Nothing added up. The dead guard at Westbourne Grove was clearly the victim of the same man as had killed the two policemen, and this girl here lying ruined in blood and bone. But the police had been called to the bus station minutes after the inhabitants of Terragon Mansions had reported violent shouts and bumps from upstairs. And Westbourne Park was simply too far from Willesden to be reached in that time. So whoever was shattering all that glass in those buses and pushing it in that poor man’s eye could not be the same one who had destroyed this woman.
Of course, Herrin and Bailey saw no problem with this. Someone had been confused about the time. The people in Willesden must be half an hour or so out. Or the people in Westbourne Grove were, or both were fifteen minutes out, or something. And the fact that so many were out by the same amount, well, what did you think happened then, sir? If not that?
And of course Crowley had no answer.
He was intrigued by reports of music coming from the garage at the time Saul — or whoever — was destroying it. The reports were vague, but seemed to indicate a high-pitched sound like a recorder or a flute or pipes, or something. Saul was no musician, Crowley knew that, though he was apparently something of an aficionado of Dance music, the kind that his taciturn friend Natasha played. So what of the pipes?
Crowley could see the scenario being created for Saul. Saul had become a serial killer. And Saul therefore needed rituals, such as the return to this, the site of his first murder, that had unhinged him. And the playing of music at the site of a murder, such as the one at the bus station, what was this but ritualized? Perhaps he had played music also at the death of the as yet unidentified man in the underground, a crime Crowley was still sure was part of the same rampage. The public-transport connection only strengthened his conviction.
So, why was Saul no longer into Dance music? Why had he started playing what most of those who had heard it described as Folk music? None of this was airtight, of course, of course…
But Crowley could not help thinking it might be another who had played the music in the bus station. Why not? Why must it be Saul? What if it was another who mocked him with this music so utterly different to Saul’s own taste?
Crowley straightened up suddenly. A long, thin, light club. Made of metaclass="underline" the impact was clear about that. Something the murderer hung on to, used more than once. Took from crime to crime. Where he played music, it seemed.
‘Bailey!’ Crowley yelled.
The big man appeared, still impatient, still exasperated with his boss.
He all but rolled his eyes at Crowley’s new question.
‘Bailey, do any of Saul’s mates play the flute?’
Chapter Twenty-One
Deep underneath London, King Rat skulked and ferreted in the darkness.
He clutched a stash of food, carried it slung over one shoulder like a swag bag. His strides were long A and left no sign. He stalked silently through the water of the sewers.
The rats ran as he approached. The braver souls stayed a little to spit at him and provoke him. His smell was deeply ingrained in their nervous system, and they had been taught to despise it. King Rat ignored them. Walked on. His eyes were dark.
He passed like a thief in the night. Unclear. Minimal. Dirty. Subaltern. His motives were opaque.
He reached under the dirty stream to dislodge the plug to his throne-room, slid through the murk into the great teardrop chamber. He shook the water from him, and stamped into the room.
Saul came from behind him. He clutched a broken chair leg which he swung at an incredible speed and cracked against the back of King Rat’s skull.
King Rat flew forward and flung his arms out with a sudden shrill bark of pain. He sprawled, rolled, clutching his head, regained his footing.
Food spread across the sodden floor.
Saul was upon him, quivering, his jaw set hard and tight. He swung the chair leg again and again.
King Rat was as pliable as quicksilver. He slid impossibly out of Saul’s flurry of blows and scampered away, hissing, clutching his bleeding head.
He spun to face Saul.
Saul’s face was a mosaic of bruises and blood and puffy flesh. King Rat was quite still. He eyed Saul with his hidden eyes. His teeth were bared and glinted with dirty yellow light. His breath came hard. His hands were crooked into eager claws.
But Saul hit him again, before those claws could move. Saul’s hands and club came at him hard, but King Rat ripped up with his clawed hands and drew lines on Saul’s stomach, below his ruined shirt.
Saul spoke, muttering in time to the blows he attempted to land.
‘So what the fuck was Loplop doing there, unh?’ Slam.
King Rat slipped outside the club’s arc. It hit the floor loudly.
‘Tell him to follow me, unh?’ Slam. ‘What was he going to do — report back?’ Slam. This time the wood connected and King Rat yelled in rage.
King Rat growled and slashed at Saul with those claws, and Saul bellowed and swung the club wit renewed venom. The two of them skittered around the dark room, slipping on mould and food, moving now on two limbs, now on four. Saul and King Rat moved like liminal figures, hovering between evolutionary strata, bestial and knowing.
‘So was Loplop going to send a message, unh? bird? Little bird going to let slip where I was, then?’
Again the attacks came, again King Rat moved, refusing to engage in battle, content to draw blood and slip away, his teeth still visible and wicked.
‘What if Loplop had accidentally told someone else where I was, unh? Was I fucking bait?’ King Rat caught the club with his right hand and bit at it suddenly and savagely, and it dissolved in a burst of splinters. Saul did not pause, but grasped King Rat’s filthy lapels and carried him down into the muck, straddling him.
‘Well you needn’t have bothered, you fucking shit because the Piper was there and look what he did to me, you shit. You just weren’t ready, you and Nans so poor old Loplop had to take him on his own.’ Saul pinioned King Rat’s arms to the brick floor and began systematically to punch his face. But even trapped lit that King Rat writhed and slipped under him, many of the heavy blows did not land.
Saul thrust his face right up to King Rat, and stare through the shadows on his eyes.
‘I know you wouldn’t give a fuck if I’d died, as long as I took Piper-man with me,’ he hissed. ‘And I know you killed my dad, you fucking shithead rapist, you piece of crud — not the fucking Piper…’
‘We.’ King Rat shouted the word out and convulsed, throwing Saul from him and sliding in a single movement until he stood in characteristic pose by the throne, skulking and aggrandizing, but this time with his claws bared and his teeth dangerous, coated in slaver like a wild animal. Saul moved backwards in the dirt, fought to right himself.
King Rat spoke again. ‘I never bumped off your dad, stupid. I killed the Usurper.’
The word stayed in the air after he had spoken it.
King Rat spoke again.
‘I’m your dad…’
‘No you fucking aren’t, you weird old fucked-up spiritual degenerate,’ replied Saul instantly. ‘I might have your blood in my veins, you fucking rapist bastard, but you aren’t shit to me.’
Saul smacked himself on the forehead, laughing bitterly.
‘I mean, hello? "Your mother was a rat, and I’m your uncle." Jesus, nice one — playing me like a fucking idiot! And…’ Saul paused and jerked his finger viciously at King Rat, ‘and, that goddamn fucking lunatic Piper who wants me dead only knows about me because of you.’