Thicker Than Water

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you the demons. Like I said, they’re different. But that’s the point, isn’t it? You people treat the dead - all the dead - as the enemy. I may be an exorcist but at least I’ve got a bit more discrimination than a hand grenade lobbed into a crowded room.’

Trudie seemed disposed to carry on the argument, and maybe ramp it up a few notches, but Cheadle was tapping his feet and the night was on fire.

‘Skip it,’ I suggested. ‘We can have the big political debate some time when London isn’t burning.’

‘Castor—’

But I was already stepping down out of the van. ‘Come on,’ I said to Bic, ‘let’s get you home. Mister Cheadle, it’s been a pleasure to watch you work.’

‘Thanks.’ Cheadle gave me a nod that conveyed the thinnest possible sliver of civility as he climbed back into the driver’s seat. ‘You know where to find me if you need me. Prices as per scale. Unsociable hours a bloody speciality.’

Trudie barely had time to jump clear: Cheadle drove away with a squeal of tyres, braking sharply after ten yards so that momentum would slam the tailgate closed for him. Then he put the van into gear again and disappeared into the night at a speed you seldom see clocked in the centre of London.

I led Bic around to the main road and the steps up to the estate’s front entrance. Trudie fell in beside us, but she didn’t try to open up the conversation again.

Before we got to the steps, a constable stopped us with an upraised hand. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s Ãsai="1a fire in progress and we’ve had to close the street at this point.’

‘He lives in there,’ I said, putting my hand on Bic’s shoulder.

The cop looked away, squinting. ‘There’s some community support people,’ he said, ‘with yellow tabards. They’ve got a van set up. You find them, they can look after him.’

‘I need to get inside,’ I said.

He gave me an old-fashioned look. ‘We’ve got the bloody Third World War going on in here,’ he said. ‘Just move along, okay?’

But even while he was saying it, I caught sight of a familiar figure as she tacked between the parked police cars behind him. ‘Basquiat!’ I yelled. ‘Over here!’

She turned and saw me, and a whole range of emotions crossed her face one after another. For a moment I thought she was going to turn again, like Dick Whittington, and keep right on going. But she said something brief and to the point to a uniformed officer hovering at her elbow, and then as he ran off to do her bidding she crossed over to join us. She didn’t look very happy, though: and bearing in mind the outcome of our previous conversation, neither was I.

‘It’s a demon,’ I said, getting my version in first before she could open her mouth.

Basquiat scowled, looking from me down to Bic and then back up at Trudie. ‘We’re thinking it’s a gang war,’ she said, ‘on account of the gangs. And the warfare. Castor, I thought I told you to stay where I could find you.’

‘You did,’ I agreed.

‘And yet you went away. I sent someone to collect you from the address you gave, and I get told you’re up north finding your fucking roots.’

‘I found something else too, Ruth. I found out what you’re dealing with here. I think it was responsible for Kenny Seddon’s death. I think it’s killed a lot of people since. And I think it’s going to keep right on trucking if you don’t let me go in there and stitch it. Now would be good.’

Basquiat’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your brother killed Kenny Seddon,’ she said. ‘And if you call me Ruth again, I’ll break all your fingers. I bet that’ll limit your musical repertoire for a while.’

‘What’s going on in there?’ I demanded, pointing at the nearest towers. ‘Just teenagers rumbling on the walkways? You’ve got twenty cars on the street and a fire you can’t get in close enough to put out. It’s getting out of hand - sergeant.’

‘It’s already out of hand,’ Basquiat growled. ‘The gangs have barricaded the walkways two-thirds of the way along. The only towers we can get into are Barratt, Marston and Longley. The fire’s in Carlisle, way over at the south end of the estate.’

‘What about getting in at ground level?’

She shot me an exasperated glare. ‘You think I’m an idiot, Castor? The fire’s on the fourteenth floor, and they’ve dragged all the furniture out and dumped it in the stairwells. I’m not having my officers climbing over that mess with bricks and bottles raining down on their heads - let alone the poor bloody fire crews.’

‘Then what are you doing?’ I demanded.

‘We’ve got two anti-riot units coming down from Colindale,’ she said. ‘When they get here, we go in. And in the meantime, you keep out of my way.’

‘No. Castor is with us.’ The dissenting voice was Gwillam’s, although I didn’t see him for a moment or two after he spoke. I could only see Feld, clearing a path for his boss through the cops and firefighters just by strolling unstoppably through their midst.

Basquiat turned as Gwillam hove into view, Feld clearing the last obstacles by courteously stepping aside and sweeping a couple of unwary firemen off the pavement into the street.