The Hanging Tree

by Ben Aaronovitch

  ‘Is it true he nearly got arrested while in full uniform?’ Guleed asked.

  Since Reynard knew me, her and Nightingale, we’d been placed around the corner from the Fox Club. Which was just as well since we were in the silver Astra with the ‘My Other Car’s an IRV’ bumper sticker.

  ‘That’s what I heard,’ I said. Rumour had it that Kubat plus horse had been deployed as crowd control during the Olympics when a local Inspector had got it into his head that Kubat was an actor involved in an illegal film shoot.

  ‘Didn’t believe him,’ I said. ‘Not even when he handed over his warrant card.’

  It was a quality that meant that Kubat was constantly getting poached for side jobs like ours, although his duty Inspector made it clear that anybody, regardless of the rank, who tried to transfer him out of Mounted Branch was going to wake up with a bed full of horse product.

  The Fox Club, for all its aspirations and Mayfair address, was less an exclusive gentleman’s club and more an expensive bar with some posh hotel rooms attached. Kubat was probably a bit too good looking for its usual clientele, but at least if he were mistaken for something it wouldn’t be an undercover police officer.

  The club occupied a regency terrace on a street just off Piccadilly, less than two hundred metres from Lady Ty’s house and almost on top of the underground course of her river. Curzon Street to the north was still partially closed as the Fire Brigade and Thames Water dealt with the flood damage.

  I didn’t think it was a coincidence. And the chance that Lady Ty was also using Reynard as bait had been factored into our operational plan, such as it was, and our risk assessment – such as that was.

  Me, Guleed and Nightingale were designated Alpha. David Carey and a couple of guys from Belgravia MIT were in Charlie covering Half Moon Street at the back of the club. A couple of PCs in plainclothes on ruinous levels of overtime were in what any other nick would call Bravo but inexplicably Belgravia MIT always called the Banana car. I asked them why, but nobody could remember.

  Stephanopoulos and Seawoll were trying to rustle up some armed response, but apparently there was some anti-terror operation currently live in East London so we couldn’t count on getting them until that was done.

  Kubat called to report that he had eyes on Reynard.

  ‘At a table in the main saloon,’ he said. ‘He’s holding some chairs free, too – he must be expecting someone.’

  Nightingale told him to hold position and we heard him ordering a pint of lager. A pint is a good drink for undercover work since, unlike a short, you can get away with drinking it slowly, it has low alcohol by volume, and if you keep moving it about people can’t tell how much you’re drinking.

  I suggested that we grab Reynard then and there. But Nightingale said wait.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve played out the line fully yet,’ he said.

  Poor Reynard, I thought, demoted from fox to fish – he must’ve done something shitty in a former life. Although how it could be worse than what he was doing in his current life took some imagining.

  You don’t half end up thinking strange things when you’re on a stakeout.

  Nightingale was proved right when we got a call from the Banana car saying they had eyeballs on an older IC1 and a younger IC3 female heading for the club.

  I asked whether the IC3 female was over six feet tall.

  ‘Definitely,’ said the Banana car.

  ‘I thought this might happen,’ said Nightingale. ‘Lady Helena is still trying to secure The Third Principia for herself.’

  ‘Should we stop them?’

  Nightingale hesitated – tapping his finger on the steering wheel.

  ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘If I’m right, then Mr Fossman will either hand it over directly or take them to it.’

  ‘And if Martin Chorley crashes the trade?’

  ‘Lady Helena is more than capable of defending herself and her daughter,’ said Nightingale. ‘Or at least of fending him off for long enough that we can sweep in heroically like the Seventh Cavalry.’

  Burning tipis and shooting women and children, I thought.

  And with that cheerful notion I had a root around in the stakeout bag Molly had provided. One of the wrapped sandwiches had a large H written on the outside – I handed it to Guleed as the rest were all unmarked. I played pot luck and got a suspiciously mundane ham salad sandwich. Nightingale said he’d have his later.

  Kubat reported that Lady Helena and her daughter had arrived.

