Excerpt: The Covetous One

Diana and Ben were waiting for her in front of the station when Annie got to work the next morning. The sun was shining and Diana had her face turned up to it, her eyes closed and her expression is serene. They were both leaning against Diana’s car, but Ben straightened and stood as he saw her coming.
‘There you are,’ he said amiably.
Diana stopped her sun worship and looked straight at her.
‘Go and clock in,’ she instructed, ‘then get back out here. We’re going on a visit.’
‘A visit?’ Annie was confused. Had something happened in the case during the night that they weren’t telling her about?
‘Go and start your shift,’ Diana repeated. ‘We’re going to see the Prophet.’
Annie hurried in and let the desk sergeant know that she going out with DI Corbel and DS Mason, then spun around and hurried right back out again, her mind in turmoil.
They were going to see the Prophet?
There was one future reader in London who got called that, got given the capital to her title, even in speech. In fact, she was probably the only one in the country who got that kind of respect. They said there were only five people in the entire world who had gifts like that.
Or exploited them like that. The Prophet was famous for her skill, and famous for charging for it. Rumour was that she would read for anyone, if they had the money to pay for it. Seeing as she couldn’t give specific details, her visions didn’t come under the laws pertaining to insider trading, but it was well known in police circles that certain businesses were thriving far more than they should be – and that the same businesses had regular contact with the Prophet. She was old and powerful and rich – things that got you respect, no matter what your community. But behind that, there was a feeling among the magical community, the ones without her kind of money anyway, that there was something wrong with the set-up.
That the Prophet was just that little bit dodgy.
It wasn’t that Annie had never heard of police officers going to see her, there were points in any career when you would take any help you could get, but she had not thought that they were at that point yet. Surely there would be something from forensics, some clue to lead them forward, if they just waited. The autopsy on Peter Drake would turn up something. Why were they …?
‘Ma’am?’ she asked, looking forward to where Diana was tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.
Diana met her eyes in the rear view mirror. ‘Yes?’
Annie couldn’t ask the question. It dried up in her mouth.
‘Spit it out,’ Diana advised.
‘Ma’am … why are we … I mean, shouldn’t we … wait for the autopsy report?’ At least, she added silently to herself.
‘It came this morning,’ Diana answered. ‘Apparently Floyd changed his mind after we had left and conducted the autopsy last night. He emailed me the preliminary findings as soon as he had them. Peter Drake was hit with a smooth, rounded object that was hard enough to break the skin and the skull underneath, probably either metal or plastic. Whichever it was, it left nothing in the wound. There was only one blow, he would have dropped instantly and then bled out.
‘And the forensics lab? Have they reported yet?’
‘No. They’re backed up – there’s been a spate of knifings and they’re up to their eyes in that.’ Diana met her eyes. ‘When the reports come in, we’ll follow them,’ she told her. ‘But until then, we’re stuck. And we need a direction.’
‘So we’re going to see the Prophet?’
‘Well, she’s operating in London at the moment, may as well make use of her.’ Diana returned her gaze to the road, negotiating her way around the morning traffic.
Annie subsided, suddenly aware of how her questions must sound.
‘It’s this left here,’ Ben said, breaking the silence he had been maintaining since he got into the car. ‘We should park if we can find a place.’
They spent the next ten minutes trying to find a parking space before giving up and going to the multi-storey. They walked back through the busy streets, heading towards a very modern, very sleek office building in a very expensive part of the city.
‘We’re in the Square Mile,’ Annie observed.
‘We’re not here as the Met,’ Ben assured her. ‘And there won’t be any trouble.’
‘But surely, if we’re here about a case,’ Annie argued, ‘then we are here as the Met?’
She didn’t get an answer because Diana had come to a halt outside the front door of the building. For a moment they all stood there, frozen where they were, then Diana ran her hands over her hair, smoothed her jacket over her hips and strode through the door.
A helpful receptionist directed them to the top of the building, where the Prophet kept her offices. They stood in silence as the lift bore them up, announcing floor numbers and door actions in the sickeningly sweet voice all elevator companies seemed to think was appropriate for the task. Ben was looking at his feet, or the floor counter, or the ceiling, anything but the two women in the car with him. Diana wiped the palms of her hands over her hips again and then fussed with the collar of her shirt. Had her face been any less calm, Annie would have said she was nervous. As it was, Annie gave up trying to conceal her curiosity and stared at her superior officers wondering what on earth was going on.
The lift disgorged them into a bright, light reception area with one desk in it and a flight of stairs leading up from behind the receptionist. This receptionist was not quite so helpful.
‘Are you here to see the Prophet?’ she asked nicely enough, but there was a blank tone in her voice that spoke of businesslike efficiency rather than actual welcome. Her eyes raked over the three of them without actually making any kind of connection. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, no appointment,’ Diana answered coolly. ‘We’d like to see the Prophet right now please.’
‘The Prophet is a very busy woman,’ the receptionist matched her coolness. ‘You should make an appointment.’
‘We’d like to see her now, please,’ Diana repeated. ‘We can wait.’
