip out the straw and punch it into the juice pouch. I take a long pull, which calms Lady Fed down a bit and gives me time to think. Obviously some of the children are leaking out of the house and some are not – what the differences are between them might be the clue I’m looking for.
The door opens and Simon’s mum walks in.
She is one of them big little white women who spends her days ordering men around a conference table, and her evenings making plans for Nigel or Tarquin or Fionnuala or whatever their kids are called. She was obviously off duty when the police called her, because she’s wearing navy trousers and a beige cashmere roll-neck jumper. A couple of kids at my school have mums like her, or at least the trendy Let’s send our kids to the local comprehensive to show how right-on we are versions.
Simon’s mum isn’t right-on or trendy, but I reckon she’s my best chance of walking out of the fuzz box without so much as a social worker’s report.
Whoever Lady Fed was expecting to turn up, it wasn’t Simon’s mum, who is now showing her a laminated photo ID which she slips back into her jacket before I can get a good look.
Lady Fed is made of sterner stuff, because she holds up a hand to stop Simon’s mum in her tracks and turns to me.
‘This woman cannot be your appropriate adult,’ she says.
‘Why not?’ I ask.
‘Because it would be inappropriate,’ she says.
‘Why’s that, then?’ I ask.
Lady Fed mentally reviews her answers and realises that she doesn’t have an objection she can say out loud. So she smoothly changes tack, which is well slick and I get a
better opinion of her.
‘Don’t you think one of your parents would be more suitable?’ she asks.
I look at Simon’s mum again – her face is a total mask. It’s actually kind of cool how mask-like her face is. I wish I could do a face like that. Like not all the time, right? But just when I need it. You know. On special occasions.
‘She is suitable,’ I say. ‘A responsible person aged eighteen or over who is not a police officer or a person employed by the police.’
As set out in Section 38 (4)(a) Crime and Disorder Act 1998 – but I’ve learnt the hard way not to quote statutes at the Feds. They don’t like it and it makes them suspicious.
Lady Fed shrugs and turns to Simon’s mum.
‘She’s all yours,’ she says.
Simon’s mum settles in the chair beside me. The detective opens her mouth but before she can speak Simon’s mum turns on me and, baring her teeth, snarls.
‘You little wretch,’ she says. ‘Where’s my son?’
2
The Lost Boy
‘Hello,’ he says. ‘What’s your name?’
‘He’ is a good-looking white boy, taller than me but about my age. Dark brown hair, big face, blue eyes under long lashes. He’s dressed in a pair of cargo shorts and a bright red polo shirt. He looks like he should smell of shampoo and money.
I give him the look, but he just waits patiently for me to answer.
This vexes me – the look usually works – but it also makes me curious.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask.
He smiles, showing perfect white teeth.
‘Simon,’ he says.
We are standing at the entrance to Hampstead Heath at the point where Parliament Hill Road ends. Despite it being morning, the heat has bleached the colour out of the air and made my scalp dry and itchy under my Rasta hat.
I tell Simon my name and he says it back to me as if I’m a teacher and we’re in class.
‘Abigail,’ he says. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
I deliberately don’t respond but he’s just gazing at me expectantly as if he’s waiting for instructions. It’s bare creepy but also interesting. I know if I walk away the mystery’s going to vex me forever.
I look around to see if maybe there’s an appropriate adult nearby, a nanny maybe, chatting on their mobile now she’s away from the mother and not paying attention. But there’s no one obviously nanny-ish around, and anyway Simon is too old to need one.
A skinny white woman jogs past us in a pair of red short shorts and a yellow Lycra top, her legs bending awkwardly inwards as she goes. Following her is a dachshund, wheezing in the heat as it tries to keep up. We both watch the poor dog go past.
‘That lady needs a bigger dog,’ says Simon.
‘Or maybe pull it along on a trolley,’ I say.
‘Dog on a skateboard,’ says Simon, and just like that we’re friends.
For the day at least.
‘Were you waiting for someone?’ I ask.
‘Jessica,’ he says and smiles, which then fades into a frown. ‘But she didn’t come.’
Now this is interesting to me, because I was supposed to meet someone in the same spot. A girl from my old primary school called Natali, who I hadn’t seen for ages but suddenly turned up round my flats. Which is weird since I didn’t think she knew anyone from my ends. Her mum and dad were both media types and had got her into Marylebone when I went to Burghley. She ran over and hugged me when she saw me and asked to come in for tea, but Paul was being a bit rowdy just then so we ended up in a café instead. Natali paid, which normally I mind, but to be honest I was too glad to be out of the flat to object.
‘We’re having an event,’ she said.
‘What kind of an event?’ I asked.
‘A happening,’ she said, and before I could point out that a ‘happening’ was just a synonym for ‘event’ and just as short of actual information, she explained. They was going to have a ‘happening’ on Hampstead Heath, all kids from the area with food, drink, dancing, billiards, music and dressing up.
