‘You don’t need to sound quite so disappointed,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve always been a quick study, Peter. But if you wish to keep an eye on my progress you’re welcome to come along.’

‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I promised Guleed I’d be back before dinner.’ I explained where we were on Phoebe Beaumont-Jones and her upcoming involuntary stint helping the police with their inquiries.

‘In that case,’ said Nightingale, ‘would you like any assistance with that?’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I think we can handle it.’

Famous last words.

8 Uninvited Guests

8

Uninvited Guests

So I headed back to the improbably named Woronzow Road in St Johns Wood, home of the mysterious Phoebe Beaumont-Jones. On the way Stephanopoulos called me.

‘You haven’t disappeared a suspect have you?’ she asked.

We better not have, I thought.

‘Not that I know of,’ I said in the vain hope that Stephanopoulos wouldn’t notice the plausible deniability aspect.

‘Only Bromley Crime Squad have lost track of a minor little scrote called Aiden Burghley who they said was talking to you this very morning,’ she said.

I assured her that not only hadn’t I disappeared him, but the last time I saw him he was in the care of said Crime Squad and in the presence of his lawyer.

‘His brief says she took her eyes off him for five seconds and he was gone.’

‘Wasn’t me, boss,’ I said.

‘Was it your boss?’ she asked because she’s police and had spotted the plausible deniability bit.

I said it wasn’t him either because, au contraire, he was bringing in Reynard the chicken worrier even as we spoke. In that case, Stephanopoulos decided, Aiden Burghley had gone walkabouts on his own recognizance and it was Bromley’s problem not ours.

It was a couple of hours past the school rush and the sun was setting and the four by fours were nestled up against the pavement. I spotted the Asbo hiding amongst them two doors down from the Beaumont-Jones house and headed over. I saw Guleed’s face reflected in the wing mirror as she clocked my approach – nobody sneaks up on the Muslim ninja.

I climbed in beside her and traded the chicken kebab I’d picked up from a Halal café in Tufnell Park for her tablet. After a slow start the police have taken to mobile technology in a big way – mainly because it means you can pretend to work anywhere: at home, the canteen, the local boozer. Senior officers favoured using iPads because the find function allowed them to track how much time you spent in the boozer, and to find lost tablets before they’re picked up and their contents sold to the Guardian newspaper.

So, even sitting in the car, Guleed had been busy collating.

‘It turns out the father is really rich,’ she said.

‘What’s he do?’

‘Invests,’ she said.