Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(13)
‘You put a spell on the dog,’ I said as we left the house.
‘Just a small one,’ said Nightingale.
So magic is real,’ I said. ‘Which makes you a … what?’
‘A wizard.’
‘Like Harry Potter?’
Nightingale sighed. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not like Harry Potter.’
‘In what way?’
‘I’m not a fictional character,’ said Nightingale.
We hopped back in the Jag and headed west, skirting the south end of Hampstead Heath before swinging north to climb the hill into Hampstead proper. This far up the hill was a maze of narrow streets choked with BMWs and Chelsea Tractors. The houses had seven-figure prices, and if there was any quiet desperation here then it had to be over the things that money couldn’t buy.
Nightingale parked the Jag in a residents-only bay and we walked up Downshire Hill looking for the address. It turned out to be one of a row of grand Victorian semidetached mansions set back from the north side of the road. It was a seriously buff house with gothic trim and bay windows; the front garden was professionally cared for and judging from the absence of an intercom, the Coopertowns owned the whole thing.
As we approached the front door we heard an infant crying, the sort of thready, measured crying of a baby that was settling in for a good wail and was prepared to keep it up all day if need be. With a house this expensive I was expecting a nanny or, at the very least an au pair, but the woman who opened the door looked too haggard to be either.
August Coopertown was in her late twenties, tall, blonde and Danish. We knew about the nationality because she managed to work it into the conversation almost immediately. Before the baby she’d had a slim, boyish figure, but childbirth had widened her hips and put slabs of fat on her thighs. She managed to work that into the conversation pretty quickly, as well. As far as August was concerned, all of this was the fault of the English, who had failed to live up to the high standards a well brought-up Scandinavian woman comes to expect. I don’t know why; perhaps Danish hospitals have gyms attached to their maternity units.
She entertained us in her knocked-through living room stroke dining room with blond-wood floors and more stripped pine than I really like to see outside of a sauna. Despite her best efforts, the baby had already begun to make inroads into the ruthless cleanliness of the house. A feeding bottle had rolled between the solid oak legs of the sideboard, and there was a discarded romper suit balled up on top of the Bang & Olufsen stereo. I smelled stale milk and vomit.
The baby lay in his four-hundred-quid cot and continued to cry.
Family portraits were hung in a tasteful grouping over the minimalist granite fireplace. Brandon Coopertown was a good-looking older man in his mid-forties with black hair and narrow features. While Mrs Coopertown bustled, I surreptitiously took a photograph with my phone camera. ‘I keep forgetting you can do that,’ murmured Nightingale.
‘Welcome to the twenty-first century,’ I said, ‘sir.’
Nightingale rose politely as Mrs Coopertown bustled back in. This time I was ready and followed him up.
‘May I ask what your husband does for a living?’ asked Nightingale.
He was a television producer, a successful one, with BAFTAs and format sales to the US – which explained the seven-figure house. He could do even better, but his ascension to the higher planes of international production were entirely hampered by the parochial nature of British television. If only the British could stop making programmes that catered only to a domestic audience, or even cast actors who were the least bit attractive.
As fascinating as Mrs Coopertown’s observations on the provinciality of British television were, we felt compelled to ask about the incident with the dog.
‘That too is typical,’ said Mrs Coopertown. ‘Of course Brandon didn’t want to press charges. He’s English. He didn’t want to make a fuss. The policeman should have prosecuted the dog owner regardless. The animal was clearly a danger to the public – it bit poor Brandon right on his nose.’
The baby paused and we all held our breath, but he merely burped once and started crying again. I looked at Nightingale and rolled my eyes over at the baby. Perhaps he could use the same spell as he used on Toby. He frowned at me. Maybe there were ethical issues about using it on babies.
According to Mrs Coopertown, the baby had been perfectly well behaved until the thing with the dog. Now, well, now Mrs Coopertown thought he must be teething or have colic or reflux. Their GP didn’t seem to have a clue and was unforgivably short with her. She thought they might be better off going private.
‘How did the dog manage to bite your husband on the nose?’ I asked.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Mrs Coopertown.
‘You said your husband was bitten on the nose,’ I said. ‘The dog’s very small. How did it reach his nose?’
‘My stupid husband bent down,’ said Mrs Coopertown. ‘We were out for a walk on the Heath, all three of us, when this dog came running up. My husband bent down to pat the dog and snap, with no warning, it had bitten him on the nose. At first I thought it was quite comical, but Brandon started screaming and then that nasty little man ran over and started yelling, “Oh, what are you doing to my poor dog, leave him alone.”’
‘The “nasty little man” being the owner of the dog?’ asked Nightingale.