When he strolled over to talk to me I thought he might be looking for that slightly ethnic boyfriend after all.
‘Hello,’ he said. He had a proper RP accent, like an English villain in a Hollywood movie. ‘What are you up to?’
I thought I’d try the truth. ‘I’m ghost-hunting,’ I said.
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Any particular ghost?’
‘Nicholas Wallpenny,’ I said.
‘What’s your name and address?’ he asked.
No Londoner ever answers that question unchallenged. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale,’ he said, and showed me his warrant card.
‘Constable Peter Grant,’ I said.
‘Out of Charing Cross nick?’
‘Yes sir.’
He gave me a strange smile.
‘Carry on, Constable,’ he said, and went strolling back up James Street.
So there I was, having just told a senior Detective Chief Inspector that I was hunting ghosts, which, if he believed me, meant he thought I was bonkers, or if he didn’t believe me meant he thought I was cottaging and looking to perpetrate an obscene act contrary to public order.
And the ghost that I was looking for had failed to make an appearance.
Have you ever run away from home? I have, on two occasions. The first time, when I was nine, I only got as far as Argos on Camden High Street and the second time, aged fourteen, I made it all the way to Euston Station and was actually standing in front of the departure boards when I stopped. On both occasions I wasn’t rescued or found or brought back; indeed, when I returned home I don’t think my mum noticed I’d gone. I know my dad didn’t.
Both adventures ended the same way – with the realisation that in the end, no matter what, I was going to have to go home. For my nine-year-old self it was the knowledge that the Argos store represented the outer limit of my understanding of the world. Beyond that point was a tube station and a big building with statues of cats and, further on, more roads and bus journeys that led to downstairs clubs that were sad and empty and smelled of beer.
My fourteen-year-old self was more rational. I didn’t know anyone in these cities on the departure boards, and I doubted they would be any more welcoming than London. I probably didn’t even have enough money to get me further than Potters Bar, and even if I did stow away for free, what was I going to eat? Realistically I had three meals’ worth of cash on me, and then it would be back home to Mum and Dad. Anything I did short of getting back on the bus and going home was merely postponing the inevitable moment of my return.
I had that same realisation in Covent Garden at three o’clock in the morning. That same collapse of potential futures down to a singularity, a future that I couldn’t escape. I wasn’t going to drive a fancy motor and say ‘you’re nicked’。 I was going to work in the Case Progression Unit and make a ‘valuable contribution’。
I stood up and started walking back to the nick.
In the distance I thought I could hear someone laughing at me.
Ghost-hunting Dog
The next morning Lesley asked me how the ghost-hunting had gone. We were loitering in front of Neblett’s office, the place from whence the fatal blow would fall. We weren’t required to be there, but neither of us wanted to prolong the agony.
‘There’s worse things than the Case Progression Unit,’ I said.
We both thought about that for a moment.
‘Traffic,’ said Lesley. ‘That’s worse than the CPU.’
‘You get to drive nice motors though,’ I said. ‘BMW Five, Mercedes M Class.’
‘You know, Peter, you really are quite a shallow person,’ said Lesley.
I was going to protest, but Neblett emerged from his office. He didn’t seem surprised to see us. He handed a letter to Lesley, who seemed curiously reluctant to open it.
‘They’re waiting for you at Belgravia,’ said Neblett. ‘Off you go.’ Belgravia is where the Westminster Murder Team is based. Lesley gave me a nervous little wave, turned and skipped off down the corridor.
‘There goes a proper thief taker,’ said Neblett. He looked at me and frowned.
‘Whereas you,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what you are.’
‘Proactively making a valuable contribution, sir,’ I said.
‘Cheeky bugger is what you are,’ said Neblett. He handed me not an envelope, but a slip of paper. ‘You’re going to be working with a Chief Inspector Thomas Nightingale.’ The slip had the name and address of a Japanese restaurant on New Row.