Gemma unrolled one of the maps that she had brought with her. It was a scan of an 1847 map that was yellow with age, and which had been folded and refolded so many times that it had been stuck together with Sellotape.
‘From my point of view, our first priority is to track down the person who’s doing all these things. Until we can find them, I don’t think we can possibly understand what their motive is. Perhaps they don’t even have a motive. It must be the same with some of the murders you have to investigate.’
‘That’s true,’ said Jamila. ‘I had a case only last month in which a young woman in Redbridge had been stabbed to death. There seemed to be no motive at all, but when the forensic pathologist examined her wounds, he found that they had been inflicted by a Mahasabha knife.’
‘What’s that then?’ Jerry asked her.
‘It’s a very distinctive kind of sheath knife given only to Hindus when they are young to protect themselves. The young woman had only one close Hindu friend, and when we questioned him, he admitted that he had murdered her. His motive was that she had killed a spider that was sitting in the middle of its web.’
‘Oh well. She deserved it then. You can’t expect to kill spiders willy-nilly and get away with it. Blimey.’
‘You don’t understand. Her friend was a devout Hindu and to Hindus the spider is the spinner of illusions and represents maya, the supernatural force behind the creation of the world. That was his motive. He feared that if he left her unpunished, he himself would be considered to be an accomplice, and when he died he would be reincarnated as a beetle or a rat.’
‘When does he come up for trial? I can’t wait to see what excuse his defence lawyer is going to come up with.’
Gemma laid the map flat on the table. Even though it was faded, Jerry could see that it depicted Peckham Rye and all the surrounding area as it had been in the mid-nineteenth century.
‘This map was used by Mr J. Clarke, who ran a night-soil business – in other words, he employed men to go around at night and empty people’s cesspits. They called them “nightmen”. A “holeman” would go down into the cesspit with a wooden tub and shovel up the human waste, a “ropeman” would haul it up and two “tubmen” would carry it between a pole to their cart. They would take it back to Mr Clarke’s yard, and he would mix it up with manure and rotting vegetables and sell it to local farmers to spread on their fields..’
‘Waste not, want not,’ put in DC O’Brien.
‘You’re right,’ said Gemma. ‘A hogshead of human excrement could dress a whole acre of farmland. Here – you can see that Mr Clarke has marked all his clients’ houses with a cross, along with the date when their cesspit was last emptied. Some cesspits didn’t need emptying for years, but if they were allowed to fill up too much they could flood into your garden or up through your floor and into your house. Samuel Pepys had some trouble with that when his neighbour’s cesspit burst into his cellar, and he wrote that he went down to fetch a bottle of brandy and found himself ankle-deep in turds. His words, not mine.’
Jerry glanced across at DCI Walters. He could tell that Gemma was impressing him now, and that he was listening to her attentively. DC Pettigrew had her hand clamped over her mouth and her nose wrinkled as if she could actually smell those nineteenth-century cesspits.
‘We traced nothing unusual when we searched the sewers with GPR,’ Gemma continued, ‘but I went back over all the readings we’d taken, and I discovered that there are several locations where disused cesspits are connected to the sewers, either deliberately or because they’ve broken through where the brickwork has collapsed. I’ve marked those cesspits with a sticker – here, and here, and here – five of them altogether.’
‘And you believe that your ghosts, or your deformed children, or whatever they are – you think they could be hiding in one or other of these disused cesspits?’ asked DCI Walters.
‘It’s a possibility. Where else could they be?’
‘We have seen them out twice on the streets, as you know,’ said Jamila. ‘Or what appeared to be them, anyway. On both occasions though, they turned a corner and disappeared, and we could only assume that they had opened a manhole and gone back down into the sewers. There was absolutely nowhere else for them to go.’
Gemma said, ‘Yes. And if they had gone back down into the sewers, they could have easily made their way along to one of the breaches in the brickwork and concealed themselves in a cesspit, which we wouldn’t have thought of scanning with radar. The nearest breach from Peckham High Street is on the corner of Talfourd Place. A lot of the streets around there were bombed flat during the war, but there are still one or two large houses standing there from the 1830s, before the sewers were dug.’
‘So what’s your suggestion?’ asked DCI Walters.
‘To begin with, I suggest that we scan each of these five cesspits with GPR, and if any of the scans show anything unusual, that we investigate it further. I can get that done early tomorrow morning.’
‘But if they come up with nothing at all?’
‘I don’t know, detective inspector,’ Gemma told him. ‘It might sound strange to you, but like I’ve told DS Patel and DC Pardoe, the sewers are my whole world. They’re my life, and I want my life back, that’s all.’
