Who Killed Sherlock Holmes? (46 page)

‘Also,’ said Lofthouse, ‘from what I saw happen to the Continuing Projects Team, Halloween may be a special day for the opposition, and we’ve got that coming up
soon.’

‘I don’t know why,’ said Ross, taking the piece of cardboard with the name of the operation on it from the board and putting it into a drawer, ‘maybe it’s just
getting my normal brain chemistry back, but . . . I can’t help but feel hope.’

When all the paperwork, such as it was, was finished, Lofthouse let them all go home, prior to taking a few days off.

In her car on the way back to Catford, in the early evening darkness, Ross thought about the challenge ahead of them. They had it from several sources now that every single Londoner being headed
for Hell was a recent development. Lofthouse’s story of what had happened to the Continuing Projects Team on Halloween five years ago made Ross wonder if that had also been the moment that
change had been made. It was certainly the moment everyone in the occult underworld looked back to as the big alteration to their world. Brent, the Other, Mother, or whatever she wanted to be
called, had said that moment of change had been when Lucifer, whatever that God of London had been like, had been murdered and something else had taken his place. Was that something else the
Smiling Man?

Was there anything four coppers and an intelligence analyst could do in the face of cosmic horrors like that?

She closed the door of her flat behind her and relaxed against it. She wanted to sleep right now. She could, incredibly, if she wanted to, spend the next day in bed. She could literally not
remember when last that had been the case. She’d been a different person then. She went to make herself a cup of tea. As the kettle was boiling, she tried again to feel sad about Gilbert,
tried again to mourn him. Everyone on the Internet seemed to be doing so; the media were in a frenzy about him, about the sacrifice he’d made to save some brave and thankfully unnamed police
officers. She wanted to feel loss, but she was afraid she was enjoying her happiness too much to do that. She’d seen his body, seen someone she’d been intimate with terribly hurt, but
she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that he, like Holmes, was still out there somewhere. He’d made his sacrifice for London, and he was such an appropriate Messiah for the world
they were in now, the Prince of Lies who’d given himself for his love’s lover. Complicated.

She was about to raise the teacup to her mouth when, from immediately above her, she heard a sound. It was like something grinding, trying to get through the roof. Was that a running machine or
something in the flat above? Then a familiar smell came to her nostrils. She lowered the cup, in shock. ‘Dad?’ she said.

He burst through the ceiling, bringing the light of Hell with him, dangling again on the end of the noose that had killed him. He was panting, exulting, a huge fatherly smile on his face that
was red with exertion and real in every wrinkle.

She threw the cup into the sink, where it smashed. She pulled out her knife. This time she would at least try to cut him down.

But he was shaking his head. ‘No, love, you won’t be able to cut it, and they’d notice. Two friends of yours, they sorted it, found a way for me to pop back when nobody’s
looking. I can come see you here now. They wanted me to say, for a while at least, they’re staying. You have friends in Hell.’

She realized he must mean Holmes and Flamstead. She remembered an illustration she’d once seen in an old book, the Harrowing of Hell. If they could arrange for her dad to get out to see
her, then surely there was hope for them all. She recalled, once again, what the fortune teller at the New Age Fair had told her, that her dad would also bring her hope in autumn. She held her
father to her and smelt for the first time his familiar scent over the stench of the pit, and they talked about nothing important and everything important for three precious minutes before he had
to go.

Kev Sefton was now officially sick of steak and liver, and wanted just a salad tonight, thanks. He’d told Joe about Hell, first chance he’d got. Joe had taken it
in, nodded. He’d been brought up in a religious family and had faced that prospect himself as a child. That was another mental airbag that people in the know all over London would be using to
cushion themselves against the news. Sefton told him once again how amazing he was. He agreed.

A couple of days into his leave, Sefton decided to go into the city centre, just randomly shop, get an Xbox game and some new trainers. He was walking up Tottenham Court Road, seeing the horrors
of the Sight these days like they were the weather, noting those little guys in the hoods running about, as free of care as anyone going to Hell could be, when he realized there were large men
walking beside, behind and in front of him. He stopped on a corner and they stopped too, and all turned round to look at him at the same moment. He thought he recognized some of these faces. Old
lags. Fiftysomething gangsters. Old school. Facial injuries, receding hairlines, a lot of muscle gone to seed. The sheer bulk of their black coats hemmed him in. He stayed silent. Not much they
could do with all these people walking past. Well, not much they could do and get away with it. He tensed, ready to do some damage in return, though he was hardly on fighting form right now.
‘We represent,’ said one of them, ‘the King of London.’

