money, spat at, assaulted, robbed, had filed a report, on which no action had been taken.
And Mr Pinner had come to the city.
Penny Ngwenya.
Poor little Penny Ngwenya; she probably didn’t even know what she had done, or what had to be done in reply. I hoped she did. Then it would be easier. Then I could tell Loren.
We drove.
Not that far, as it turned out.
St Pancras International. Some wisecracker had announced in the 1830s that, what with the Houses of Parliament having burnt down, there should be a competition to build the replacement. St Pancras was one of the entries. If British MPs wore sweeping cloaks and cackled at the moon, it would have been the perfect place for government. Red towers with spikes on; a clock that could never quite agree with its neighbour on the tower of King’s Cross; a long, pale blue-grey arch that you could see from on top of Pentonville Hill, or from the tower blocks of Camden. Tiled steps, marbled pillars, red bricks hiding a decayed interior of exposed cables and pipes just locked out of the public’s sight. It was not a delicate building. Nor was there anywhere to park. There are downsides to putting international terminals on main roads.
I said, “You sure . . .?”
“She works here.”
“Doing . . .?”
“Cleaner.”
I looked up at the bright clock on the tallest tower, at the heaving traffic stop-starting down the numberless traffic lights of the Euston Road, at the people waiting for taxis under the metal overhang of King’s Cross. “Let me out here,” I said. “You find a place to park.”
“Where are you going?”
“If this Penny Ngwenya is the cause of all this, I’ll know. Seriously. You find someone better qualified to look, and I’ll give back the coat.”
Oda came with me. No point in saying no. They let us out just past the British Library, pulling, illegally, into the bus lane so I could duck into the shelter of the great beige stone buildings that kept their backs turned to the traffic, their faces towards the quieter streets of Bloomsbury. The wind was nose-bite icy, ear-dropping cold. I pulled my coat up tighter around my neck and hurried towards the traffic lights, while the Aldermen in their big cars that deserved every penny of congestion charge they had to pay went in search of a place to park.
“We’re not doing anything without the Aldermen,” said Oda.
“Sure. Just looking.”
“Sorcerer . . .” Warning in her voice.
“Just making sure. You wouldn’t want an innocent to get blasted, would you?”
“You misunderstand my cause. Bigger pictures.”
“Of course. Silly me.”
The station was divided into three parts: Underground, international and overland. It seemed easier to find our way in through the low sculptured doorways to the Underground at pavement level, than through the high arches above street level leading to the mainline station. Glass and bright lights; beeping gates, whirring ticket machines, men and women in blue uniform: police. Of course - police. An international terminal, where else?
“You know,” I murmured, “if this Ngwenya is the one responsible, St Pancras may not be the best place to . . .”
“There are ways.”
“Really? You mean you can . . .”
“If I told you my methods,” she said calmly, “then I might not be able to use them again.”
We looked away.
The mainline station combined trains to Glasgow with services to Paris, Brussels, Lille and, for the truly masochistic, Disneyland. It was built to impress. The roof was higher than the average winter cloud on the city, the platform longer than the distance between most bus stops. Everywhere was the same pale, cold blue light, shining down on glass and steel, built one into the other like they were elements of the same nature, modern simplicity melted into Gothic grandeur. The effect should have been an uncomfortable clash of old and new, but both periods were united by the drive to achieve splendour and space, to make it clear to anyone who hadn’t guessed as they stepped off the train, that this was London, capital city, and you’d better hold on to your wallets.
The sound was the constant rumbling of the Eurostar engines, which sat right next to the main foyer, separated only by a thin glass sheet, some unsympathetic coppers and international law. Tourists about to travel could buy champagne at £70 a throw from the leather-sofa champagne bar that sat by the nearest long platform. Shoppers with space left in their bags could nip downstairs to where passport control kept