Inside the station I perused a map for the best route back to Camden Town. When the train arrived, it was so jammed I could barely edge my way onboard. I hate crowds, but for the first time since leaving the Blackbird I relaxed. I closed my eyes and let the surrounding throng hold me upright.
Half the subway car cleared out when we reached Camden Town, mostly kids tricked out in some variation of Doc Martens and black leather. Camden Town was definitely where punk had gone to die its slow death. Everyone crowded onto the escalators, exhilarated from the cold and all but spitting out sparks at the buzz of bad news—rumors of looting, flashmobs, a riot in Birmingham.
“Another eruption.”
“Plane went down in Indonesia.”
“No, Indiana.”
At the station exit, a dozen or so cops in fluorescent vests stood chatting, eying the crowd as we shuffled through the gates. There were more cops outside the station, some in riot gear, but they seemed less interested in hassling people than in observing them. Two mounted police guided their horses at a slow gait along the sidewalk, lords surveying their domain, and pairs of cops strolled among the throng on the other side of the High Street, like uniformed window shoppers. Double-decker buses and cabs inched along the High Street. A few brave cyclists zipped between stopped vehicles.
I pulled up the collar of my leather jacket. Adrenaline and nerves had kept me from feeling the cold; now it washed over me as though I’d fallen into an icy sea. Drumbeats echoed from somewhere close by, and amplified voices chanting words to a song I didn’t recognize. The wind carried the smells of cannabis and frying garlic. On the corner, a bubble machine sent iridescent clouds whirling overhead as a girl handed out flyers for a vegan takeaway.
The rain gave everything the sheen of a midnight carnival. But there was a malignant undercurrent to all the revelry—not just the presence of so many cops, but the sense that everyone was waiting impatiently for some prearranged signal. I’m all for chaos, but only if I have a good view of the exit.
I thought of what Adrian had said about kettling, and pushed my way through the throng until I reached a less crowded side street. I was wary of returning to the Banshee. Adrian knew I’d met Krishna there; if Poppy’s death had leaked and anyone was looking for me—Mallo, the police, Adrian—the Banshee would be the first place they’d check.
Still, “anyone” included Quinn, and I had no idea where else I might find him. I decided to hold off on the Banshee, but I was freezing and needed a drink. I saw a pub on the next corner, a few smokers huddled out front in the rain. I went inside and ordered a double shot, then found my way to a nearly empty side room where two men sat arguing drunkenly.
I headed for a wood-paneled booth with half doors that reminded me of a confessional. It had worn maroon velvet banquettes with a narrow trestle table between them. I went inside and pulled the half doors closed, dumped my bag on the bench, and had just started in on my whiskey when one of the doors creaked open and a young woman slid onto the bench across from me.
“I’m surprised you didn’t want to sit with them,” she said very loudly, and pointed at the drunk couple. “Make some new friends—oh, too late,” she said, as the two men slid from their table and left. “Guess they had to be somewhere.”
It was the platinum-haired woman I’d seen on the street outside Mallo’s place that first night, and again in Stepney. The same topaz eyes and frayed military parka; the same pointed face, now split by a grin that displayed white, slightly protruding teeth. I grabbed my bag, but she’d already shut the booth door and tripped the latch.
“No rush,” she said. “Sit and finish your drink.”
The crossbar beneath the table made it difficult for me to land a kick. I stared at her, and she flashed an ID badge.
ELLEN CONNORS
EUROPOL: ICOTIA
My stomach clenched. “You’re a cop?”
“I’m conducting a criminal investigation.”
“I want to know if you’re a cop.” I hoped she’d mistake my fear for righteous fury. “You’ve been following me. I’m an American citizen—”
“I’m with ICOTIA. International Commission on Traffic in Illicit Antiquities.”
“Antiquities.” I picked up my drink and took a sip. Beneath my turtleneck, the two bone thaumatropes burned against my skin. “That what you call antiques over here?”
“Don’t be obtuse. I have a few questions, and I suggest you cooperate in answering them.”
“You got a warrant? I’m not saying anything without an attorney.”
“I’m investigating your companion, Adrian Carlisle. He’s under suspicion for being part of a black market in illegal artifacts.”
“He’s not my companion. I only got here two days ago.”
“I saw you leave Mallory Dunfries’s home with Carlisle and accompany him to the Barbican.”
“It was a birthday party for his wife. There a law against that?”
“Mallo Dunfries is a career criminal who’s been linked to several unsolved murders. He ran an organized crime ring trafficking in narcotics. Twenty years ago he got his knuckles rapped and spent a few months in prison. When he got out, he changed horses and began dealing in looted artifacts. Do you know who benefits from that?”
“No clue.”
“Terrorists. In Iraq they’ve looted so many archaeological sites that there’s nothing left. Nineveh is gone. The museums are gone. A Sumerian stone seal this big—” She measured out an inch between thumb and forefinger. “Twenty thousand pounds—that’s more than thirty thousand dollars. Right into al-Qaeda’s pockets.”
I had no idea if this was true, although Poppy’s artifacts seemed older than ancient Sumeria by a factor of at least seven, and none had appeared to be from the Middle East. The word terrorist freaked me out, though. I drank my whiskey and shrugged. “I told you, I barely know Adrian, and I met Dunfries for about three seconds.”
“That’s three seconds too long. You were with Carlisle this morning. He accompanied you to Stepney Green to make some sort of a delivery. I’d like you to tell me what you delivered and to whom. If you cooperate I can ensure you’ll be treated fairly.”
I laughed. “Don’t you have skulls to split over in Alperton? Or here?” I gestured at a barred window. “It’s like the dress rehearsal for the apocalypse out there. Leave me the fuck alone.”
Whoever this chick was, she wasn’t a cop: She’d flashed me a badge and was questioning me in a pub, rather than a station house. If anything, her demeanor suggested she was a former cop—in my experience, a lot more of an immediate threat.
Could she be Poppy’s killer? Had she followed me to Stepney, waited for me to leave the flat, then somehow gained entry? Had Poppy known her?
That’s why they call it trust.
Ellen Connors leaned back, and her uniform jacket flopped open. Beneath it she wore a heavy cable-knit sweater whose bulk suggested it covered a cross-body holster, maybe a Kevlar vest. I wondered what else she had hidden in there. Poppy’s artifacts? Another set of heroin works?
Connors cleared her throat. As though following a script, she announced, “Trafficking in antiquities is a crime.”
“So’s harassing tourists.” I slung my bag over my shoulder, and before she could stop me I kicked the door open and hopped from the booth. “Fuck off.”
“Wait!” She grabbed my arm—she was fast; also strong. If not an ex-cop, she spent a lot of time at the gym. “Here—”
She thrust a card into my hand. “Call me next time you hear from Mallo Dunfries—”
I pushed her away and took the steps two at a time as I ran upstairs.