Broken Homes (PC Peter Grant)

by Ben Aaronovitch

  ‘I’ve got to ask,’ I said. ‘What’s with the mask – who were you expecting to meet up here?’

  ‘Your master,’ said the Faceless Man. ‘Or do you call him your guv-nor?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said sauntering a couple of steps closer to the cover. ‘Have you considered a cape? You’d look good in a cape. You could throw in an opera hat.’

  ‘Very funny,’ he said. ‘But I’m not the walking anachronism around here.’

  ‘He’ll be here soon,’ I said. ‘You know he took out your Russian witch?’

  ‘I heard,’ he said. ‘Very impressive.’

  ‘She was all like, “Oh no you don’t” and he was like – splat! And that’s all she wrote.’

  ‘Do you have a radio?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A radio,’ said the Faceless Man. ‘A means to contact your superiors.’

  I showed him my airwave.

  ‘Are you planning to surrender?’ I asked.

  ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘I want to know if the building has been evacuated.’ He patted his jacket pocket. ‘Before I set off the fireworks.’

  I keyed the airwave and asked for MS 1, the Walworth duty Inspector.

  There was a couple of seconds’ silence and then a response; ‘MS 1 receiving.’ Then another voice; ‘Go ahead.’ An older woman with an old-fashioned estuary accent and lots of attitude – I bloody loved the sound of that voice.

  ‘I’m on the roof facing and talking to an unidentified Falcon-capable suspect who claims to have a detonator for multiple IEDs in the building. He wants to know if the building has been evacuated.’

  ‘The building has been investigated, EOD is with the device on the twenty-first floor.’

  Meaning, yes of course the bloody building’s been evacuated and can you please get more information for the bomb squad.

  I told the Faceless Man that the building was cleared except for the disposal team.

  ‘Tell them that I will detonate the device in five minutes, so they’d better pull everyone out now. If I so much as hear a helicopter in the distance I’ll detonate there and then,’ he said. ‘Make sure they understand I’m serious.’

  ‘He says you have five minutes to evacuate any personnel before he detonates the IEDs; if he sees or hears India 99 or a helicopter he will detonate immediately.’

  ‘Are you free to speak?’ asked MS 1.

  I said no.

  ‘Is there anything you can do?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m totally buggered.’

  ‘Understood,’ she said and then my airwave went dead. They’d cut me off and from that moment on I was a hostage not an asset.

  Five minutes.

  The Strata building overlooked Skygarden and might be close enough for a sniper, but I rather suspected the Faceless Man had positioned himself carefully so that the central cylinder blocked the line of sight.

  ‘What’s all this in aid of, anyway?’ I asked.

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘I know that Stromberg built this tower in order to harvest magic, but I don’t know why,’ I said. ‘I know you’re planning to steal it, but I don’t know how.’

  ‘Peter,’ said the Faceless Man, ‘you’re an exceptionally bright boy and I know you’ve been to the farm, so why don’t you stop pretending and tell me what you really know.’

  ‘I know that you used demon trap tech to engineer a sort of dog battery for storing magic. And I know you’ve got them connected to the plastic core that runs down the centre of the tower,’ I said. ‘What I don’t know is why. Since you’re obviously plugged in, why haven’t you siphoned off the power already?’

  ‘Dog batteries,’ said the Faceless Man. ‘Good one. Although they act much more like capacitors than batteries.’

  ‘Canine capacitors, then?’

  ‘Oh very sharp, yes, canine capacitors,’ he said. ‘Magic is not like electricity, it’s slippery stuff and much harder to manipulate. This tower is much like a cafetière, one of those coffee plunger things, the coffee grounds are held in suspension within the hot water and, in order to concentrate them, one must use the plunger.’

  ‘Have you actually ever made coffee using a cafetière?’ I asked.

  ‘I admit that I should have spent a bit more time on that simile, but you get the basic idea,’ he said.

