There was a pause. “This man wasn’t fat at all, ma’am. He was a string bean.” Atwell didn’t say anything for a moment. “I don’t know now. I’m actually hearing something new now. I’m staying where I am, ma’am. Something’s making a terrible row over the fence, ma’am. You know—GBH of the earhole,* yeah? It sounds like a thousand jackals. I’ve not seen one, however. But ma’am, I don’t know what a bleeding jackal looks like anyway.”
“I’m sure they’re all bark,” said Astrid. It still seemed likely that some drunk or Flōter sleeping rough in Regent’s had spotted Atwell patrolling by herself and decided to lark about. Atwell was an attractive young woman, second-generation English (her mother and father were from New British Guyana’s modest middle class, a schoolteacher and a chemist, respectively), with lovely very dark green eyes and dark, clear skin the color of burnt honey. No doubt such a man would enjoy any sort of attention she would deign to offer him.
“There’s one other thing, ma’am,” said Atwell. “The man said his mother was still in the zoo. His mother! That took the prize, Inspector. Honestly, I felt nearly desperate. I wanted to open the glider—I felt desperate to—but I would have been defenseless, yeah?”
Astrid turned with a jerk of annoyance in the old phone booth, and noticed that old Tom was standing next to her, looking sad and concerned. He must have followed her from the meeting. Astrid felt embarrassed.
“Atwell, I’ll come down, OK? I’m certain you’ve been had is all, and if it’s not that, it’s nothing to worry about. You’re on the Broad Walk?”
“Yes, ma’am. But ma’am, I think something is actually wrong. I have a feeling this is rather serious, ma’am.”
At the best of times, certain young probationers occasionally got on Astrid’s Flōt-frazzled nerves, but she found herself now feeling an ugly, confusing irritation toward Atwell, and she hated it.
“Well, perhaps,” said Astrid. “I’ve got some feelings, too, PC. We’ve had—what?—a dozen ‘spectacular nothing’ alarms at night this week? Right. Of course something’s wrong, of course it’s possibly serious . . . Jasmine. I’m afraid I’m sounding condescending, PC. Sorry. But stay there. I’ll take a cab. Give me twenty-five minutes or so.” She looked at Tom directly and raised her eyebrows. She pointed at her eyes to indicate she was on an Opticall. She shook her head, as if she were talking to an insane person. “Make that thirty.”
“Good, Inspector. Thank you, Inspector. And Inspector?”
“Yes?”
“Should I make sure the chief inspector is aware of all this?”
“Oh, no. Let Omotoso sleep.”
There was a pause. She said, “Are you quite sure I shouldn’t at least notify the zoo’s security team? Mr. Beauchamp and all?”
Astrid shook her head. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, no, Atwell. Not Beauchamp, no. I’d like to assess things, with you, before we proceed.”
“Right, ma’am. Number thirty-two out.”
Astrid blinked off, and turned toward her fellow FA member.
“Oh, Tom, I’m sorry I didn’t clean up the tea,” said Astrid. “I’m having some troubles, Tom. Work. It’s this orange-freq, see?” She pointed to her eyes. “I’ve been a right cunt with my colleague.”
Tom gazed at her eyes carefully and frowned, then looked into them anew, scrutinizing. “That’s a demeaning expression. It only degrades you.” Gone was the tobacco-scrounging farter; arrived was the Dominican brother who had slept with London’s dead.
“Who cares about cleaning up tea? Are you all right, Astrid? I’m worried about you.”
“I’m all right, Tom, really. I won’t drink. I promise.”
The tightened skin around Tom’s eyes and mouth slackened a bit. He said, “I didn’t mean to be offensive, at the meeting and all. I’m just a grubby street Flōter, Astrid. That’s my bottom line.”
“No, Tom, you’re all right.”
“We don’t want to lose you, love.”
Tom scratched his neck, where he had a sort of soft-whiskered dewlap. “I’ve never seen you walk out of a meeting. We’re just teasing you a bit, you know. This isn’t some King’s Road meeting. We’re on the front lines. It don’t make us better or worse, but we’re what we are, aren’t we?” He looked down. A loud group of young West Ham United supporters, fresh-shaved and dressed in ironed vintage Ben Shermans, reeking of bergamot cologne, came storming around a building at the corner, across the street.
“Astrid, the pool—in Highbury. Didn’t I say you would feel better if you swam? It’s how I made it past second withdrawal. I’d see liquid ghosts, shining in the water beside me—water angels.” Tom had been the one who’d turned her on to swimming.