‘Except for the picnic tomorrow,’ said Mrs Chin.
Oh bollocks, I thought, I’d totally forgotten about that.
12
I’m Not in the Business
I admit, I skimmed a lot of the guidelines for undercover police officers. But I’m pretty certain that Do not engage in a major criminal enterprise without consulting your handler first was in there somewhere. So the next morning, while Beverley marshalled her new recruits into the cause of river conservation, I sloped off to the Pen Pond car park and café area that lurks near the middle of Richmond Park. There, coffee and bacon butties were served from a green shack with a scatter of picnic tables for seating. I thought we’d be horribly exposed, but there were enough die-hard dog walkers and skiving joggers braving the drizzle to stop us being too obvious. Silver, dressed in an expensive burgundy quilted jacket with a Nehru collar, had obviously been expecting somewhere a bit more indoors. Nightingale had gallantly lent her his umbrella, which she angled, I noticed, to shield our faces from people passing by on the path.
‘I definitely preferred the sushi,’ said Silver, after I’d outlined my plan to relieve Terrence Skinner of the Mary Engine.
‘I’m a little concerned about your escape plan,’ said Nightingale. ‘“Back down the lift and out” seems somewhat vague. Especially given the plan’s many convolutions prior to that point. I’m surprised that Mrs Chin and Stephen didn’t raise this as an objection.’
‘It’s simple,’ I said. ‘They didn’t question the escape because they’re planning to double-cross me before we escape.’
‘Wouldn’t it be more convenient to escape first, then double-cross you?’ asked Nightingale.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Because they expect me to double-cross them first.’
This was because they hadn’t bought my story about stealing algorithms, and so they expected me to grab the Mary Engine. And the best time for me to do that would be while we were still in the building.
‘Outside they have a two to one advantage,’ I said. ‘Inside, I have Vogon privileges or I might have accomplices standing by. Which, of course, will be sort of true since before they can betray me you’re going to swoop in and arrest them both.’
Silver looked at Nightingale. ‘I said he was a natural, didn’t I?’
Nightingale didn’t look happy about that.
‘Why inside the building?’ he asked.
As a rule, unless you’re doing a dawn raid, it’s better to swarm them in the street where they can be quickly isolated and whisked off. The interior of buildings are full of hidden obstacles and interrupted sight lines – outside is better. And then there was his memories of the house-to-house fighting in Arnhem. But I didn’t know about that then.
‘Because then the whole of Bambleweeny becomes a crime scene,’ I said. Thereby allowing Silver to slip in with the rest of the police and have a good nose around. ‘And possibly preserving my cover, so I can withdraw gracefully.’
‘It’s entrapment,’ said Silver. ‘The CPS wont prosecute. At least not on any substantive charge.’
‘So much the better,’ said Nightingale. ‘It would be far more satisfactory if we quietly usher the Americans home. It’s not in the public interest to force a prosecution at this juncture.’
‘That’s not your decision to make,’ said Silver.
‘Until such time as the Commissioner or the Home Secretary relieves me of my positions as both de facto President of the Society of the Wise and Commander of the Special Assessment Unit, then it is my responsibility to judge when prosecutions touching upon the supernatural, the uncanny and the Fae are in the public interest or not.’ He smiled thinly at Silver. ‘And I am minded not to have a prosecution in this case – we are charged with carrying out our duties discreetly. Better that these Americans are sent home – after an appropriately severe talking-to. And then you and I can proceed in a more predictable fashion.’
‘I need a JD, Thomas,’ said Silver.
Meaning a Judicial Disposal – a prosecution or some other recordable outcome to justify her expenditure. You weren’t supposed to take that into consideration when planning operations, but then response officers were not supposed to continuously work double shifts.
‘If Skinner really has a working AGI,’ I said, ‘all this bollocks that we think is so important – we can just kiss that all goodbye. It will be a whole new world.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Nightingale, smiling. ‘Not another one.’
Silver frowned.
‘You wanted to know whether Skinner was money laundering and/or providing sensitive technology to the Russians,’ I said. ‘This should give you enough access to find out.’
Getting a JD but piggybacking on to another case was another time-old tradition we weren’t supposed to do. Silver nodded, but she really wasn’t happy.
‘I wouldn’t count on you bowing out gracefully,’ she said. ‘These operations always end messily and nobody likes to be betrayed – however good the cause.’
Life can be tough on London’s rivers. Those that weren’t turned into open sewers in the eighteenth century were turned into covered sewers in the nineteenth. The suburban rivers that escaped death by carefully engineered brick arch faced that most terrible of fates – flood management.
Back then, long before rewilding, river basin management plans and the spontaneous creation – so she asserts – of the light of my life, flood management was guided by a simple idea. Floods are caused by too much water building up in a particular river. So the solution is to get the water from A to B as fast as possible. Faster flow rates for a happier flood plain – especially ones covered in 1930s mock Tudor semis.
This led to a great deal of straightening and culverting, which in turn led to a massive loss of biodiversity. And that was before they started pouring semi-treated sewage into them. It was into this environment of neglect that the current crop of river goddesses emerged in the later part of the twentieth century, and they have been working for improvements ever since.