  ‘They’ve sat down at his table,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t seem surprised to see them.’

  Nightingale asked if they’d ordered drinks.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Kubat.

  ‘Whatever happens, do not engage,’ said Nightingale. ‘If there’s a Falcon incident you may lose radio contact. Don’t panic, don’t engage the targets. Instead I want you to concentrate on evacuating the civilians.’

  Kubat acknowledged and Nightingale contacted Seawoll, who was Gold Commander for the operation.

  ‘Alexander, can you get some men looking for Lady Helena’s car?’ he said, and rattled off the index from memory. ‘Once they have located it, can you disable it in some fashion?’

  Seawoll said they could do better than that, and have Vehicle Recovery lift it onto one of their flatbeds and drive it away.

  ‘That should limit their options,’ said Nightingale.

  Kubat reported that the older IC1 female and Reynard Fossman were having an argument, albeit conducted in angry whispers. The IC3 female, on the other hand, was looking bored and indifferent.

  ‘Well, if this continues,’ said Nightingale, ‘we might just scoop them all up when they find their car is missing.’

  Three minutes later I got a call from an unlisted number – it was Special Agent Kimberley Reynolds.

  ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ she asked.

  ‘Bad,’ I said, and put her on speaker.

  ‘One of our Virgins let slip some information while I was debriefing them,’ she said. ‘We think there’s a second team operating in London and we think they might have been tasked with the apprehension of Reynard Fossman.’

  I would have sworn loudly, but Kimberley had some views about blasphemy and I like to be polite.

  ‘You’re cussing aren’t you?’ she said after a moment. ‘Well, stop it because you don’t have the time. We think they’re running an operation right now, in and around Mayfair.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Nightingale. ‘That’s inconvenient.’

  I wanted to know who ‘we’ were – I suspected Kimberley was drawing on support from both the FBI and the NSA, but it’s not like she would tell me if she was and I didn’t have time to ask.

  ‘And the good news?’ I asked.

  ‘We think it’s a small team,’ said Kimberley. ‘Four people tops.’

  ‘Agent Reynolds?’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Could you liaise with DCI Seawoll, who is Gold Commander on this op.’ Nightingale’s voice had got very precise and clipped. ‘I trust you’ve informed CTC?’

  ‘Kittredge was with me for the interview, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Good,’ said Nightingale. ‘That should speed things up. Is there anything further your people can contribute?’

  ‘I’m afraid not sir,’ said Kimberley. ‘Although there may be more intelligence forthcoming.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Nightingale. ‘Carry on, Agent Reynolds, and keep us apprised.’

  ‘American intelligence,’ said Guleed once the phone was safely off.

  ‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ said Nightingale.

  I asked if it wouldn’t be better to cut our losses and grab Reynard, Lady Helena and Caroline before the situation got more complicated. As a rule, the more complex a situation gets the more likely the wheels are to come off. This is why the police strategy with large crowds is to pin them in place until everyone’s too desperate for the loo to cause trouble.

  ‘No,
’ said Nightingale. ‘We’re going to adopt a flexible doctrine. If we spot the Americans we’ll see if CTC can’t round them up without disturbing our principals. If Reynard leads us to his hiding place and Martin Chorley makes an appearance, we shall deal with that mob while CTC fends off the Americans.’

  ‘Flexible.’ I said. ‘Meaning we’re making it up as we go along.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Nightingale.

  There was a click on the Airwave – it was Kubat.

  ‘They’re heading for the door,’ he said.

  ‘Hand off to Banana Car,’ said Nightingale. ‘Banana Car, stay in position and tell me where they go.’

  The answer was south – towards Piccadilly and Green Park.

  Suddenly Nightingale was pulling out of our parking space and accelerating fast enough to push us back hard into our seats. He swung a sudden left into Half Moon Street while simultaneously ordering Banana Car to shift position to the Bomber Command memorial and await further instructions, Charlie Car was to drop two of its watchers off on the Knightsbridge side of Hyde Park Corner.

  ‘And drive carefully,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t want you drawing attention to yourselves.’

