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Автор Бен Ааронович
The Hanging Tree
(The sixth book in the PC Peter Grant series)
A novel by Ben Aaronovitch
Through the streets our wheels slowly move;
The toll of the death bell dismays us.
With nosegays and gloves we are deck’d,
So trim and so gay they array us.
The passage all crowded we see
With maidens that move us with pity;
Our air all, admiring agree
Such lads are not left in the city.
Oh! Then to the tree I must go;
The judge he has ordered the sentence.
And then comes a gownsman you know,
And tells a dull tale of repentance.
By the gullet we’re ty’d very tight;
We beg all spectators, pray for us.
Our peepers are hid from the light,
The tumbril shoves off, and we morrice.
1
One of Sir Roger’s Lesser Works
I dreamt that I heard Mr Punch laughing gleefully by my ear, but when I woke I realised it was my phone. I recognised the number on the screen and so wasn’t surprised by the cool, posh voice that spoke when I answered.
‘Peter,’ said Lady Ty, ‘do you remember when we spoke at Oxford Circus?’
I remembered her finding me after I’d managed to get myself buried under the platform. I remembered her leaning over me once they’d dug me out, her breath smelling of nutmeg and saffron.
‘Yes ma’am,’ I said, remembering what I’d said then. ‘No ma’am – three bags full, ma’am. ’
It was five in the morning – still dark – and rain was smattering against the French windows at the far end of Beverley’s bedroom. The only serious light came from the screen of my phone. The other half of the big bed was empty – I was alone.
‘One of my daughter’s friends has had an accident,’ said Lady Ty. ‘I want you to ensure my daughter is not implicated in the subsequent investigation. ’
Oh shit, I thought. That kind of favour.
She gave me the address and what she knew of the circumstances.
‘You want me to prove your daughter wasn’t involved?’ I said.
‘You misunderstand,’ said Lady Ty. ‘I don’t care what her involvement is – I want her kept out of the case. ’
She really had no idea what she was asking for, but I knew better than to try and explain.
‘Understood,’ I said.
‘And Peter,’ said Lady Ty, ‘Nightingale is not to know about this – is that clear?’
‘Crystal,’ I said.
As soon as she hung up, I called the Folly.
‘I rather think I’d have to have taken an interest in any case,’ said Nightingale once I’d briefed him. ‘Still, I shall endeavour to adopt a façade of ignorance until such time as you need me. ’ He paused and then said: ‘And you will let me know when that moment arrives. ’ It was not a question.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, and hung up wondering why everyone felt the need to be so emphatic at this time of the morning.
Beverley owns both halves of a 1920’s semi-detached house on Beverley Avenue in SW20. It’s a strange place, half-furnished and underused. Beverley told me when I first visited that she ‘sort of inherited it’ and hasn’t really decided what to do with the property yet. She sleeps in a ground floor room with easy access to the back garden. There’s just the Ikea bed with an incomprehensible name, two mismatched wardrobes, an antique mahogany chest of drawers and a Persian carpet that covers half the bare floorboards.