  ‘You’re going to collapse the building, and that should drive the magic into the dog batteries,’ I said. ‘Then I presume you have a company that specialises in clearing demolition sites all set up and waiting to swoop in with a low bid – then they just load up the dog batteries and off you go.’

  He has no idea about the Stadtkrone, I suddenly realised, that’s why he had to blow up the building. But how can he not know?

  ‘What do you want all that magic for?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I have done some extraordinary things with just the power of my body,’ he said. ‘Imagine what I might do with the forty years’ accumulated potential here.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I think they’ve had enough time to evacuate, don’t you?’

  ‘What about me?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve got to stay here,’ he said. ‘I may wish to avoid mass murder, but let’s be honest . . . I’d be extremely stupid to let you live.’

  ‘Why not just kill me now?’

  Well done, Peter, I thought, let’s put that idea into his head.

  ‘Why should I?’ he asked. ‘Besides—’

  I caught him mid-sentence. It was a beauty, impello with no modification, just the biggest impact I knew how to do focused down to a single point. He still managed to a get a shield up before I could strike. There was a crack like concrete breaking and he flinched – which made me feel better.

  He straightened and made a show of dusting himself down.

  ‘Really, Peter,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d progressed a bit further than that.’

  I let him think that I’d missed but before I could say something witty in reply, he drew out a wireless detonator and blew up the building.

  I heard the charges go off below me, weirdly distant like something in a nightmare. I felt them as a thudding sensation through the soles of my shoes. I staggered towards the Faceless Man, expecting any moment for the roof to literally drop out from beneath my feet.

  I felt it then, a great solidity, like the wave of power I’d felt come off the Thames at the Spring Court. Or the air that had so nearly floated me aloft when I was dancing with Sky. The building was holding itself up, trying to retain its shape.

  I took the opportunity to close the range to the Faceless Man, until I’d got within three metres of him. But he didn’t seem afraid.

  ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up,’ he shouted. ‘It’s not going to stay standing long.’

  I heard people screaming far away and hoped that it was startled onlookers on the ground.

  The trembling had become shaking – the wavelength of the oscillations lengthening. Once they reached a certain length, the tower would pull itself apart.

  Come on Erik, I thought, if you’d wanted it to be a piston, why would you have put the bloody glass pimple at the top?

  Then I heard a crack from behind me as, finally, the Statdkrone exerted enough pressure to open the fissure I’d smashed in the top of the cylinder.

  ‘Surprise,’ I shouted, and the blast knocked me to my feet.

  And the Stadtkrone fell open in segments exactly like a practitioner opening his hand. Or more like a chocolate orange because, like every chocolate orange I’d ever opened, some of the bits stuck together.

  I don’t know what Stromberg had been expecting to see from his roof garden in Highgate. Something Lord of the Rings, I expect – streamers of light pouring upwards into a rapidly opening circle of clouds. Instead it was a barely visible shimmer, like a column of heat haze. But I felt it. A wave of cooking smells and tastes, grease and peppers, green curry and macaroni cheese, spirit gum, the feel of wet papier-mâché and children crying.
People ironing, shaving, singing, dancing, grunting and fucking.

  ‘Here’s Bruno!’ I shouted. But the Faceless Man wasn’t listening to me. He was staring at the Statdkrone and, even with his mask on, surprise and anger were written along the length of his body. The roof lurched underfoot, dropped a centimetre, stopped, dropped again – Skygarden was not about to defy gravity for much longer.

  The Faceless Man turned, took three steps and threw himself over the railing.

  I ran after him and followed him over.

  What else could I do – it’s not like I could stay on the roof, was it?

  Besides, the Faceless Man didn’t strike me as the suicidal type. And if he had some plan to survive the fall, then I didn’t think he should be allowed to keep it to himself.

  Otherwise, I was going to have to think of something on the way down.

