This is of course total bollocks.
Of course you can cross back; you can move to Burnley and become a hairdresser, or to Sutton and work in IT. You can go caravanning in Wales and never see a single dragon, and go swimming in the Severn and never meet the goddess Sabrina.
Even the very strange can leave the demi-monde if they put their mind to it. There’s definitely at least one bridge troll that I know of teaching PE at a comprehensive in Reading.
Those that don’t choose a quiet life teaching basketball to twelve-year-olds form what we call the demi-monde, because calling it the half-world in English would lead to too many questions. It’s made up of fae of all kinds, and also people who want to be fae or have been touched by the supernatural in some way, or just found this great pub with this really spooky atmosphere.
So pub crawling I went – from the Chestnut Tree at Hyde Park Corner to the Spaniards Inn in Highgate, to the shebeen that’s run off the roof of a tower block in Hillingdon. Everywhere I went I was greeted with the glad cries and open-hearted welcome that a police officer comes to expect when trawling his suspect pool.
I did get some co-operation if only, as it was made clear, to speed me on my way.
While I was out fruitlessly outreaching the community, the Queensland Police emailed back to say that Gabriel Tate had died the previous November after being bitten by an eastern brown snake at his home in Middle Park, Brisbane. That he didn’t recognise the bite for what it was, until he was too far gone, was attributed to his inexperience with Australian wildlife and it was considered an accidental death. Just to be on the safe side I requested the full file.
An email from the US regarding John Chapman just said Call me.
By the time I got back from Hillingdon it was past 8 p.m. in Washington DC, and so late enough to catch my US contact at home.
Leaving aside dumb luck, criminals are mainly caught by systems, not individuals. Most of these systems are officially sanctioned and come with virtual folders full of regulations and best practice, but some are complex webs of interpersonal relationships and traded favours. Where everyday policing butts up against boundaries – jurisdictional, national, ideological – the official linkages can clog up or break down or just plain fail to exist at all. Here the informal networks take over at every level, from ordinary hard-working but newly qualified DCs to the chief constables of major forces – they are tolerated as the quickest way to get the job done.
Foreign is always tricky even when you share a common language, and so a sensible young copper looks to maintain whatever contacts might fall into his lap.
Special Agent Kimberley Reynolds was my contact at the FBI and ostensibly worked for the Office of Partner Engagement in Washington DC. She was also, as far as we both knew, the Bureau’s only Special Agent currently tasked with investigating weird bollocks. She suspected there might be more, but the top brass at the Puzzle Palace had made a point of discouraging her curiosity.
We’d been very cautious about our contacts until the previous winter, when Kimberley had been forced to break agency protocol and get my help, or at least my advice, long distance. And, in the aftermath, nothing happened. Which is impressive considering the centre of a small town was effectively levelled as a consequence.
Since that contact we’d regularly exchanged information, gossip and advice on the basis that if the powers-that-be didn’t want us to –and we had no doubt that we were being monitored – they’d bloody well say so.
‘I think we can safely assume,’ Kimberley had said during one conversation, ‘that the FBI now considers you a partner it’s engaging with.’
Still we didn’t say anything out loud that we didn’t want the NSA overhearing.
‘John Chapman taught Latin at John Carroll University in Cleveland,’ said Kimberley. ‘That’s the one that’s in Ohio.’
‘Taught Latin?’ I asked, not liking the past tense.
‘Died in an officer involved shooting last January,’ said Reynolds, who’d managed to get a look at the file.
Chapman had been filling up his car at a local gas station when he was attacked by a lone figure dressed in black combats and a black or dark blue winter jacket. Police theorise that the assailant was either planning a straight mugging or a carjacking, but either way he was out of luck because a Cleveland PD cruiser pulled into the gas station forecourt just as the attack went down.
The subsequent events were confused and not helped by the fact that the police cruiser’s camera was facing away from the action and the footage from the gas station’s CCTV was never recovered. According to the officers’ own statements they responded to what they initially perceived as an altercation, but as they were approached they were threatened by the unidentified assailant.
‘This is where you might find it interesting,’ said Reynolds. ‘The officers’ statements in the official investigation both say that the unidentified male threatened them with a long knife, “almost a sword”, and in fear of their lives they opened fire.’
Emptying their Glock 17s – 17 shots each – at their target.
‘I’ve seen panic fire before,’ said Kimberley. ‘And judging from the dispersion pattern those boys were strictly spray and pray.’
John Chapman had been struck three times in thigh, hip and chest and had died on the way to hospital. The unidentified assailant fled the scene and was never apprehended. The Cleveland PD’s follow-up investigation was swift, comprehensive and, to Kimberley’s eye, almost entirely fabricated.
‘It helped that Mr Chapman lived alone with no relatives and didn’t seem particularly loved at his place of work,’ she said.
‘No interest from the British Consulate?’ I asked.
‘Chapman had dual citizenship and Cleveland PD only recovered his American passport,’ said Kimberley. ‘I doubt it occurred to them to check further.’
‘Sloppy,’ I said.
‘Under pressure, in my view,’ said Kimberley. ‘But fortunately for you the DOJ was conducting an investigation of the whole department.’
Which meant that Kimberley had access to confidential documents without all the hassle of getting warrants – or permission.
Both the officers had been long-standing veterans. During their careers neither had faced complaints for excessive force and only one had discharged his firearm at an incident while the other had not – they were both described as reliable, professional and level-headed.
And both had retired from law enforcement within six weeks of the incident.
‘You think they ran into something,’ I said. ‘Something they didn’t understand?’
‘Oh, definitely.’
‘Any chance of you talking to them directly?’
‘Already booked on a flight.’
Kimberley was too experienced to make a move without cover – she had to have sanction from higher up. Strangely, who precisely constituted these higher-ups never arose in conversation. Obviously not worth discussing.
If this was sanctioned, then they must have been as spooked as Kimberley.
‘You’re that certain?’ I asked.
‘Thirty-four rounds, Peter,’ said Kimberley. ‘They hit the car eight times, two gas pumps three times each, they hit the “We’re Open” sign and the support pillars either side. And the only thing they didn’t hit was the mystery assailant? I know you have a low opinion of American law enforcement, but trust me when I say we teach our people to shoot straight.’
‘Then be careful,’ I said.
‘Always am.’
I checked in the next morning to see if we knew the whereabouts of Zachary Palmer, the demi-monde’s very own go-to guy for ducking and diving, bar work, fixing and general dishonesty. Due to a lucrative consultation contract with Crossrail, currently worth three hundred large a year, he didn’t actually have to do any ducking and diving. That he still fiddled his change and sold dodgy goods on the Portobello Road while the money piled up in a low interest building society account seemed to wind up Seawoll no end.