  I hung on grimly to the door handle as he braked hard just short of the corner with Piccadilly and wished he’d take his own advice. We pulled into an insanely unlikely free parking spot and Nightingale looked over and told me to cross Piccadilly and take a position inside the park gate.

  ‘Get yourself twenty yards behind the targets and follow them,’ he said. ‘Guleed and I will follow ten yards behind you.’

  ‘The targets all know him,’ said Guleed.

  ‘They know Peter Grant the dashing constable about town,’ said Nightingale. ‘In his sweat top they’ll take him for an averagely delinquent youth.’ He stabbed a finger in the direction of the park. ‘Off you go – we’ll be right behind you.’

  A low cloud had drawn in over London and with it an early twilight. There’d been rain earlier and the smell of wet leaves mingled with the car exhaust. The traffic on Piccadilly was slow and it was easy enough to nip across, vault the safety railings and slip in through the gates.

  Green Park had been laid down by Charles II, who nicked the land off a local farmer, laid out the paths and installed an ice house so that he’d never be short of a cool drink after a hard day of amateur theatre. It stayed on the fringes of the city where it served as a convenient open space for midnight liaisons and the occasional spot of highway robbery. It takes pride these days in being the dullest park in London and is noticeably short of shrubs, bushes, kiosks, statues or anything else a dashing constable about town might hide behind.

  I should have welcomed the thick mist that seeped in between the upright tree trunks, hazing the street lights and beading my shoulders and the edge of my hood with droplets of water. But I didn’t.

  Because I recognised that mist. I’d seen it roll up the Thames when Father and Mama held their Spring Court on the South Bank. And the course of the Tyburn ran through Green Park on its way to Buckingham Palace.

  I keyed my Airwave.

  ‘Tyburn’s about,’ I said, my voice dulled by the moisture in the air.

  ‘So I see,’ said Nightingale. ‘Our fox is certainly living up to his reputation. I doubt Martin Chorley will risk entering the park while she’s on the warpath. Reynard’s safe while he stays in there.’

  ‘I can’t see them,’ I said.

  ‘Southeast of your position,’ said Nightingale. ‘Thirty yards and heading south.’

  I stuck my hands in my pockets and slouched off down the path while trying to think delinquent thoughts.

  They were a distinctive bunch, so I spotted them walking briskly across the grass towards the centre of the park. I picked up my pace, lifting my knees as if I was doing running practice. I figured I’d look kosher if I stayed on the path. I was crossing their path at a tangent and as I reached the closest approach I forced myself to keep my eyes forward – with luck, even if they looked, my face would be hidden by my hoodie.

  Where could they be heading?

  South was Constitution Hill Road, notable for not being much of a hill, and just beyond that the walled gardens of Buckingham Palace. Once they hit the road they could go east towards Victoria Memorial and the Mall or west up the hill to Hyde Park Corner.

  In my earpiece I could hear Nightingale calmly ordering units into position around the park, while maintaining his position behind me and working without a map. The mist was thickening, the trees that lined the path I was on were flattening out and fading.

  Ten metres further down the path I risked a look and saw that Reynard and co had changed direction. Now they were heading downslope – to the east.

  I turned off the path but stayed at a tangent so I wouldn’t be obviously following them. But I had to close the distance before they were swallowed up in the mist and darkness. I reported the change in direction.

  ‘You’re going to have to risk getting closer,’ said Nightingale.

  I heard a snarl off to my left and I didn’t think it was a dog. I looked and thought I saw movement in the mist, man-shaped but loping like a big cat, picking up momentum as it ran after my targets. I was about to call it in when a long thin shape hissed over my shoulder and slammed into the running figure, which went tumbling with a yowling scream. A naked man ran past me and did a sort of hopping turn to face me. His long rangy body was smeared in blue paint and he held a pair of spears in his left hand. His hair was a spray of spiky black, and gold gleamed at his throat and wrists.

  ‘Did you see that?’ he shouted. ‘Tell me you saw that – that’s got to be a worth a song.’

  He turned and ran off, shouting over his shoulder.