  I didn’t fall far before landing on his back. Then I threw my arms around his neck and hung on. He was definitely doing some sort of magic, a spell involving aer I thought, that caught hold of the air like a parachute. Or more like a para-wing, because we were gliding rather than falling.

  ‘You just keeping going, my son,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘Because I’ve got nothing to lose.’

  He must have carefully calculated it against his own weight, but with mine added he fell dangerously fast. I made sure that I was the one riding him down – thinking heavy thoughts. We must have been falling at the same speed as the tower, because I could hear rending and crashing of concrete behind us and see billowing, dense grey and brown clouds reaching out around us.

  We were roughly heading for the gap in the blocks where Heygate Street met Rodney Place. There, I presumed, he’d have a getaway vehicle standing by. But he wasn’t going to make it with yours truly on his back. And he couldn’t even squirm without breaking his concentration.

  Serves you right for being an arrogant dickhead – if it had been me, I’d have tripped the explosive from the viewing gallery in the Shard.

  I looked down and saw the big wide world rushing up to meet me fast. I really hoped it was going to be friendly.

  We came down in the garden just short of the far edge. He hit first and tried to roll, but I made a point of breaking his centre of gravity so that he went down hard. Unfortunately, so did I. Then the dust cloud rolled over us and we were fighting blind, only he was in a suit and I was wearing Doctor Martens. Before he could get up I got one good kick to his head, and down he went. I put him face down, and got hands behind his back in the approved fashion and cuffed him.

  ‘You’re nicked, you bastard,’ I said.

  I heard Lesley calling my name.

  ‘I’m over here,’ I shouted, but you couldn’t see more than half a metre because of the thick, rolling clouds of dust.

  I choked on it, so did he. I hauled him up until he was sitting upright. I didn’t want to risk positional asphyxiation.

  Lesley called again and I shouted back – the dust seemed to be settling.

  ‘I am genuinely impressed,’ he said.

  ‘I’m so pleased,’ I said.

  ‘I believe this is the moment of decision,’ said the Faceless Man.

  ‘I already made up my mind,’ I said and reached for his mask.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the Faceless Man. ‘But I wasn’t talking to you.’

  Lesley tasered me in the back of my neck.

  I know it was her, because she dropped the taser half a metre from where I was lying. It matched the serial number of the one she’d been issued. However, she didn’t drop it before tasering me again when I tried to get up.

  It’s painful and it’s humiliating, because your body just locks up and there’s nothing you can do.

  The Faceless Man’s shoes appeared in front of my face. I noticed they’d got quite badly scuffed during the fall.

  ‘No,’ said a muffled voice that I later decided had been Lesley’s. ‘That wasn’t part of the deal.’

  And then they walked away and left me.

  20

  Working For A Stranger London

  Sometimes, when you turn up on their doorstep, people are already expecting bad news. Parents of missing kids, partners that have heard about the air crash on the news – you can see it in their faces – they’ve braced themselves. And there’s a strange kind of relief, too. The waiting is over, the worst has happened and they know that they will ride it out. Some don’t, of course. Some go mad or fall into depression or just fall apart. But most soldier through.

  But sometimes they haven’t got a clue and you arrive on their doorstep like god’s own sledgehammer and smash their life to pieces. You try not to think about it, but you can’t help wondering what it must be like.

  Now I knew.

  I got up off the ground and went after them. Because otherwise what good am I?

  I was covered in dust and I must have looked pissed off, because random strangers would rush forward with offers of help only to back off quickly when they got close enough to see my face. I grabbed one that had foolishly got within arm’s reach.

  ‘Did you see a woman in a mask,’ I shouted. ‘She had a man with her – did you see where they went?’

  ‘I haven’t seen anyone, mate,’ he said and broke away to leg it.

  I reached the outer cordon where a uniformed skipper took one look at me and ordered me to the ambulance assembly point. He sent a probationary constable to guide me and, although she looked about twelve years old, she already had the command voice down pat.

