Kraken (19 page)

“I didn’t even know for sure that’s where he’d gone. How come you came so fast? I mean they said not to expect …” She opened her mouth in a sudden zero of terror. “Oh God, have you
found
him …?”

“No no,” said Baron. “Nothing like that. What it is is this is one of those dovetailing situations. Collingswood and I, we’re not generally Missing Persons, you see. We’re from a different squad. But we got a heads-up about your problem, because it may have bearing on our case.”

Marge stared at him. “… The squid thing? Is that what you’re investigating?”

“Fu-u-u-ck!” said Collingswood. “I
knew
it. That little bastard.”

“Ah.” Baron raised his eyebrows mildly. “Yes. We sort of wondered if Billy’d been able to resist a natter.”

“Got to give it to him, boss, for someone who don’t know what he’s doing, he’s got some clout. Come on, you.” She said the last to no one, so far as Marge could tell.

“We’d much rather you kept whatever he mentioned to yourself, if you don’t mind, Miss Tilley.”

“You think this has something to do with Leon going missing?” Marge said, incredulous. “And Billy? Where do you think they are?”

“Well, that’s what we’re looking into,” Baron said. “And you can rest assured we’ll let you know as soon as we know anything. Was Billy talking a lot about the squid? Had Leon been to see it? Was he a regular at the museum?”

“What? No, not at all. I mean, he’d seen it once, I think. But he wasn’t that interested.”

“Did he talk to you about it?”

“Leon?” she said. “You mean did he tell me about it disappearing? He thought it was hilarious. I mean he knew it was a big deal for Billy. But it was so weird, you know? He had to take the piss. I wasn’t even a hundred percent sure if Billy was bullshitting, you know?”

“Yeah, no,” Collingswood said.

“Why on earth would you think he’d make something like that up?” Baron said.

“Well. It hasn’t been in the news or anything, has it?”

“No,” said Baron. “Ah, but therein, therein is a tale. Of gag orders the like of which you’ve no idea.” He smiled.

“Anyway, it’s not like Leon
approved
of it. He just … the whole idea of it made him laugh. He texted me some joke about it before he …”

“Oh yeah,” said Collingswood. “It is quite the riot.”

“Come on,” said Marge. “Someone nicked a giant squid. Come on.”

“What can you tell us about Billy?” Baron said. “What do you think of him?”

“Billy? I don’t know. He’s alright. I don’t really know him. He’s Leon’s friend. Why are you asking?”

Baron glanced at Collingswood. She shook her head and tugged the lead. “Not a sausage,” she said. “Ooh, sorry Perky.”

“What’s going on?” Marge said.

“We’re just doing some detecting, Miss Tilley,” Baron said.

“Should I …? How worried should I be?”

“Oh, not very,” he said. “Would you, Kath?”

“Nah.” Collingswood was texting someone.

“You know the more I think about it, I don’t think this is related to what we’re up to. So if I were you I wouldn’t worry.”

“Yeah,” said Collingswood, still thumbing her message. “Nah.”

“Now,” said Baron, “obviously we’ll let you know if we realise otherwise. But I must say I’m doubtful. Many thanks.” He nodded. He touched his forefinger to the brow of his nonexistent cap;
Cheerio then
.

“Hey, what?” Marge said. “Is that it?” Collingswood was already by the door, popping her collars like a dandy. She winked at Marge. “What just happened?” Marge said. “Are you going? What happens now?”

Collingswood said to her, “Rest assured we’re going to leave no stone unturned in our search for wossname and thingy.”

Marge gasped. Baron said, “Now, Kath.” He shook his head, rolled his eyes at Marge like a tired father. “Miss Tilley, as soon as we have any ideas of what’s going on, we’ll be straight back in touch.”

“Did you
hear
what she
said?”

“Kath,” Baron said, “off you go, get in the car. I did, I did, Miss Tilley. And I apologise.”

“I want to make a complaint.” Marge shook. She clenched and unclenched her fists.

“Of course. It’s absolutely your right to do so. You have to understand it’s just a question of Collingswood’s gallows humour. She’s an excellent officer, and that’s her way of dealing with the trauma we have to see every day. Not that it’s any excuse, I grant you. So you go ahead, it might shape her up.” He paused on his way out, his hand on the doorway. “I’ll let her know I’m very disappointed in her.”