‘And dancing,’ said Natali once more for emphasis, which just showed she didn’t really remember me that well. After she’d given me the time and place of the ‘happening’ and cut, I stayed in the café and made some notes in my Falcon diary. Peter gave me my first one because he knew that getting me involved in magic was the only way to keep me out of trouble. This one was diary number three, but only because I write small.
Natali had been talking in a weird sing-song voice, which was causing all sorts of proximity warnings to go off in my head. Now, maybe going to posh school makes you talk like you’re guesting on Tikkabilla,1 but I thought it was worth a bit of investigation. Something I could show Peter when he got back from the middle of nowhere. Me and Simon are standing where we’re supposed to be, but no Natali and no Jessica. And def no ‘happening’ happening. Given we’ve been there ages, I’m wondering if I should wait longer to see if anybody else turns up.
Simon is still smiling and seems content to wait forever. I’m not, but Natali never gave me her number so I can’t text or nothing.
‘I was supposed to meet someone here too,’ I say to fill the void.
Simon nods.
‘Are they here?’ he asks.
I say that I don’t think they’re coming.
‘Would you like to see something interesting?’ asks Simon.
‘Okay,’ I say, and Simon just turns and walks away up the path. Heading further onto the Heath. I consider letting him go but curiosity makes me follow.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask as I catch up.
‘To see the Cat Lady,’ says Simon.
1 Notes for Agent Reynolds by Harold Postmartin, MA, DPhil (Oxon), FRS, AFSW – Thomas has asked me to provide a few explanatory notes. In this case, Tikkabilla is the name of a children’s television programme, although the allusion to the presenter’s voice escapes me as well.
3
The Cat Lady
I hate it when people ask me stupid questions. You’re chatting about something and they say something like, ‘Photosynthesis? What’s that?’ with that stupid look on their face like they is proud of their ignorance or something. I’m thinking, you’ve got a phone, right? Look it up. But if you say that, they just tell you they can’t be bothered because, ‘Photosynthesis? If it was important, right, there’d be an app.’ So I don’t say that.
And I don’t tell them what chlorophyll does either, because that would be a waste of my time.
Hampstead Heath is a heath, from the old English hœ¯ th meaning wasteland, because it consists of a big sandy ridge that stretches across the top of Camden. The sand makes the soils acidic, which meant nobody ploughed it for crops and it was only good for sporadic grazing, sand extraction and large-scale landscape gardening.
Sir Thomas ‘Wasteman’ Maryon tried to build a big housing estate on it but there was a public protest and he was stopped. But not before he built a totally fake red brick ‘viaduct’ across a pond which now gives its name to the path that runs from the barrows to Whitestone Pond at the top of the hill.
Finding all that out took me five minutes on my phone while I was standing on the actual viaduct in the dark this March. And I was looking for ghosts, all right, but all I found were some olds looking for a quick hook-up after work before catching the bus home.
We’re running across the viaduct now because Simon seems to run everywhere. The slowest he goes is a quick trot, as if he’s missing his lower gears and only has two speeds. The creepy still one and the fast one.
I can keep up but I wouldn’t want to do this all day.
I see I’m going to have to teach him how to walk proper. What Peter, who is a Fed, calls proceeding.
If you run everywhere you miss stuff that you might have been better off noticing �
� just saying.
We run up the viaduct path until we’re up by the second fairground site.
Simon is pointing down into the valley between the path and Heath Street. It’s full of trees and bushes.
‘Down there,’ he says.
‘Down there what?’
‘Down there lives the Cat Lady,’ he says, and runs down the grass slope towards the trees.
Fortunately we’re not in the real countryside so there’s lots of paths and no chance of being eaten by yokels. Simon seems to know where he’s going and is leading me to a particular rhododendron bush. He crouches down and crawls inside and I follow.
We are inside a hollow inside the bush. The space is cramped and hot with both of us in there. I can smell the flowers and the earth and a sharp smell that I realise is coming from Simon. It’s not horrible or anything, but it seems strange to be close enough to smell him like this. His bare arm is right by my face and I’ve got this mad urge to lick the smooth pale skin of his biceps to see what he tastes like – which freaks me out, so I say something instead.
‘I can’t see anything,’ I whisper.
Simon shushes me and points.
I shuffle forward until I can see through the leaves. Ahead of me is a clearing under the spreading canopy of a mature oak tree. There is a short stretch of grass with a park bench at one end. On the bench sits an old white lady.
She dresses like she’s homeless, in a great big green army coat that is too big for her and too hot for summer. Her hair is grey and long, really long, hanging down over her face and shoulders. She has little round glasses and black fingerless gloves. On one side of her is a shopping trolley made of worn blue canvas, and with wheels that I’m sure are too big to be standard, with the kind of tyre tread you’re more likely to see on a mountain bike. On the other side is a cardboard box the size of a bread bin.
The old lady is smacking her lips together and making a growling cough noise in the back of her throat. I’m thinking that maybe she’s wandered off from a care home and that maybe we should be backing away slowly – for her sake if not for ours – when I sense something magical.
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