  ‘Or at least a memory.’ It sounded almost plaintive.

  And then with just a few steps he was gone.

  I checked Reynard and the others, but they were still walking calmly in the direction of Hyde Park Corner. Either they were the most focused people on Earth or that encounter had been a lot quieter than I thought it was.

  ‘Boss,’ I said into my Airwave. ‘It’s getting needlessly metaphysical out here.’

  ‘Ignore it,’ said Nightingale calmly. ‘There’s more than one conflict going on at the moment, but only one of them is your concern.’

  I realised that despite having two of the busiest roads in London within a hundred metres, the rush hour had faded to nothing. From behind me I heard a stamping, grunting sound and a noise like pots and pans being rhythmically smacked together. A growl, a shout, a scream.

  Stay on target, I thought.

  ‘They’re definitely heading for Hyde Park Corner,’ I said

  Nightingale said that he and Guleed were going to get ahead of them and that I was going to be on my own, but I should be quite safe.

  ‘As long as you stay focused,’ he said.

  Which was easier said than done because that’s when Early Tyburn returned.

  I smelt him before I heard him, the copper smell of fresh blood and old sweat, wood-smoke and wet dog.

  ‘You should listen to your master,’ said a voice by my ear. ‘He’s a cunning man. And by the way, did you see that sick cast – right through the neck. Never saw it coming. Worth a song right, bit of an impromptu beat box maybe.’

  ‘What’s with the woad?’ I asked. ‘Last time we met you were all medieval.’

  Out in the mist the trees had multiplied and the straight London planes and lime trees were sharing space with the shadowy ghosts of oak, beech and poplar.

  ‘Just being true to my roots, fam,’ said the former incarnation of the god of the River Tyburn – or maybe a hallucination brought on by way too many supernatural wankers messing with my head. Or possibly both at the same time.

  I kept my eyes on my targets ahead and my hoodie was as effective as any pair of blinkers, so I almost screamed when I felt him slip his arm around my shoulders, the spare javelins in his left hand clacking against my arm, the tips push
ing into my peripheral vision. I felt my balls and my stomach tighten, the anticipation of action as when you run down a deer in the King’s Forest or jack a motor from outside a gaff in Primrose Hill. The defiance of power making the meat taste so much sweeter, the slip into first gear and away so much sweeter.

  ‘I saw your father,’ I said. ‘He seemed a happy little Roman.’

  ‘And so he was,’ said the voice. ‘But we are not always the sons our fathers dream of – as you should know.’

  As I did know, and all the things sons do to make their fathers proud until you learn to choose your own life for your own reasons. Have your own money, your own car, your own job, you own place, your own life and fuck everybody else.

  What have they ever done for you?

  But I had felt this seduction before. Or something like it. On a tube train between Camden and Kentish Town when old Mr Punch tried to recruit me for Team Riot, and I knew how well that had turned out in the end.

  ‘Lady Ty must be a real disappointment,’ I said.

  The arm squeezed my shoulders and relaxed its grip. ‘Why don’t you ask her about the Marquee in ’76, the bin bag dress and how she couldn’t quite bring herself to push the safety pin all the way through,’ said the voice. And before I could reply he was gone.

  With him went the concealing mist and suddenly I was standing by the Boris Bike stand at the far end of Green Park and listening to the angry traffic fighting its way around Hyde Park Corner.

  Hyde Park Corner is what happens when a bunch of urban planners take one look at the grinding circle of gridlock that surrounds the Arc de Triomphe in Paris and think – that’s what we want for our town. Inspired no doubt by the existence of the Wellington Arch, George IV’s cut price copy of Napoleon’s own vanity project, they wrapped seven lanes of traffic around one corner of Green Park, ran a dual carriageway underneath and produced virtually overnight what had taken the French and Baron Haussmann a hundred years to perfect.

  I scanned right to left and spotted Reynard, Lady Helena and Caroline waiting for the lights to change at the pelican crossing. There was enough of a crowd to allow me to cross right after them with just a bit of a last minute dash against the red man.