“Wait, you can’t just leave now. How do I get in touch with you if I need …?”

“Your local station gave you a contact officer, right?” Baron said. “Go through her. She’ll pass on any information to me and my squad.”

“What the
hell?
You can’t just suddenly …” But the door was closing, and though she shouted demands to know what was going on, Marge did not follow the officers. She leaned against the door until a strong feeling that she would cry passed. She said to herself out loud, “What the fuck was that?”

What was it? It was a judgement call, and a bad one. It had been a hunch of the kind one infrequently hears about: a hunch that was wrong.

“Not a fucking thing,” Collingswood said. She lit a cigarette. The little winter wind snatched its smoke. “She doesn’t know shit,” Collingswood said.

“Agreed,” said Baron.

“And none of this has shit to do with her. We’re not going to get anything with that one.”

“Agreed,” said Baron.

“No one’s hexed bollock all anywhere near that flat,” Collingswood said. “Not like bloody Billy’s.” Someone or someones with soul or souls starched with witchery of one or other sort had certainly been
there
. At Billy’s place her poor aetherial animal companion had swivelled and whined and squealed so loud even Baron could hear him.

“You know there ain’t much stuff going on at the moment,” Collingswood said. “With everyone scared shitless of the UMA. So whatever trails get left would stick out more. You saw the piggy.” She shook the lead. “Well, I mean, you didn’t, but you know what I mean. Bloody nothing. So what’s the story? This Leon geezer part of something?”

“Doubtful,” Baron said. “From everything we can get he’s absolutely nothing. Just some typical everyday tosser.” He made a
brrrr
sound with his lips. “If he’s got anything to do with the kraken he’s been in deep cover for God knows how long. I think he’s just got snagged.” Collingswood listened for text-thoughts. She felt for her brief familiar sniffing the faint para-scent trails of what magery was in that street.

“Well, poor little sod,” she said.

“Quite. I doubt we’ll see him again. Or Billy.”

“Unless Billy’s our villain.” They pondered. “Did you hear what Vardy was going on about this morning?”

“Where
is
that man?” Baron said. “What’s he up to?”

Collingswood shrugged. “I dunno. He said something about chasing up Adler’s religious life.”

“Did he have one?”

“I dunno, guv. I’m not the one chasing. But did you hear what he said this morning? About the Krakenists?”

There were rumours already, of course, about all aspects of the theft, the murder, the mysteries. Nothing could stop rumours moving faster than horses. It was part of Baron’s and Collingswood’s job to overhear them. Vardy’s theological snitches had told him, and he had told his colleagues, that there were whispers of the shunning of high-profile worshippers in the teuthic church.

There was also, still, that growing apocalypse mutter.

It was a seller’s market for relics right then. Who could doubt that religion and organised crime were linked? As the bishops of one secret Catholic order asked whenever questions of business ethics arose, was Saint Calvi martyred to teach us
nothing?

“So do we still think it’s definitely godders did this?” Collingswood said. She sniffed. “Krakenists or whatnot? Or is it maybe just fucking crooks?”

“Your guess,” Baron said, “is as good as mine. Fact it’s probably considerably better.”

“I’m still getting bollock all from snitches,” Collingswood said. She sniffed again.

“Whoa,” Baron said. “You’re … here.” He handed her a tissue. Her nose was bleeding.

“Oh you little fucking wankface,” Collingswood said. She pinched the top of her nose. “You cuntbandit.”

“Jesus, Kath, you alright? What’s all that?”

“It’s just tension, boss.”

“Tense? On a beautiful day like this?” She glared at him. “What’s got your goat?”

“Nothing. It’s not like that. It’s just …” She raised her hands. “It’s all this. It’s the fucking Panda.”

Through a meandering chain of half-arsed jokes, that was the name Collingswood and Baron had given the end on the edge of things. The end for which even the most tentatively apocalyptic faith was preparing. The magic reek of it had Collingswood, as a knack-smith, on edge: toothached, crampy, unsettled. She had been referring to that fearful approaching whatever-it-was repeatedly, until Baron had suggested giving it a shorthand. It had started as Big Bad Wolf, from where it had quickly become Sausage Dog, and ultimately Panda. The nickname did not help Collingswood feel any better about it.