Currently Beverley Brook is classified as having a Poor Ecological Status overall under the Water Framework Directive. Needless to say, Beverley has plans – lots of plans – of which the improvements in Richmond Park are just a minor part. If Thames Water think blowing the best part of £5 billion on 25 kilometres of deep-level interceptor tunnel is going to be enough to keep Bev from taking an interest in the output of the Hogsmill Valley Sewage Treatment works . . . they can think again.
Still, until she can do something about that, she does what she can. Which is why quite a large part of our relationship involves me wading hip deep in the river where it crosses Wimbledon Common and Richmond Park.
In the wintertime the Royal Parks pollard their willows, which provides a pile of long, straight, flexible willow stems called withies, which can be woven into hurdles which can be carefully placed in the river to promote meandering. Meandering, according to Beverley, is an altogether good thing which promotes biodiversity and mitigates flash flooding. So once I had finished making plans of dubious legality with Nightingale and Silver, I headed towards Beverley Brook for a day’s river wrangling.
Or at least that’s what I thought I was doing.
I should have known something was up when I saw the pavilion. Well, I say pavilion. But it was more a large white tent, the kind people use for fêtes and weddings. As I got closer I saw that somebody had carried in a big high-backed armchair. Its wooden legs and upholstery were scuffed, but it had obviously been cleaned. The brightly coloured outdoor cushions, with tough weather-resistant covers that usually spent the winter in the conservatory, had been piled on the chair with Beverley on top – in obvious comfort, her feet propped up on a folding garden chair with a blue and pink cushion on top of that.
When she saw me she asked me whether I liked the chair.
‘Someone threw it off the Priest’s Br
idge,’ she said, ‘and the landlord at the Stag called Maksim and asked if he wanted it. He’s been restoring it for weeks.’
Despite the entire front wall being rolled up, it was much warmer in the tent than outside. Which might have been Beverley’s divine influence, but was more likely down to the two portable space heaters situated near the back. Neatly stacked on the left side of the tent was a pile of folding chairs, and on the right a corresponding stack of wooden folding-leg tables. I eyed both piles with deep suspicion and then asked Beverley what was going on.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just a bit of a picnic.’
She beckoned me over, and when I leaned down she kissed me and her lips tasted of mown grass and strawberry jelly. I gave her a quizzical look, but she just smiled and sent me off to work.
‘You promised to make me a better river,’ she said, which I felt was a generous interpretation of what I remembered as me saying Well, if I have to. Fortunately, between Maksim, Abigail, Keira, Oliver and Johnson, all the waders were taken. So I joined Stacy on the bank and supervised.
Keira and Abigail were larking about while Oliver was securing his hurdle to its posts with single-minded determination and a puzzled look on his face – as if he was surprised to find himself doing physical work. Johnson and Maksim were relishing the chance to be manly men and prove their one-generation-from-the-soil credentials. Johnson was too sensible to take his shirt off, but I could see Maksim was tempted. Still, if they wanted to do all the hard work, I was perfectly happy to let them.
‘God, look at them,’ said Stacy, as we watched Maksim and Johnson manhandle a quarter of a ton of hurdle into position, so that the kids could tie them into place. ‘If they generate any more testosterone they’ll start poisoning the fish.’
I asked if she’d seen Stephen and Mrs Chin, and was told that the pair of them were helping bring up the food from the car park by the main gate. In order to further avoid the chances of me being asked to soak myself in the name of love, I volunteered to go help them. I met the pair hauling an insulated food container, of the type used by professional caterers. Or rather, Mrs Chin supervised as Stephen and Dennis Yoon hauled it between them.
I asked Dennis how he came to be out in Richmond Park on such a glorious day.
He said that his relatives, who he was lodging with in New Malden, insisted he accompany them.
‘They’re back that way with more food,’ he said.
They turned out to be Mr and Mrs Ree, who were New Malden veterans, having arrived from Korea in the 1990s when Mr Sung-Hoon Ree was posted to London by Hyundai. Sung-Hoon and his wife Eun-Ju were pulling a very practical handcart piled with containers, while my mum contributed by walking beside them cradling a large cardboard box. My dad was a few steps behind, carrying his trumpet case.
I stopped to say hello and the inevitable happened, which was me being lumbered with the cardboard box, which was heavy, filled with plastic food containers and warm to the touch. As we laboured on under our burdens, Mum skipped ahead towards Beverley’s tent.
‘You should carry your father’s case as well,’ said Sung-Hoon, which allowed my father to catch up with my mum and meant I tripped over every hummock in the grass.
The trestle tables had been set up by the time I arrived. Not, as I had half-feared, in rows perpendicular to Beverley’s throne in the medieval manner, but along the sides of the tent where they could serve as buffet tables. I plonked my box down on the nearest and handed Dad back his case.
Me and him watched my mum fussing over Beverley until they both noticed us and got that sly look in their eyes that suggested now would be a good time to slope off – unless we wanted to get roped into something arduous – so off we sloped.
