The Murder Investigation Team had closed off the west of the Piazza by stringing tape across the entrances to King Street and Henrietta Street, and along the frontage of the covered market. I was guarding the church end, where I could shelter in the portico and WPC Lesley May, my fellow probationer, guarded the Piazza side, where she could shelter in the market.
Lesley was short, blonde and impossibly perky, even when wearing a stab vest. We’d gone through basic training at Hendon together before being transferred to Westminster for our probation. We maintained a strictly professional relationship, despite my deep-seated yearning to climb into her uniform trousers.
Because we were both probationary constables, an experienced PC had been left to supervise us – a responsibility he diligently pursued from an all-night café on St Martin’s Court.
My phone rang. It took me a while to dig it out from among the stab vest, utility belt, baton, handcuffs, digital police radio and cumbersome but mercifully waterproof reflective jacket. When I finally managed to answer, it was Lesley.
‘I’m going for a coffee,’ she said. ‘Want one?’
I looked over at the covered market and saw her wave.
‘You’re a life-saver,’ I said, and watched as she darted off towards James Street.
She hadn’t been gone more than a minute when I saw a figure by the portico. A short man in a suit tucked into the shadows behind the nearest column.
I gave the prescribed Metropolitan police ‘first greeting’。
‘Oi!’ I said. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
The figure turned and I saw a flash of a pale, startled-looking face. The man was wearing a shabby, old-fashioned suit complete with waistcoat, fob watch and battered top hat. I thought he might be one of the street performers licensed to perform in the piazza, but it seemed a tad early in the morning for that.
‘Over here,’ he said, and beckoned.
I made sure I knew where my extendable baton was and headed over. Policemen are supposed to loom over members of the public, even helpful ones. That’s why we wear big boots and pointy helmets, but when I got closer I found the man was tiny, five foot nothing in his shoes. I fought an urge to squat down to get our faces level.
‘I saw the whole thing, squire,’ said the man. ‘Terrible thing, it was.’
They drum it into you at Hendon: before you do anything else, get a name and an address. I produced my notebook and pen. ‘Can I ask your name, sir?’
‘’Course you can, squire. My name’s Nicholas Wallpenny, but don’t ask me how to spell it because I never really got my letters.’
‘Are you a street performer?’ I asked.
‘You might say that,’ said Nicholas. ‘Certainly my performances have hitherto been confined to the street. Though on a cold night like this I wouldn’t be averse to bringing some interiority to my proceedings. If you catch my meaning, squire.’
There was a badge pinned to his lapel: a pewter skeleton caught mid-caper. It seemed a bit goth for a short cockney geezer, but then London is the pick ’n’ mix cultural capital of the world. I wrote down Street performer.
‘Now sir,’ I said, ‘if you could just tell me what it was you saw.’
‘I saw plenty, squire.’
‘But you were here earlier this morning?’ My instructors were also clear about not cueing your witnesses. Information is only supposed to flow in one direction.
‘I’m here morning, noon and night,’ said Nicholas, who obviously hadn’t gone to the same lectures I had.
‘If you’ve witnessed something,’ I said, ‘perhaps you’d better come and give a statement.’
‘That would be a bit of problem,’ said Nicholas, ‘seeing as I’m dead.’
I thought I hadn’t heard him correctly. ‘If you’re worried about your safety …’
‘I ain’t worried about anything any more, squire,’ said Nicholas. ‘On account of having been dead these last hundred and twenty years.’
‘If you’re dead,’ I said before I could stop myself, ‘how come we’re talking?’
‘You must have a touch of the sight,’ said Nicholas. ‘Some of the old Palladino.’ He looked at me closely. ‘Touch of that from your father, maybe? Dockman, was he, sailor, some such thing, he gave you that good curly hair and them lips?’
‘Can you prove you’re dead?’ I asked.
‘Whatever you say, squire,’ said Nicholas, and stepped forward into the light.