Crouch End

It miaowed at her silently through the glass.

Feeling a surge of disgust, she went to the call box and peered in through one of the dirty panes. Lo

She turned around. The taxi had vanished. Where it had stood there was only curbing and a few papers blowing lazily up the gutter. Across the street, two kids were clutching at each other and giggling. Doris noticed that one of them had a deformed hand – it looked more like a claw. She’d thought the National Health was supposed to take care of things like that. The children looked across the street, saw her observing them, and fell into each other’s arms, giggling again. ‘I don’t know,’ Doris said. She felt disoriented and a little stupid. The heat, the constant wind that seemed to blow with no gusts or drops, the almost painted quality of the light… ‘What time was it then?’ Farnham asked suddenly.

‘I don’t know,’ Doris Freeman said, startled out of her recital. ‘Six, I suppose. Maybe twenty past.’

‘I see, go on,’ Farnham said, knowing perfectly well that in August sunset would not have begun – even by the loosest standards – until well past seven. ‘Well, what did he do?’ Lo

‘Maybe when you put your hand up,’ Doris said, raising her own hand and making the thumb-and-forefinger circle Lo

‘I’d have to wave a long time to send him on with two-fifty on the meter,’ Lo

‘You an American, sir?’ the boy with the claw-hand called back.

‘Yes,’ Lo

The two children seemed to consider the question. The boy’s companion was a girl of about five with untidy brown braids sticking off in opposite directions. She stepped forward to the opposite curb, formed her hands into a megaphone, and still smiling – she screamed it through her megaphoned hands and her smile – she cried at them: ‘Bugger off, Joe!’

Lo

‘Sir! Sir! Sir!’ the boy screeched, saluting wildly with his deformed hand. Then the two of them took to their heels and fled around the corner and out of sight, leaving only their laughter to echo back.

Lo

‘I guess some of the kids in Crouch End aren’t too crazy about Americans,’ he said lamely.

She looked around nervously. The street now appeared deserted.

He slipped an arm around her. ‘Well, honey, looks like we hike.’

‘I’m not sure I want to. Those two kids might’ve gone to get their big brothers.’ She laughed to show it was a joke, but there was a shrill quality to the sound. The evening had taken on a surreal quality she didn’t much like. She wished they had stayed at the hotel.

‘Not much else we can do,’ he said. ‘The street’s not exactly overflowing with taxis, is it?’

‘Lo

‘And you remember all that?’

‘I’m a star witness,’ he said bravely, and she just had to laugh. Lo

There was a map of the Crouch End area on the wall of the police station lobby, one considerably more detailed than the one in the London Streetfinder. Farnham approached it and studied it with his hands stuffed into his pockets. The station seemed very quiet now. Vetter was still outside – clearing some of the witchmoss from his brains, one hoped – and Raymond had long since finished with the woman who’d had her purse nicked. Farnham put his finger on the spot where the cabby had most likely let them off (if anything about the woman’s story was to be believed, that was). The route to their friend’s house looked pretty straightforward. Crouch Hill Road to Hillfield Avenue, and then a left onto Vickers Lane followed by a left onto Petrie Street. Brass End, which stuck off from Petrie Street like somebody’s afterthought, was no more than six or eight houses long. About a mile, all told. Even Americans should have been able to walk that far without getting lost. ‘Raymond!’ he called. ‘You still here?’

Sergeant Raymond came in. He had changed into streets and was putting on a light poplin windcheater. ‘Only just, my beardless darling.’

‘Cut it,’ Farnham said, smiling all the same. Raymond frightened him a little. One look at the spooky sod was enough to tell you he was standing a little too close to the fence that ran between the yard of the good guys and that of the villains. There was a twisted white line of scar ru

Farnham sighed and gave him one. As he lit it he asked, ‘Is there a curry shop on Crouch Hill Road?’

‘Not to my knowledge, my dearest darling,’ Raymond said.

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Got a problem, dear?’

‘No,’ Farnham said, a little too sharply, remembering Doris Freeman’s clotted hair and staring eyes.

Near the top of Crouch Hill Road, Doris and Lo

‘Yes, it’s…’ she began, and that was when the low moaning arose. They both stopped. The moaning was coming almost directly from their right, where a high hedge ran around a small yard. Lo

‘What do you mean, no?’ he asked. ‘Someone’s hurt.’

She stepped after him nervously. The hedge was high but thin. He was able to brush it aside and reveal a small square of lawn outlined with flowers. The lawn was very green. In the center of it was a black, smoking patch – or at least that was her first impression. When she peered around Lo