Whispers Under Ground (Rivers of London 3) Read Online Free PDF

CCTV operators.
    ‘Where the fuck did he get on the tracks?’ said Kumar.
    ‘Maybe there’s some other way of getting in,’ I said. ‘Something that’s not on the blueprints, something we missed.’
    ‘I’m going to get the regular patrolman down here,’ said Kumar. ‘He’ll know.’ Patrolmen spent their nights walking the tunnels looking for defects and were, according to Kumar, guardians of the secret knowledge of the Underground. ‘Or something,’ he said.
    I left Kumar waiting on his native guide and headed back towards Baker Street. I was halfway there when I slipped over a loose bit of ballast and fell on my face. I threw out my hands to break my fall, as you do, and it didn’t escape my attention that my left palm had come slap down on the electrified middle rail. Crispy fried policeman – lovely.
    I was sweating by the time I climbed back onto the platform. I wiped my face and discovered a thin coating of grime on my cheeks – my hands were black with it. Dust from the ballast, I guessed. Or maybe ancient soot from when steam locomotives pulled upholstered cars full of respectable Victorians through the tunnels.
    ‘For god’s sake somebody get that boy a hanky,’ said a large voice with a Northern accent. ‘And then someone can fucking tell me why he’s here.’
    Detective Chief Inspector Seawoll was a big man from a small town outside Manchester. The kind of place, Stephanopoulos had once said, that explained Morrissey’s cheery attitude to life. We’d worked together before – he’d tried to hang me on stage at the Royal Opera House and I’d stuck him with 5cc of elephant tranquilliser – it all made sense at the time, trust me. I’d have said that we came out about even, except he had to do four months of medical leave which most self-respecting coppers would have considered a bonus.
    Medical leave was obviously over and Seawoll was back in charge of his Murder Investigation Team. He’d taken a position up the platform where he could keep an eye on the forensics without having to change out of his camelhair coat and handmade Tim Little shoes. He beckoned me and Stephanopoulos over.
    ‘Glad to see you feeling better, sir,’ I said before I could stop myself.
    Seawoll looked at Stephanopoulos. ‘What’s he doing here?’
    ‘Something about the job felt off,’ she said.
    Seawoll sighed. ‘You’ve been leading my Miriam astray,’ he told me. ‘But I’m back now so I hope we’ll see a return to good old-fashioned evidence-based policing and a marked reduction in the amount of weird bollocks.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
    ‘That being said – what kind of weird bollocks have you got me into this time?’ he asked.
    ‘I don’t think there was any magic …’
    Seawoll shut me up with a sharp gesture of his hand.
    ‘I don’t want to hear the m word coming out of your mouth,’ he said.
    ‘I don’t think there’s anything odd about the way he died,’ I said. ‘Except …’
    Seawoll cut me off again. ‘How did he die?’ he asked Stephanopoulos.
    ‘Nasty stab wound in his lower back, probably organ damage but he died of loss of blood,’ she said.
    Seawoll asked after the murder weapon and Stephanopoulos waved over the Exhibits Officer who held up a clear plastic evidence bag for our inspection. It was the biscuit-coloured triangle I’d found in the tunnel.
    ‘What the fuck is that supposed to be?’ asked Seawoll.
    ‘A bit of a broken plate,’ said Stephanopoulos and she twisted the bag around so we could see what was indeed a triangular section from a shattered plate – it had had a decorative rim. ‘Looks like earthenware,’ she said.
    ‘They’re sure that’s the weapon?’ asked Seawoll.
    Stephanopoulos said that the pathologist was as sure as she could be this side of an autopsy.
    I didn’t really want to tell Seawoll about the concentrated little knot of vestigia that clung to the murder weapon but I figured it would only lead to more trouble later if I