Broken Homes

having spent most of their career in the morally ambiguous world of modern policing, would probably just love to be introduced to something as clear cut and despicable as an old-fashioned nonce.’
    ‘You wound me, Officer,’ said the man, but I noticed he was unconsciously backing away from Abigail and the booth.
    ‘Nothing that wouldn’t see me exonerated by the Department of Professional Standards,’ I said.
    ‘Okay,’ said the man uncertainly. ‘Nice meeting you, Abigail, Officers.’ He turned and scampered off.
    ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked Lesley, who was trying not to giggle.
    ‘Peter,’ she said. ‘When you threaten people it’s usually more effective if they don’t have to spend five minutes working out what you just said first.’
    Abigail folded her arms and gave me a bad look.
    ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I was having a conversation there.’
    ‘Is that what it was?’ said Lesley.
    ‘You can talk to that one in five years,’ I said.
    ‘If you still want to,’ said Lesley.
    Abigail was about to answer back when a voice called Lesley’s name. She had just enough time to turn in the right direction when a young woman with a mane of dreads came barrelling out of the mist and threw her arms around Lesley. I recognised her – it was Beverley Brook.
    She pushed Lesley to arm’s length and stared at her – mask and all.
    ‘They said you were walking about,’ she said. ‘But they didn’t say you were fit. I was worried about you, but I was stuck upriver with the shire folk and the students.’ Lesley was too stunned to speak, which was something to see.
    Beverley glanced over at me. Her eyes were as black as I remembered and shaped like those of a cat. Her nose was sleek and flat, her mouth wide, her lips full and her skin, despite the winter, smooth, flawless and dark.
    ‘Hi, Peter,’ she said and turned back to Lesley.
    Peter Grant at the South Bank , I thought. His eyes wide, his testicles on fire.
    Beverley leaned in and, much to Lesley’s discomfort, sniffed Lesley’s neck.
    ‘It’s true,’ said Beverley. ‘You’ve fallen into bad ways like Mister Never Texts over there.’ She glared at me. ‘Not one in nine months, no phone calls, not even an email.’ I knew better than to make excuses. ‘There are some people living by the river who are still waiting on their insurance because of you, and I ain’t joking about that.’ She turned back to Lesley. ‘You two had better make sure you pop in and pay your respects to Mum and the Old Man before they start to think you’re taking them for granted.’
    A small figure in an Imperial Yellow silk jacket bounced into our midst like a little sun grenade.
    ‘Bev Bev Bev,’ shouted the girl. ‘You’ve got to come with me – you promised.’
    ‘Wait, Nicky,’ said Beverley. ‘I’m talking here.’
    Nicky shortened from Neckinger, I guessed, another lost river which ran across the top part of Southwark. The girl, temporarily thwarted, turned to me and gave me a big radiant smile.
    ‘Wizards.’ She pointed and laughed as if this was hilarious.
    A deep voice that I recognised called Nicky’s name.
    ‘Uh oh,’ she said and pulled a face at me.
    Oberon strode out of the mist towards us. A tall man with a square handsome face, he wore an archaic military coat that had once been dyed red but had now faded to a muddy brown, black combat trousers and boots. At his waist he wore what looked to me like a genuine antique British Army sword, and not the ceremonial type either, one hand resting easily on the pommel to keep it from tangling with his coat. He nodded politely to me and Lesley.
    ‘Constables,’ he said. ‘I trust all is as it should be.’
    ‘Insofar as it can be,’ I said, but despite the temptation I didn’t add forsooth.
    He held out his hand to Nicky, who sighed theatrically before skipping over to seize it.
    ‘You’re going to come see me,’ she said to me, even as Oberon towed her away. ‘Make sure you bring presents.’
    ‘Is that her dad?’ asked Lesley.
    Beverley shook her head. ‘Oberon is Effra’s man, but they’ve both been roped into babysitting Nicky. Speaking of which, I have to go. But we need a girls’ night out. So text me, right?’
    I coughed and asked Beverley if I could have a word later.
    She gave me a sly smile. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Later.’
    Lesley punched me in the upper arm.
    ‘Let’s go see her mum,’ she said. ‘While your brain is still engaged.’
    It comes as a