  I should have told them who I was, not least because all the gold, silver and bronze commanders thought I’d been on the roof when it came down. But certain things have to be kept in the family.

  There were at least a dozen ambulances in the casualty marshalling area on Elephant Road, but even as I was being bundled into the back of one I saw a couple peel off and head back into general circulation. The London Ambulance Service is one of the largest and busiest in the world, and can’t afford to hang about waiting for people to get injured. Not even at a major incident.

  A paramedic checked me over and I asked him if there were any casualties.

  ‘There were two people on the roof when it went down,’ said the paramedic. ‘But they haven’t been found yet.’

  And that’s when I should have told them I wasn’t dead. But as I explained to the subsequent investigation by the Department of Professional Standards, I’d just survived having a tower block collapse on me so they should cut me some slack. The real reason was that they would have asked too many question that I couldn’t answer until I’d talked to Nightingale.

  I told the paramedic I wanted to call my dad and could he lend me his mobile. He handed it over but only after assurances that my dad wasn’t living in Rio or Somalia or somewhere exorbitant like that. I called Nightingale and I could tell he’d been worried by the tone of his voice.

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘I had him sir, I had the Faceless Man. Had him bang to rights and Lesley tasered me.’

  There was a shocked pause.

  ‘Lesley tasered you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘To facilitate the suspect’s escape?’

  I believe this is the moment of decision.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Are you in any doubt about Lesley’s participation?’

  That wasn’t part of the deal.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Peter,’ said Nightingale, ‘as your first priority you must secure the Folly and inform Molly that Lesley is off the guest list. You must do this now regardless of instructions from any other senior officer. Once you are there contact me again – was that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good lad,’ he said. ‘Get a move on.’

  I can have trouble getting taxis as the best of times, but nobody was going to stop for me when I was white with dust. To avoid disappointment I merely stepped in front of the first black cab I saw and used the combination of my warrant card, a
twenty-pound note and hints that I was part of a vital anti-terrorist operation to get my ride. He got me back fast enough – he was in such a hurry to get rid of me he didn’t wait for a tip.

  I went in through the double doors at the front on the basis that I almost never used them and if somebody, if Lesley, was laying an ambush she’d do it at the back door. I paused at the guard booth in the lobby to listen and, hearing nothing, I slipped past the statue of Isaac Newton and into the atrium.

  Molly was waiting for me. She took the instructions from Nightingale with the same grave expression with which she accepted menu requests. Then she went silently gliding up the stairs – hopefully to check that the upper floors were clear.

  The telephone in the Folly atrium has its own desk complete with blotting pad, notepaper and bendy lamp. I picked up the Bakelite handset and dialled, literally dialled, Nightingale’s mobile. He answered almost immediately.

  He gave me a series of instructions and told me to call him back once I’d followed them.

  I went down the back stairs, turned left, went past the door to the firing range and paused in front of the armoury. Inside, we had some 9mm Browning Hi-Power automatic pistols that Nightingale had planned to teach us to shoot with. I was tempted to fetch one, but Frank Caffrey had once told me that you should never carry a weapon you don’t know how to use. Besides, I wasn’t even sure if push came to shove I could shoot Lesley. And that was Caffrey’s other maxim – don’t point a gun at someone unless you’re prepared to shoot them with it. I checked to see that the door was still firmly locked and moved on. Then right down a rectangular, brick-lined corridor that, being unlit and damp smelling, I’d never bothered to walk down. And, judging by the dust and cobwebs, neither had Molly or anyone else in the last couple of decades. At the far end was a crude wooden door, the sort you might find on a garden shed. I opened it to reveal another short corridor and a much more formidable grey door of what, I learned later, was face-hardened battleship steel. There were no handles or visible locks, instead a series of overlapping circles were incised into the metal. They looked disturbingly like the payload zones of a demon trap and even more disturbingly like modern Gallifreyan.