Sefton frowned, remembering the briefing Ross had given about the various new players they’d encountered in the last couple of weeks. ‘You mean Nathaniel Tock? What does he
want?’

‘To ask you a question. Whose side are you on?’

Surely they must know he was a copper? ‘You know who I work for.’

‘Yeah, we wondered if you got what this was all about.’ Through their ranks walked a hard-looking man in a black leather coat. This, Sefton realized, must be Tock himself.
‘When your mate Lisa said you lot now owed me a favour, I don’t think she quite realized how concrete an obligation that was. Or how soon I’d ask for that favour. The end of
October is approaching. It’s when we all have to pick a side. When hits are made and taken. We’re getting five black cabs ready. We’re setting up a Halloween job.’ He put a
finger to the end of Sefton’s nose. ‘In a couple of weeks, you lot will be working for
me
.’

I owe my research sources, as always, such a debt. Those that are comfortable with being named are the following:

Robbie Bourget; Simon Colenutt; Sarah Groenewegen; Sophia McDougall; Seanan McGuire; Simon Morden; Cheryl Morgan; Frank Olynyk; Mike Scott; Andrew Smith; Adrian Tchaikovsky;
Bruno Vincent.

Thanks, everyone!

Praise for the Shadow Police novels

‘An irresistible blend of guns, gangsters, cops and monsters that grabs you by the eyeballs and never lets go. Start this book early in the day, people, because you
ain’t going to get no sleep until it’s done’

Ben Aaronovitch

‘Paul Cornell is a triple threat, the kind of writer other writers hate. He writes award-winning short stories. He writes epic television episodes for all your favourite
BBC shows. He writes kickass comic books and graphic novels . . . now he’s gone and written a novel too!’

George R. R. Martin

‘I think it is absolutely magnificent. I loved it . . . I’m not sure I’ve been that gripped by a novel in . . . well, decades’

Russell T. Davies

‘Tough, thrilling and unputdownable: I love Cornell’s writing’

Jenny Colgan

‘A much grittier vision of a gothic, fantasy London, well balanced between its depiction of the city’s criminal underworld and a horrifying fantasy reality that for
most of the novel lurks just at the edges of sight. Its take on the crime genre is less
The Bill
, more
The Sweeney
. Cornell’s undercover coppers and plain-clothes detectives are
a thoroughly seedy bunch of reprobates’

Guardian

‘
The Sweeney
to Aaronovitch’s
The Bill
, perhaps – which shows Cornell to be a master of yet another discipline’

Independent

‘Realistic banter, original twists; a nifty debut’

Daily Telegraph

‘Pacy, smart and revels in London mythology. It’s especially clever in that our heroes don’t stop being coppers just because they now realize there are more
things in heaven and earth (and elsewhere) than dreamt of in our philosophies.
London Falling
might not be on the Booker longlist, but crikey it’s good fun’

Scotland on Sunday

‘The team’s continued struggle to understand the dark and terrifying side of London is gripping. This book is a strong follow-up, a good standalone story, and an
excellent read for fans of dark urban fantasy’

Publishers Weekly

‘
London Falling
enters at the very top rank of London Gothic novels. It is grittier and harder-edged than Neil Gaiman’s
Neverwhere
, more coherent and
less esoteric than China Miéville’s
Kraken
, less pedestrian and harder-hitting than Ben Aaronvitch’s
Rivers of London
. Cornell is a fantasy novelist to
watch’

SFX

‘Cornell is breaking new ground with his group of urban magicians and the uncanny threats they face. Readers will surely want to jump on board. Recommended’

SFRevu

‘Paul Cornell is a very good writer indeed . . . another accomplished piece of work from Paul Cornell’s ever bubbling mind-cauldron. Fans of police drama or those
familiar with Ben Aaranovitch’s
Rivers of London
will find themselves in their element, and if you’re a
Being Human
viewer you’ll appreciate the sense of urban
unease’

CultBox

PAUL CORNELL has written some of
Doctor Who
’s best-loved episodes for the BBC, as well as an episode of the hit Sherlock Holmes drama,
Elementary
. He has also
written on a number of comic book series for Marvel and DC, including X-men and Batman and Robin. He has been Hugo Award-nominated for his work in TV, comics and prose, and won the BSFA award for
his short fiction. Paul has written two previous Shadow Police novels,
London Falling
and
The Severed Streets.

By Paul Cornell

London Falling

The Severed Streets

Who Killed Sherlock Holmes?

First published 2016 by Tor

This electronic edition published 2016 by Tor
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-1-4472-7327-1

Copyright © Paul Cornell 2016

Cover Images © Shutterstock

The right of Paul Cornell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital,
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liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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