On the way to Quill’s autopsy she had looked again at her research on the object that could bring her father back from the dead. She had checked every detail. The Bridge of Spikes, her reading said, was one of a kind. She hadn’t found anything else that claimed to be able to do the same thing.
She put the marker down. ‘Fuck this,’ she said, ‘fuck this.’ She ran for the door.
She managed to get into her car and start the engine as Costain ran down the steps of the Portakabin. She accelerated out of the gate and onto the road and just glimpsed Sefton in the rear-view mirror, stumbling out after Costain, starting to shout.
* * *
Leyton Gardens in Kentish Town looked just as grim in the early afternoon. There were a few kids playing in the street. Still a smell of smoke; it was everywhere in certain suburbs now. Music from open windows on higher floors. Ross walked around the block, checking for exits. The curtains were open now; she’d been home since last time, this Anna Lassiter.
Ross turned the corner to head back round to the door of number 16 and found Costain standing there. He raised his hands in surrender. ‘If you really want to do this on your own,’ he said, ‘I’ll go straight back to the nick.’
‘You left Sefton on his own?’ she said.
‘It doesn’t matter. The Ripper could take all three of us as easily as one. He could. Just like that.’ His teeth were starting to chatter. She’d let her meth intake drop, but he hadn’t.
‘Was he okay with that?’
‘He just stared at me. Then he started to ask me what I was doing, but … I got out of there.’
‘He deserves better.’
‘Yeah. So. Yeah.’ Costain stepped towards her. ‘Do you want me along or not?’
‘You’d really go back?’
‘Yeah. Yeah.’
She studied his face. It was the most obvious move, pretending to do her bidding. She could imagine him grabbing the object out of her hands and sprinting to his car, just as they’d both run away from Sefton.
She knew the meth was compromising the choices she made. Doing this felt like standing on the edge of a precipice; so did everything right now. Their only hope was to stay together, but she’d run off. ‘Stay,’ she said. ‘Let’s get this done.’
They went to the door of number 16. Ross knocked. No reply. The original plan when they’d first checked this place out had been that they would swap shifts, do some kind of stakeout, wait until they saw Lassiter leave, then go in.
‘Did you decide?’ asked Costain. ‘Who you would use it on?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Okay. Sure. Right.’ Costain took a tyre iron from his jacket.
‘We don’t have a warrant,’ she said. ‘This is illegal.’
‘I don’t care. Okay? I don’t care.’ He checked out the area near the lock and looked around to see if anyone was in sight. Just at that moment there was no one, but that wouldn’t be the case a moment later, and there were plenty of windows. He shoved the tyre iron into the gap between the door and the frame, took a step back and kicked it. He kicked it and kicked it, bam, bam, bam, the drug not letting him pause.
The door burst open, the lock splintering the wood. The lack of bolts on the inside might mean there was nobody at home. With luck, they could search the place. Ross stepped straight in and Costain followed her, pulling the door to behind them as far as it could go.
Ross had been in some dilapidated homes in her time, but this one was towards the worse end. There were full ashtrays spilling onto the floor, cans of food with forks in them. The place smelt stale — old beer and cigarettes. The windows were stained, the light inside was low.
Ross took a step towards what must be the bedroom, and froze. She put a hand out to stop Costain moving. She felt … what was that just ahead? It reminded her of the fortune-teller at the New Age fair.
‘I see it, I see it, okay,’ said Costain. He made his way forward and indicated, an inch above the carpet, a line of … of nothing … just a slight reaction of the eye to the grain of the worn-down fibres. A tripwire. The fortune-teller had set one for certain words, and this Lassiter woman had set it for people to walk across. Costain stepped over it, and then across another similar one a moment later. ‘Damn it,’ he whispered, ‘they’ll be between us and the door.’
They made their way towards the back of the flat, with him leading now. Ross marvelled at the idea that he was better at seeing these traps than she was, but she supposed that was his nature, to look out for what could bring him down.
They went into a bedroom with no decoration. Single bed. One table. Old magazines on it. As welcoming as a dentist’s waiting room. But lived in: clothes on the floor, hanging out of drawers. They quickly searched, under the bed, in the wardrobe.
Ross realized that she could only feel slight traces of the gravity of the Sight about this place. That feeling put in her something close to panic until she reminded herself that that gravity could also be concealed, which was what you’d do if you were hiding an immensely powerful object in a place like this. The traps didn’t show up much either — or what use would they be?
She half expected to find an addict’s supply and paraphernalia, but didn’t. In the wardrobes there was a row of ancient dresses, the uniform of the ‘Londoner’ when out and about. She whizzed through them, patting them down when there might be a pocket. Nothing.
They finished with the bedroom, tried the tiny kitchen. They went through all the obvious hiding places: the grill; packets and cans in the cupboard; the freezer drawer of the fridge. How awful must it be, thought Ross, to have such an immense power in a place with so little ability to keep it safe. If you were keeping it for yourself, if you were hoping for it to save you when you died, you’d spend that life always on guard, always terrified.
Costain found a few traps as they explored and stopped Ross from walking right into one, in the breadbin. They didn’t seem to be protecting anything specific. This woman would have to live with these traps, having to remember all the time where they were.
Costain suddenly froze. Ross heard it too: the sound of someone outside the door. He motioned for her to be quiet. The best they could do would be to wait until the arrival had entered, then rush past her for the door. The best they could hope for was that she was unarmed. They would have to leap those tripwires.
‘Come on out, you cunts.’ The voice was familiar.
Costain looked at Ross, telling her to stay here. He stepped out of the kitchen. She let him. But the voice had used the plural. Maybe this was for the best. They hadn’t found anything. They’d have to try to make this woman an offer.
She followed Costain. Standing there was the young woman from the Goat and Compasses whom Sefton had spent so much time with, the one he’d said had sworn at him all the time. She was dressed more normally now, in a black T-shirt and jeans. She was looking at them with an expression of supreme disdain but she also looked hopeless, as lost as they were. ‘You’re too late,’ she said.
‘What do you-?’ began Costain.
‘Don’t fucking pretend, nigger. You were after the Bridge of Spikes. The object that lets you come back from the dead. But you’re going to go away empty fucking handed. ’Cos some other fucker broke in here yesterday and took it.’
Ross found that she could barely breathe. She felt as if rocks had fallen into her stomach. Costain spun and kicked the sofa. ‘Who?’ he said.
‘Like I know!’ The woman sat down and made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. ‘You can tell everyone else it’s gone and all.’
‘Everyone else?’ asked Costain.