“No, you obviously don’t understand,” said Greene. “This isn’t a police thing, it’s not a legal matter, it’s not part of British law. All the ancient weird shit, the living myths and walking legends and so on, they’re restricted, bound, held down, contained within boundaries by agreements and oaths and bindings and rituals and custom. And some of these can be broken or unraveled once people become aware of them, decide to reenact a bit of harmless old folklore or whatever. So we try to nip anything like that in the bud, stop people even thinking this stuff might be real. Usually, in minor cases, we put people away in a mental hospital, convince them they went gaga for a while, and everything works out. But you’re a special case, you’re already in too deep. We’d have to hand you straight over to the booksellers.”
“That doesn’t sound so—”
“Capital punishment doesn’t exist in the United Kingdom anymore, but the booksellers have an exception,” said Greene bleakly. “When they deal with someone who’s delved too deep, no one ever sees them again. And I understand from the booksellers that even that’s a better option than some of the things that happen to people who get in too far.”
There was silence in the room, save for the annoying hum of the fluorescent tubes overhead.
“Okay, I do kind of understand. . . . I mean, I get there’s stuff I don’t understand,” said Susan wearily. “I know I was lucky to survive last night. I have no intention of talking about it to anyone.”
“All right. You’re being sensible. Cooperative. So I’ll help you out, too. If you’re positive you’re going to stay, there’s a boardinghouse, not exactly a safe house, it’s simply somewhere we keep a bit of an eye on. We’ll put you up there—paid for by HM government—until you go to your student housing. The house is in Islington, so pretty handy for everything.”
“You know about my place at the Slade?”
“I’d like to think we know everything about you,” said Greene. “Since I’ve had five officers scouring all possible records since I got the call about ‘some of your MI5 agents’ rampaging about the North London shrubberies. But I’m sure there are things we missed. That’s the nature of it and one of the reasons I’ll be happier if you’re staying with Mrs. London in Islington. In case we find out something we should already know.”
“Mrs. London?”
“Yes. It is her real name, though she’s from Glasgow originally. God knows why she moved here. We have a deal?”
“What’s the place like?”
“Bedsit, but quite big. Gas ring if you want to cook, though Mrs. L does meals. Bathroom each floor, you only share with two others,” said Greene. “Place is hardly ever full anyway, so you might get lucky with the bathroom. Better than anywhere you could afford.”
“You’ve seen my bank account?”
“Like I said. Five officers. Two hundred and sixty-two pounds, fifty-five p as of close of business yesterday, and your bank manager was as cross as fire at being woken up too early in the morning to look that up for us, till I said we’d send him a letter of commendation from the deputy commissioner. Anyway, two-hundred-fifty-odd pounds is not a lot to last until term starts. Did I say breakfast is included at Mrs. London’s? And not skimped, none of your two Weetabix and half a cup of powdered milk. She does a fry-up and all.”
Susan was suddenly ravenously hungry. But then, she realized, she’d only eaten two slightly stale biscuits since lunch yesterday. “Uncle” Frank had invited her to dinner, but she claimed to feel unwell, planning to sneak out at the first opportunity. Though he’d been pleasant to her, she’d figured it was better to stay in her room and keep her door locked.
“What was Frank Thringley involved in?” she asked.
“What did the bookseller tell you?” asked Greene.
“No, I don’t mean . . . him being a . . . what did he call it . . . a Sipper . . . I mean as a criminal,” said Susan. “I saw some of his . . . minions . . . I guess. One of them had a sawn-off shotgun in a Sainsbury’s bag. I mean, it was obvious, it stuck out.”
“Why didn’t you leave then? Back off and run away?” asked Greene. “Why were you still there last night?”
“I wanted to ask Frank some questions about his relationship with my mum, and about her other friends at that time,” mumbled Susan. “Frank told me he’d tell me in the morning, offered me the spare room for the night; it had a lock and everything. I didn’t have anywhere to go, and the guy with the shotgun left. Frank himself didn’t feel threatening, to me, anyway. It seemed . . . well, not safe . . . but not immediately dangerous. But then I changed my mind, I was going to leave, but I heard the commotion upstairs and . . . went to look.”
“Must have been some pretty important questions,” said Greene. “Looking for your dad, right?”
“That obvious?” asked Susan. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Maybe,” replied Greene. “But I reckon you knew it wasn’t Frank straight away.”
“I felt he couldn’t be,” said Susan. She frowned. “I don’t know why. . . .”
“Because he was a Sipper,” said Greene. “Humans instinctively feel there’s something ‘off’ about some of the mythic types like a Sipper. Handy for criminal bosses, makes it easy for them to put the frighteners on people.”
“But I still thought Frank might have known my dad; he could have told me something useful. What kind of criminal was Frank?”
“The usual,” said Greene with a shrug. “Protection, drugs, stolen goods. You name it. He was the boss of a big territory, everywhere north of Seven Sisters Road to the North Circular.”
“Why did Merlin turn him into dust?”
“Ah, now you’re asking,” said Greene. “I wish I knew. The booksellers usually tell us if someone . . . something . . . from the Old World is causing problems with ordinary people and that they’re going to deal with it. Particularly if there’s an overlap with ordinary crime.”
“But they didn’t.”
“Nope. You ready to go?”
“Yes,” said Susan.
“Forget all this,” said Greene. “Put it behind you. Move on.”
“I’ll try,” said Susan as they went to the door.
“But if some weird shit does happen, don’t forget to call,” added Greene, handing her a business card. “Our duty officer’s on the first number, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The handwritten one is my home number. I hope that after I drop you at Mrs. London’s you go on to have a nice, normal life. But just in case . . .”
“Okay,” said Susan. “What exactly do you mean by weird shit?”
The constable with the strangely pale moustache was in the corridor outside, loitering as if he wanted to say something. But before he could open his mouth, the expression on Greene’s face—as if she’d spotted a dog turd a step away—made him turn around and flee.
“You’ll know,” said Greene quietly. “Believe me, you’ll know. There is also a chance . . . slim, in the opinion of my colleagues over at Serious Crime, that you might be contacted by your ‘uncle’ Frank’s entirely human criminal associates, since some of them will know you were there on the night of his . . . well, let’s call it death. But provided you stay out of seedy pubs and betting shops north of Holloway, you should be safe enough. Most ordinary criminals steer clear of the weird shit. There are the Death Cults, but . . . I trust you’ll never need to know about them.”