‘I haven’t seen your mum this happy since I opened for Bud Shank at the Bull’s Head,’ said my dad.
‘Are you planning to play?’ I asked as Dad opened the case and checked his trumpet.
‘The only time I’m not planning to play,’ said Dad, ‘is when I’m playing.’
On the basis of what the eye don’t see the Mum can’t come up with chores for, I wandered back down towards the main gate and quickly overtook the Rees, who were wheeling their trollies back to the car park for a second run.
‘How many people are coming?’ I asked as I helped Eun-Ju with her trolley.
‘It doesn’t seem to matter how many people arrive,’ said Eun-Ju, who was tall and very thin with black eyes and a long face. ‘All the food seems to get eaten.’
‘Gannets, the lot of them,’ said Sung-Hoon, whose second career as a used car salesman meant he spent a lot of time in Essex. He was shorter than his wife and was growing round as he entered late middle age. His eyes were lighter and his black hair was brushed over in a side parting.
‘That’s good of you, Peter,’ said Eun-Ju.
‘It’s better than having to wade in the river,’ I said, which scandalised the pair of them.
We ended up making three more trips, only interrupted once by my mum who, shockingly, wanted a word.
‘Why you make e dae siddom nae de cold,’ she asked in Krio.
‘She’s perfectly fine, Mum, and anyway this was her idea.’
‘Bo be e man ein tel am for member dee baby.’
I have photographs of my mum being eight months gone and on tour with my dad.
‘She knows what she’s doing,’ I said, and wondered if I did.
At some point a whole second pavilion arrived – they were just putting it up when I returned lugging a Morrisons box full of biscuits, chocolates and sweets in fun-size variety packs. Someone had provided my mum with a chair and a cushion and she sat next to Beverley, their heads close together – occasionally they laughed. Beverley caught me watching and sent me off to tell the volunteers in the river that it was chop time.
Keira was laughing as she clambered out of the water and sat down on the tarpaulin we had arranged for them. Johnson helped her off with her waders before taking off his own. I helped Oliver, who tried to stay stonily impassive but couldn’t resist a shy grin when one of Johnson’s waders came off unexpectedly and he sat down hard with a yell.
I ushered them off towards the pavilion and stayed behind to help Maksim clear up. Once that was done, I paused on the riverbank to look over the day’s work.
‘Are you coming to eat?’ said Maksim.
‘I’ll be over in a minute,’ I said, but Maksim stayed where he was.
He was a big man, a former professional criminal who’d undergone a brutal apprenticeship in the grey concrete suburbs of Moscow. Beverley said he’d already been looking for something more in his life when he and his mates had battered down her front door.
‘I was in the bath,’ she’d said indignantly. ‘There were bound to be consequences.’
Which were that a surprised bunch of Russian mobsters had spent a day cleaning up Bev’s house – which needed a lot of work, I might add. For most of them the glamour wore off and they went back to their wicked ways, only vowing never to speak of that day again.
But Maksim did not. He sat outside Beverley’s window like a stray wolf waiting to be let into the circle of light around the fire. In the end, Beverley let him in. She said it was either that or she let him sit outside forever. He does the cleaning, the garden and some light bodyguarding on the side.
He seems happy.
Beverley insists that he could walk away any time he liked.
Perhaps you should make him, I told her, for his own good.
‘Why would I be so cruel?’ said Beverley. ‘And how do you know it would do him good?’
The drizzle had turned to light rain. I could feel the water starting to trickle down my neck.
‘Come in and eat,’ said Maksim, gesturing at the pavilion. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
And inside I went – to where the air smelt of a garden
party on a summer’s day.
I was still worrying about it while lying spooned against Beverley’s warm back that night.
‘You’re cross,’ she said suddenly.
‘No,’ I said.
‘You’re not happy, though.’
‘I worry when you make people do things,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t it worry you?’
‘In the first place I don’t “make” anybody do anything,’ she said. ‘I merely offer people the opportunity to participate in the glorious pageant that is my existence on Earth. In which they come away greatly enriched, both emotionally and spiritually.’
I slipped my hand around to rest on her belly.
‘Does that include the poor sods that fetch you drinks when we’re at the pub?’
‘Even them.’ I felt her shrug. ‘A tiny little bit. Commensurate, you know, with the cost of the drink.’
‘An even trade – their free will for your convenience?’
Beverley sighed.
‘I see,’ she said, and started the laborious process of rolling over to face me.
While the complicated pillow engineering was underway I took the opportunity to cop a feel, because a wise man takes his pleasures where he can. When she was ready, Beverley took my hand off her bum and kissed the palm.
‘Make me a light,’ she said. ‘I want to see your face.’
When I started my apprenticeship, it took me months to learn how to cast a werelight and weeks more to learn how to sustain it. Now I can create a small globe like a shining pearl and set it to hover above my head without really having to think about it. The forma from which the spell is derived is one of the simplest and most flexible of any that you learn, and after three hundred years practitioners are still finding new things to do with it.
False Value (Rivers of London 8) Page 19