*
As they drove along Peckham High Street, Jerry told Jamila that he had seen the old man in the brown tweed coat again, outside McDonald’s.
‘Jerry – I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.’
‘Either that, or he’s stalking me.’
‘But why would he? And how would he know where to find you each time?’
They were turning into Denmark Hill when Jerry’s phone warbled. He took it out and passed it over to Jamila.
‘Jerry? It’s ’Edge’og.’
‘Who? DC Pardoe is driving at the moment.’
‘Oh, sorry. Is that DS Patel? This is DC Mallett, from Tooting.’
‘Yes, this is DS Patel. Can I help you?’
‘There’s been a major incident at St George’s, involving those two foetuses that were being examined by Dr Wossname, the forensic pathologist.’
‘What kind of an incident?’
‘An intruder broke into the path lab and took away the foetuses before the doctor had a chance to look at them. Worse than that, they seriously injured a student who was there to watch him. Ripped off both of her forearms, right up to the elbows.’
‘Oh my God. When did this happen?’
‘Less than two hours ago. I’ve talked to Dr Wossname and his assistant and another student who was there. They all say that the intruder was wearing a black hooded cloak, but that they looked more like smoke than a solid person.’
‘Like smoke? That is exactly how Dr Macleod described the intruder who prevented him from carrying out a Caesarean section at the Warren BirthWell Centre. Like smoke.’
‘That’s right. Sounds like they were smoking something themselves, doesn’t it? But they all agreed that’s what it looked like.’
Jerry glanced across at her, and she lifted her hand to indicate that she would tell him all the details in a moment.
‘The student… will she survive?’
‘Yes, apparently. Dr Wossname stopped her arms from bleeding, but she’ll probably have to be fitted with prosthetics. Even if they could have sewn her arms back on, there was no sign of them. It seems like this smoky intruder took them away, along with the foetuses. Stone cold unbelievable, isn’t it?’
‘All right, thank you, DC Mallett. We are on our way to interview the staff at the BirthWell Centre. After we have done that, we will come over to Tooting.’
Jamila handed Jerry’s phone back.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘That spooky hooded smoke thing’s done it again.’
‘It took away the two foetuses that the pathologist was supposed to be examining at St George’s and tore off a student’s arms. I tell you, Jerry, this has all got completely out of control.’
‘Bloody hell. Let’s hope that Gemma’s right, and that we can find this thing hiding in one of those cesspits. Even if we can though, what do we do with it once we’ve found it? How are we going to nick something that’s made out of smoke?’
‘I wish I could ask the pir who used to live in the village next to mine. He was a holy man who was supposed to possess the power to dismiss evil spirits.’
They carried on driving up Denmark Hill until they reached the wide intersection with Daneville Road. Jerry stopped for the traffic lights, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while he waited for half a dozen pedestrians to cross.
He had shifted into first gear, ready to move off, when one more pedestrian hurried out in front of them. Jerry couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was the old man in the brown tweed coat, his thinning white hair flapping up in the wind. He turned to look at Jerry and Jamila, giving them a triumphant grin, and then he licked his lips.
‘That’s him! And this is no bloody coincidence!’ Jerry exclaimed. He revved the engine and turned sharp left into Daneville Road, pulling up close to the kerb. When he tugged his door handle though, he found that the door wouldn’t open. He jabbed repeatedly at the unlock button on his key fob, but the door remained shut.
‘What’s the matter?’ Jamila asked him.
‘The effing door’s jammed! Can you open yours?’
Jamila pulled at her door handle, but her door wouldn’t open either.
‘I don’t effing believe this!’ Jerry twisted around in his seat. The old man in the brown tweed coat hadn’t crossed the road after all, and now he was standing on the corner by the traffic lights, less than ten metres behind them, still grinning.
Jamila turned around too. ‘Why is he smiling like that? Do you think he is stopping us from getting out?’
‘How can he? He’s nowhere near us! It’s this clapped-out bloody car!’
Jerry yanked at his door handle again and again. When the door refused to budge, he pressed the button to put down his window. He was hoping to reach out and open the door from the outside, but the window stayed shut. Jamila tried to open her window, but that wouldn’t go down either.
Jerry turned round again. The old man was still standing by the traffic lights, although he was no longer smiling, and he was using both of his index fingers to describe circles and criss-cross patterns in the air. At the same time, he seemed to be performing some kind of shuffle, shifting from one foot to the other.
‘What the hell is he up to? Looks like a bloody rain dance.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jamila. ‘But I have a feeling that we ought to drive away from here – now. I can’t imagine that he’s responsible for locking us in, but let’s go anyway and find a garage so that somebody can let us out. I have always suffered from claustrophobia.’
