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‘Why?’ I said, suddenly wary. ‘I’m not under arrest again, am I?’
‘No, but I need you to come with us.’ He gestured to the van. ‘Now, please.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
I sat in the back of the police van, gripping onto the edges of the hard seat, the lap-style seatbelt digging uncomfortably into my bruised and be-spelled stomach. The painkillers were wearing off, as was the shock over the Chastity spell. I’d find a way to get rid of it, but as I really didn’t want any buns in my oven either, I shoved it to the bottom of my to-do list.
Hugh was sitting stoically across from me, despite the anxious red dust puffing from his head ridge and settling on his black hair and massive shoulders.
‘So what’s up, Hugh?’ I asked.
He didn’t answer, but held up one large finger to silence me: the uniformed witch next to him was casting some sort of spell. I nodded and settled back in the seat. The van smelled of sage, urine and rotten meat, a distinctly unpleasant combination. I wrinkled my nose and gazed out of the window, wishing I could open it.
After a look at Fi
More tourists cast curious looks our way as we drove past Tower Hill, where they used to carry out public executions—a cheerful thought while riding in the back of a police van. Of course, nowadays executions are carried out in the remote wilds of Dartmoor, with random members of the public invited to attend. As we passed by the War Memorial, a large raven perched on one corner caught my eye. Was it Jack? And if it was, was Jack the same raven Sylvia had seen flying through the Tower entrance; the one she’d thought had flown into Between?Hard to know really, as one raven looks pretty much like another from thirty feet away.
Then there was the other mystery: if the gate hadopened into Between, had Victoria Harrier really been trying to kidnap me? And if she had, then why? And there was Sylvia’s other strange comment, about Ana spitting on the Old Do
Magic tingled over my skin as the WPC finished up whatever spell she was casting. I turned round and studied her: black hair in a neat bun, attractive face and full, plump lips that looked like they’d just been kissed, in spite of the determined way she kept them pressed together. After a moment I recognised her: Constable Martin, the WPC who’d been guarding the crime scene yesterday, at Dead Man’s Hole, the disused mortuary under Tower Bridge, where the dead raven faeling had been found.
She had a small glass globe about the size of a tangerine cradled in both hands. It swirled pink, shot through with fainter threads of red. I looked, checking out the globe’s magic, but the colours didn’t change, so whatever spell was inside, it was keyed for anyone to use, an advantage for trolls with their lack of magical abilities. As we all watched, the colour drained out of the globe, leaving it full of misty grey clouds. ‘Okay, Sarge.’ Constable Martin tucked the globe away. ‘We’re clear.’ She caught my eye and gave me a suggestion of a smile. ‘Anti-Surveillance Ball. It monitors for Remote Listening spells. You just can’t trust the press nowadays.’
‘Neat,’ I said, impressed, then looked at Hugh. ‘So, what’s with the dramatic police pick-up then?’
‘We had an anonymous tip, that you were in danger,’ Hugh said quietly.
I narrowed my eyes. ‘What sort of danger was I supposed to be in?’
‘They weren’t specific,’ Hugh said.
‘Who are they?’
‘The tip was anonymous, Ge
‘C’mon, Hugh, I’m not stupid! Anonymous tips don’t have you turning out half the force’—okay, a bit of an exaggeration, but threevans?—‘otherwise you’d be spending all your time chasing your own tails.’
‘Our source wasanonymous,’ Hugh rebuked me quietly; ‘we’re not even sure if it’s male or female. But whoever it is, is a trusted informant in another case—the one involving the dead faeling yesterday. But, before we get into that, Ge
‘Going to visit the Raven Master and the ravens, to see what I could find out about the dead faeling,’ I said, giving him an odd look. ‘Like who she was, for a start.’
Hugh frowned, deep fissures creasing his forehead. ‘We already know who she was: Sally Redman.’ He fished his notebook out and flipped a couple of pages. ‘She was nineteen last August, her mother is the landlady of the Rose and Punchbowl, a pub in Whitechapel. The father’s name is Grog. He left the Tower back in 1981, took up residence at the pub, but disappeared a few years after Sally was born. The ravens at the Tower haven’t seen or heard from Sally for at least three years, nor do they want to. She’s been working in various clubs in Soho and they disapprove. All that information was in the report your solicitor removedfrom my desk.’
‘It wasn’t in the report I saw,’ I said drily, thinking Hugh was being uncommonly free with his info in front of his WPC sidekick. I gave him my own news. ‘Sylvia thinks my lawyer just tried to kidnap me, and Fi
Hugh just nodded as if I’d confirmed something, but Constable Martin leaned forward, excitement animating her face. ‘Are you saying Victoria Harriertried to kidnap you?’
‘According to the others, yes.’
‘Check into it, will you, Constable?’ Hugh said. ‘See if there is any co
‘Yes, Sarge.’ She dug out her phone and started tapping the screen.
I was begi
Hugh’s mouth flattened into a hard line. ‘Another girl has been found dead, Ge
Damn.‘Another faeling?’
‘We’re there now,’ he said, looking out through the van’s windscreen, ‘so you can see for yourself.’
The van braked, juddering to a halt and I looked past Hugh’s bulk to see where we were. Back at Dead Man’s Hole.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Dead Man’s Hole, the old disused mortuary under Tower Bridge, was seeing way more use than anyone wanted. The place wasn’t much changed from my last visit. The river slapped against the dock outside, and cast watery reflections over the Victorian glazed-brick interior. Half a dozen uniforms—all witches—stood around the walls of the large cave-like room, and in between them were fat white candles that flickered and cast them into shadow. Spirals of thick smoke rose up to collect under the dome of the curved ceiling. My nostrils flared; underneath the heavy, waxy candle smell and the astringent scent of sage, I caught that same sweet, thick and slightly rotten smell from my previous visit. Then I realised it wasn’t just nudging my memory from before, but was also reminding me of the maple syrup on Sylvia’s breakfast pancakes. Strange, but then I’d never liked the stuff. And with a mounting sense of déjà vu, I followed Hugh to the large white sand and salt circle drawnin the centre of the cave-like room.