‘Any theories?’ I asked, which got a laugh.
Apparently there were almost as many theories as skulls, but it was just possible they were victims of the Boudiccan sack of Londinium in ad 60, or possibly 61.
‘Given the numbers reported killed in Tacitus,’ she said, ‘the bodies must have gone somewhere.’
There was a problem with that theory, in that the skulls were mostly missing their related spines and hips, arms and legs – not to mention jawbones – which did rather suggest that they’d washed down the river from further upstream. Skulls being famous for surviving trips down rivers where lesser bones do not.
I was actually getting a bit interested, but then Robert Skene arrived and it was back to work.
He was a white guy in his early thirties who spoke with a vaguely East Anglian accent, and while he was dressed office casual in jeans and a check shirt, he definitely gave the impression that big mud-encrusted boots and army surplus jackets were a plausible option. I thought, he’s going to be a big fan of obscure heavy metal bands or folk music, or possibly both at the same time.
I asked about the dig where the stolen material had come from.
‘St Paul’s Cathedral School,’ he said. ‘Stage two of the One New Change development. It looked like demolition rubble, we did some test pits and some geophysics but we didn’t find any structures or useful stratification and the only proper dating evidence was the clay pipes.’ He shrugged. ‘Our best guess is that it was rubble from the medieval phase of the cathedral that was dumped during the construction of the Wren. The pipes might have belonged to the workers.’
‘That’s a lot of pipes,’ I said.
‘Clay pipes were totally disposable in those days,’ said Robert. ‘They used to sell a pipe with a single charge of tobacco – smoke it and throw it.’
‘So builder’s rubble and fag ends?’ I said.
‘Pretty much.’
So I was thinking about the power of faith while I was writing up my notes.
The exact role that faith plays in imbuing supernatural entities with power has been hotly debated since Newton’s day. Its importance has risen and fallen with the Folly’s intellectual fashions, from the Deism of the Enlightenment to the muscular Christianity of the late Victorians, to the disillusionment and despair in the aftermath of the First World War. But not in the way you might think.
The deists, believing in a creator that had set the world in motion and then stood back to admire its work, thought faith and worship might have an impact on lesser supernatural creatures in much the same way as the wealth of nations was affected by trade. They were certain that, with the application of enough reason, the principles behind these transactions could be understood.
Those cold-shower athletic Up, up, play the game Victorians couldn’t believe that their Lord and saviour might have to compete with the local Rivers for the favour of ordinary humanity. Their God was all powerful and existed independently of our hopes and wishes. And if their prayers had no effect then, God damn it, nobody else’s did either.
Despite taking no official part in the War to End All Wars, many wizards volunteered nonetheless and nearly all lost brothers, fathers and uncles. Foxholes might breed belief, but trench systems are full of fatalistic cynics. After the war, most combatants didn’t like to talk about it. But those that did were not fans of the idea that faith could move mountains – at least not literally.
Nonetheless, there is power in those old cathedrals – you can feel it through your fingers when you touch the walls. And, wherever it comes from, we all knew what Martin Chorley planned to do with it.
‘Well, that’s it,’ said Seawoll, when we convened for the evening briefing. ‘We go after Lesley.’
15
The Coop
‘Do you think there is a God?’ said Carey, apropos of fuck knows what.
We were on a stake-out. And spending a couple of hours cooped up in a car often leads to some weird conversations. But this was the first time religion had ever come up.
‘You know, God,’ he said. ‘Creator of everything – the Bible – that kind of God.’
‘Not really,’ I said, and checked the mirrors to make sure we hadn’t been spotted.
Not that it was likely, given that we were parked down Poplar Place which was actually round the corner from our target. We’d taken the ‘last car on earth’, a ten year old Rover that was fully reconditioned under the bonnet but beaten to shit on the bodywork. It moved when you wanted it to but the aircon was buggered. Which why it was always the last car anyone picked for an operation. It didn’t help that it was another sweaty, overcast day, and even with the windows down Carey was suffering.
Our targets were the false houses in Bayswater that concealed not only the unsightly gash of the Circle and District Lines, but one of the hidden entrances to the clandestine tunnels that were the domain of the secret people that lived under West London. Fortunately we knew where most of the hidden entrances were. Unfortunately, so did Zachary Palmer – who was minting it as informal liaison between Crossrail and the Quiet People, as the secret folk were known, who were employed for their unique tunnelling skills.
Judging from the pattern when he evaded us, Zach used the hidden ways when he wanted to escape his surveillance team. As part of the ‘arrangement’ with the Quiet People the further flung of their secret entrances, not used for Crossrail, had been decommissioned. Me and Carey were stationed at the easternmost of the entrances which was still open, while Nightingale and Guleed were waiting in Notting Hill, which we figured was his most likely escape route.
‘So you don’t believe in God?’ said Carey.
Long experience with my mother’s erratic approach to Christianity has taught me to avoid this topic of conversation, but I wasn’t paying attention so I just told him I didn’t.
‘How can you not believe in God?’
There was something in Carey’s tone that made me pay attention.
‘I just don’t,’ I said.
‘But after what you’ve seen,’ he said. ‘After the shit we’ve seen?’
‘What kind of shit?’
‘You can do magic, Peter,’ said Carey. ‘You can shoot fireballs out of your fingers and your girlfriend is a river. That kind of shit. Like possessed BMWs and just all of it. All of that shit.’
‘That’s different,’ I said. ‘That shit is real.’
‘Most people don’t think it’s real. They think it’s all made up.’
‘Like overtime,’ I said, but Carey wasn’t biting.
‘If that’s true, then why not God?’
‘How does that follow?’
‘Because it does.’
‘No it doesn’t.’
‘OK, OK, maybe you just haven’t met God yet,’ he said and, before I could reply, my Airwave pinged.
It was Sergeant Jaget Kumar, the Folly’s liaison with the British Transport Police and our man in London Underground’s CCTV control room.
‘You’re not going to like this,’ he said. ‘But your target’s eastbound on the District Line.’
Nightingale broke in.
‘Zulu Foxtrot Two One One – go east now, see if you can get ahead of him.’
So much for secret doors, I thought, as I put the Rover in gear and peeled away with the light-bars flashing but the siren off. I considered going under the Westway at Royal Oak but decided to risk the traffic on the direct route and head up Bishop’s Bridge Road. We don’t speed in the Metropolitan Police, we ‘make progress’ where the traffic allows. Sometimes we made progress at seventy miles an hour, but not often enough to reach Edgware Road before Zach did.
‘Has he ever done this before?’ asked Carey, who was enjoying the breeze.