Jerry turned the key in the ignition, but instead of the engine starting, there was a shattering explosion. The bonnet flew up, and the windscreen was smashed into a glittering mosaic, and the whole car bounced up and down on its suspension as if the road had been rippled by an earthquake.
Jamila screamed and Jerry hit his door with his shoulder, but it stayed stubbornly shut. There was a loud groaning sound like metal being twisted and then a sharp crack, and almost immediately, Jerry could smell petrol. The smell grew stronger and stronger, until there was a soft shuddering whoomph. The back of the car was swallowed up in garish orange fire, which leaped up higher and higher, as if it were trying to devour them. It took only a few seconds before the rear window split open and the flames started to lick inside.
‘Glovebox!’ Jerry shouted. ‘There’s a hammer in there!’
Jamila opened up the glovebox and rummaged around until she found the red emergency hammer. Jerry grabbed it from her and hit it hard against his window, although he had to hit it three times before he smashed it. He used his elbow to clear the remaining shards of glass away from the frame, and then he knelt on his seat and climbed out head first. He fell on his right shoulder onto the road and rolled over. A small crowd of onlookers were already standing on the opposite pavement, and a bus driver came over and helped him to his feet.
Jamila had already managed to wriggle herself halfway out of the broken window. Jerry gripped her under her arms and pulled her out completely. The two of them backed away from the blazing car, and as they did so, it was totally engulfed in flames. They were immediately surrounded by sympathetic bystanders asking them if they had been hurt.
‘We are all right, thank you,’ said Jamila, although Jerry could tell how shaken she was. ‘We are absolutely fine.’
‘I’ve called the fire brigade,’ the bus driver told them. ‘I took the fire extinguisher out of the bus, but it was empty. I’m going to be giving somebody a hard time, man, I can tell you that for nothing.’
Jerry put his arm around Jamila and gave her a reassuring squeeze. She was trembling, but he knew from experience how strong she was. After they had watched their car burning for a few moments, she suddenly looked around and said, ‘Where is he? That old man? Is he still there?’
Jerry turned toward the junction. The old man was still standing beside the traffic lights, and when he saw that Jerry had spotted him, he raised one hand and smiled.
Jerry took his arm away from Jamila and said, ‘Right – I’m going to have him!’
He started to cross the road, but he had only gone three or four paces before the old man swept one arm sideways like a karate chop, and the burning car erupted in a huge ball of fire. An overwhelming wave of heat stopped Jerry before he could go any further, and he had to lift his hand to shield his face.
The car erupted again, and again, and two more balls of fire rolled up into the air. This time though, the fire was green, the same lurid green as the light they had encountered down in the sewers. The car continued to crackle with bright green flames, fiercer and fiercer, even though it had already been reduced to little more than a blackened shell.
Thick smoke began to drift across the road junction, until it was almost impossible to see the shops on the opposite side. The old man stepped backward and disappeared into the smoke, and when Jerry reached the corner, he had gone. He walked back across the road to join Jamila. A police squad car was approaching from the direction of Wren Road with its blue lights flashing, and he could hear the hee-haw siren of a fire engine only a few streets away.
‘Better late than never, I suppose,’ said Jerry.
‘I’ve called DCI Walters,’ Jamila said. ‘He’s going to contact Lambeth Road and have them send a forensic team over with a pick-up truck. A car will be coming in a minute to collect us too.’
‘Are you okay?’
Jamila looked up at him, and for once he couldn’t read what she was thinking.
‘You’ve scratched your cheek,’ he told her. ‘No, your other cheek.’
She dabbed at it with her fingertips. ‘I’ll live.’
If she had been his lover, he would have pulled out a tissue and wiped the blood from her cheek for her, and then kissed her. But she was Detective Sergeant Patel, his superior officer, and that would have been totally out of order.
The fire engine turned the corner and stopped, its engine roaring, although the green fire had almost completely died down now, apart from a few small guttering flames. The smoke was thinning out too, although it was wafting in their direction and drifting between them.
Jerry sniffed. The smoke smelled like burning wood, but it had a tang to it too.
He sniffed again and said to Jamila, ‘Can you smell that?’
She breathed in, closed her eyes, and then said, ‘Yes, I can. Lemons.’
‘This all has to be connected, doesn’t it? There was that same lemony smell down in the sewers. And the way that old geezer in the brown coat keeps showing up. It’s all linked up. It has to be. Just don’t ask me how.’
He looked across at the skeleton of his car. Two firefighters were circling around it, spraying it with foam.
‘Don’t ask me what I’m going to tell my insurance company either. “Some geriatric waggled his fingers at me, and my car blew up.”’