Ross had taken a file of papers off the shelf. ‘Private detective licence,’ she said. ‘Ran out last year.’ The photo on it confirmed that this was indeed the man they’d seen at the auction and on the CCTV footage from the Soviet bar. He looked scared even in the picture.
Sefton came in, holding up elbow and knee pads, which looked weird to Ross, not the sort of thing a skater would use. Brand new, without a scratch. ‘Always look under the bed,’ Sefton said. ‘No sex toys, but these, which is weird.’
Ross went through every drawer, too fast for her liking, then went back and double-checked. She found another folder, this one containing photos. Big prints. They looked as if they’d been taken at a film premiere. But they were from the back of the crowd, the arm and head of a celeb waving as they got out of a car.
Costain indicated the printer, which was indeed a serious piece of work. ‘Failed paparazzi,’ he said, ‘hence the protective gear. Failed private detective.’ He held up a greetings card still in a ripped-open envelope, blank inside but for a printed note pasted in it, with ‘Congratulations!’ in a jolly font at the top. The receipt stub for the anonymous gift that had been enclosed was still in there. ‘Ticket for the proms tonight at the Royal Albert Hall,’ said Costain. ‘Someone’s looking after him.’
Ross reached under the sofa and found a Moleskine notebook that hadn’t been written in, but it had contact details written in the front. She held it up to show the others. ‘Where have I seen that mobile number?’ she asked. Costain found a picture on his phone, and compared the number in the image to the one in the front of the notebook. They were the same. The picture was the one he’d taken of the back of the brothel’s business card. ‘He’s the owner of the burner phone,’ he said. ‘Someone wrote Challoner’s number on the back of the brothel card.’
* * *
As soon as they left the flat, Costain called Lofthouse. ‘Dear God,’ she said, ‘Russell Vincent?’ Ross asked for the phone, and told Lofthouse she’d photographed her portable Ops Board and was sending it to her in an email. ‘You know the lines we’re following. We’re pursuing the hottest one as we speak. As far as we know, Vincent isn’t listening in to your dreams. So if we don’t make it through tonight…’
‘Understood,’ Lofthouse said. ‘I’m still at my desk; I know a few others who are too. The Special Constables have largely volunteered to break with the strike. If you need backup, we’ll find it from somewhere.’
Ross winced inwardly at the idea of the part-time Specials coming to their aid and dying in droves. ‘I don’t think, ma’am, that if the Ripper comes after us, any backup you could find would help.’
‘I know,’ said Lofthouse, ‘but I had to say something.’
* * *
It was evening by the time they reached the Albert Hall. On their journey they had to tack away from suburbs where the radio news and Sefton’s continual searches of Twitter had started to say things were kicking off. Ross drove. They talked and talked about what might be ahead and had all sorts of plans to avoid it. They were all acutely aware, she thought, of the potential for ostentation to bring trouble suddenly upon them. But of course, since, up to a certain point, Vincent knew the contents of their minds, he’d also know they were keeping a lookout on the social networks.
Ross, Costain and Sefton strode together up the steps in front of the enormous domed building. They could hear the sounds of the orchestra inside, stark against the absolute silence outside. Or not quite silence. Was it Ross’ imagination, or the workings of the Sight, that she could hear distant drums and shouts? There was definitely smoke in the air. Signs said that the Promenade Concert tonight was still on. ‘I like that,’ said Sefton. ‘Keep calm and carry on.’
‘The band playing on the Titanic,’ said Costain. ‘We know Challoner’s seat number; do we walk in there and drag him out?’
‘He might be armed,’ said Sefton. ‘Our kind of armed. Innocent bystanders.’
‘Then let’s find out which exit he’ll be using, get him on the way out,’ decided Costain. ‘He’s not expecting anyone. If we miss him, we go back to his place.’
‘Would you go to a prom concert tonight?’ said Sefton.
‘From what we saw of his flat,’ said Costain, ‘I think he’s desperate in loads of ways.’ Ross saw what might almost be sadness on his face and wondered if, like her, he was thinking about a man who had offered parts of his body at that auction, on behalf of his employer. Ross wanted to hold Costain. Wanted him. Now, she thought, it was in moments of sadness, of sudden vulnerability, that she felt closest to him. If it all literally went to Hell tonight, if they couldn’t find anything to pin on Vincent, if the metropolis started to collapse in flames, maybe the two of them could get away. To where? To no happiness for her, ever, and the burden of that for him.
A sound made them all turn. A convoy of military lorries was roaring along Kensington Road, the trees of Hyde Park dark against their camouflage. ‘Peacekeepers for tonight,’ said Costain. ‘Going back and forth to every borough where it sounds like something’s going down. Without police liaison, or with a very reduced one. Being run out of the Home Office. Fuck’s sake.’ Behind those lorries came white vans with company logos.
‘Private security companies too,’ said Ross. ‘Shit.’
‘If anyone gets shot by that lot tonight,’ said Sefton. ‘Ostentation could ramp up the anger about that, amplify it, and we could be on the verge of sheer hell.’
‘Bloody London,’ said Costain.
* * *
They explored the layout of the Albert Hall area at a fast pace, decided on their options and went looking for an early dinner at the only restaurant that was still open. There was nobody else eating. They all ordered two starters and a main course and a pile of dessert, and they must have given the impression they were making the most of things before the world ended. The noises from the kitchen were the only sounds apart from their frantic speech as they drank every mouthful of strong coffee. Costain felt he might collapse at any moment. He had no idea what that collapse would even involve. If it involved sleep, it might mean death — not just for him but all of them.
He wondered how the waiters would be getting home. Would London tonight change London tomorrow once and for all? Would the streets in the next few days be like something out of John Wyndham: emptiness and distrust, and everything rolling downhill with increasing ferocity? Was that the plan the Smiling Man had hinted at through Rob Toshack, months ago?
He kept looking to his phone for the rolling news: riots in Tooting, Lambeth, Peckham, Wandsworth, and now reports of it coming into the centre of town, fascist marches in support of shopkeepers with cudgels, the army firing plastic bullets at youths in hoods running with televisions down Oxford Street, where a sports shop had the contents of its window strewn across the bus lane, and private security staff running left and right, trying to stop the looters who were rushing out in all directions. The Toffs, changing tactics, were pictured standing arm in arm in Trafalgar Square, marching across Westminster Bridge. There were scraps of interviews with them yelling that they were out here because they wouldn’t be intimidated, and there was safety in numbers. It seemed futile to Costain. Parliament was sitting in an all-night session. There were rumours of a vote of no confidence in the government, of all leadership dissolving before the morning.
He glanced at his watch, which seemed to be working so slowly, and was relieved that the time had arrived when they might do something about all this, even if it too turned out to be a futile gesture. ‘Okay,’ he said.
* * *