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.