“Whatever it is has to do with the fucking squid,” she said. “If we knew who’d taken the bugger …”

“We know who the top suspects are. Certainly if anyone in the office asks.” The devout might pay a lot for the corpse of a god. The FSRC listened and
fished
, ho ho, for word of the secretive Church of God Kraken. But the disappearance might be a more profane, though knacked and abnatural, crime. And that would be a complication.

Bureaucracies turf-war. The FSRC were the only officers in the Met who were anything other than blitheringly inadequate to deal with the eldritch nonsense of knackery. They were the state’s witches and hammers of witches. But their remit was a historical quirk. There were no Wizardry Squads in the UK Police. No SO21 to police Crimes of Magic. The Flying Squad did not. There was only the FSRC, and technically they were not concerned with the powers of ley lines, charmed words, invoked entities, et cetera—they were a
cult
squad, specifically.

In practice of course it was staffed by and kept watch on all those with questionable talents. FSRC computers were loaded with occult hexware and abgrades (Geas 2.0, iScry). But the unit was obliged to maintain appearances by describing all its work in terms of the policing of religion. They had to take care, if they concluded that it
was
purely secular abcriminality behind the
Architeuthis
disappearance, to stress what links they could with London’s heresiarchs. Otherwise they would lose jurisdiction. Without cult-games at the heart of the squidnapping, it would be handed over to some brusque unsubtle unit—Serious Crime, Organised Crime. Antiquities.

“God preserve us,” Collingswood said.

“Just hypothetically,” Baron said. “Between you and me. If this
is
crims, not godsquadders, you know who our top suspect is.”

“Tat-fucking-too,” said Collingswood.

Baron’s phone went. “Yeah,” he said into it. He listened and stopped walking. He looked sick, and sicker, and old.

“What?” Collingswood said. “What, boss?”

“Alright,” he said. “We’ll be there.” He shut the phone. “Goss and Subby,” he said. “I think they found out that Anders gave them to us. Someone … Oh, bugger me. You’ll see.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

W
HEN
B
ILLY WOKE HE REALISED THAT HIS DREAMS HAD BEEN
nothing but the usual cobbled-together fag-ends of meaning.

Why wouldn’t the gods of the world be giant squid? What better beast? It wouldn’t take much to imagine those tentacles closing around the world, now would it?

He knew he was at war now. Billy stepped out into it. It wasn’t his city anymore, it was a combat zone. He looked up at sudden noises. He was a guerrilla, behind Dane. Dane wanted his god; Billy wanted freedom and revenge. Whatever Dane said, Billy wanted revenge for Leon and for the loss of any sense of his own life, and being at war with the Tattoo gave him at least a tiny chance for that. Right?

They were simply disguised. Hair flattened out for Billy, teased up for Dane. Dane wore a tracksuit; Billy was absurd in clothes stolen from the imaginary student. He blinked like the escapee he was, watched Londoners hurrying. Dane took a couple of seconds to open a new car.

“You got some magic key?” Billy said.

“Don’t be a twat,” Dane said. He was just using some criminal finger technique. Billy looked around the vehicle’s interior—there was a paperback, empty water bottles, scattered paper. He hoped with a hopeless sense of fret that this theft would not hurt someone he would
like
, someone
nice
. It was a pitiful equivocation.

“So …” Billy said. Here he was, in the trenches. “What’s the plan? We’re taking it to them, right?”

“Hunting,” Dane said. “We have leads to follow. But this is dangerous? I’m … Now I’m rogue you and me need some help. It ain’t true we got no allies. I know a few people. We’re going to the BL.”

“What?”

“The British Library.”

“What?
I thought you wanted us to keep a low profile.”

“Yeah. I know. It ain’t a good place for us.”

“So why …”

“Because we have a god to find,” Dane snapped. “Alright? And because we need help. It’s a risk, yeah, but it’s mostly beginners’ territory. People who know what they want go other places.”

There was magery there, he said, but strictly newbie. For serious stuff you looked elsewhere. A deserted swimming pool in Peckham; the tower of Kilburn’s Gaumont State, no longer a cinema nor a bingo hall. In the meat locker of an Angus Steak House off Shaftsbury Avenue were the texts powerful enough to shift position when the librarians were not looking, which were said to whisper lies they wanted the reader to hear.

“Keep your mouth shut, keep your eyes open, watch and learn, show respect,” Dane said. “And don’t forget we’re hunted, so you see
anything
, tell me. Keep your head down. Be ready to run.”