The two women looked at each other, the receptionist clearly considering the situation she had in front of her.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said eventually. ‘Emergency appointments are, of course, charged at a higher rate. Payment is required in groups of three – for the past, the present and the future.’ The woman pushed a printed list of charges over the counter towards Diana. ‘Can you pay?’ she asked challengingly.
‘They can pay.’ A new voice joined the conversation.
Annie looked up to the head of the stairs. There, looking over the balustrade, was a man in a grey suit. He was tall, almost as tall as Ben, but thin where Ben was sturdy. His face was thin, with a long straight slash of a nose in the middle and a corresponding horizontal slash of a mouth. His eyes and skin were pale, which, with the mousy brown of his hair and the drab colour of his suit, conspired to make him seem slightly faded.
And yet … he was thin, but there was a suggestion of strength in his shoulders. He looked to be in his mid thirties, but there was something older in the expression on his face. And despite his faded appearance, Annie felt sure she was in the presence of somebody who actually had access to a lot of power.
‘You’d better come up,’ he spoke again, looking directly at Diana. ‘She’s expecting you.’
He stood and waited for them as they mounted the stairs. Diana stopped when she reached him, bowing her head slightly.
‘Jonathan,’ she said.
‘Diana.’ He looked past her to the others. ‘Ben.’
Ben nodded to him, just as Diana had done, then turned to Annie.
‘Jonathan, meet our new Detective Constable, Annie Lavoisier. Annie, this is Jonathan Galvin, the Interpreter.’
‘Sir,’ she said reflexively. The Interpreter was a man of some standing after all.
‘Detective Constable Lavoisier,’ he answered her.
Then he turned and indicated along the corridor.
‘This way, please.’

The Prophet’s room – because it wasn’t an office, though that was clearly what it had been designed for when the structure was built – was large, with huge windows giving a startling view over the City of London. The walls had been painted lavender, making the whole space seem cool and calm. There was a large armchair in the space where you would normally expect to see a desk, with a number of similar chairs facing it. They were all covered with expensive materials that were soft and inviting rather than cold and impersonal. A carafe of water stood on a table at one side, a stack of glasses beside it. The whole effect was rather like a piece of the south of France had been transported to Greater London and the rest of the atmosphere was adapting around it.
The Prophet sat in the armchair and did not rise to meet them. She was, in appearance, a woman in her seventies, with white hair in a soft haircut that framed her face. Her clothes were well cut, but made of soft materials that didn’t have the off-putting glamour of a Chanel tweed suit. Her face was softly made up and her eyes were bright.
Annie knew all of this was an illusion. The Prophet was not a sweet old lady in her seventies. She was much, much, much older than that.
Diana crossed the room and took the hand the old lady held out to her.
‘Prophet,’ she murmured, bending her head to kiss it.
‘Diana, child,’ the Prophet said, smiling kindly at the police officer. ‘It’s so long since I have seen you.’
Diana straightened and did not answer. Now her place was taken by Ben.
‘Benjamin.’ The Prophet laid her hand on his hair as he kissed her hand.
Diana beckoned to Annie to come forward. ‘Kiss her hand,’ she muttered as Annie passed her.
‘Prophet, this is –’
‘Annie Lavoisier,’ the Prophet finished the sentence, smiling.
Annie kissed the old lady’s hand, seeing her incline her head out of the corner of her eye. ‘Welcome, child. This is your first visit to me?’
‘Yes, Prophet.’
‘Forgive that I had to ask, but I am an old lady and I cannot remember everyone that I have seen in my lifetime.’
Annie swallowed hard and stepped back. The woman was completely unnerving.
The Prophet’s attention went back to Diana.
‘You require a reading?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Then please sit down. I will do my best.’
They took seats in the armchairs and watched as the old lady closed her eyes and began to concentrate. This was the skill that was making the Prophet so rich – it wasn’t just the visions that came to her, though that was a rare skill, but the ability she had to call them up at will. Strong visions, accurate if you could just figure out what they meant, brought to her mind just by thinking of you. Most future readers had some control, enough to make the visions stop at any rate. The ones who became known prophets usually could call them up given enough time or knowledge of the person asking the questions. The Prophet could cold read strangers and get it right.
Now she frowned and opened her eyes.
‘It is hazy,’ she said. ‘Diana, child, come here. Give me your hand.’
Diana slipped out of her armchair and moved to sit on the stool at the Prophet’s feet. She held out her hand, palm up, much like she had done that night in the pub. The Prophet took it and cradled it in one of hers. She tapped the palm with the fingers of her other hand, then stroked her fingertips across from thumb to little finger. Then she closed her eyes again, Diana’s hand cradled in hers.
Her voice when she spoke was different, deeper and more melodious somehow.
‘A great darkness,’ she said, ‘a darkness of voices. A man from the sea. He dances in that darkness, the old dances. He dances from one end of the darkness to the next, then turns and dances again. He …’ her voice faded away.
‘There is nothing else,’ she said at last. ‘I see nothing else.’
‘Thank you, Prophet,’ Diana said, rising from the stool and bringing her hand away from the Prophet’s grasp.
‘I’m sorry there was no more,’ the Prophet smiled up at her.
Ben and Annie rose.
‘We are grateful, Prophet,’ Diana told her, and they left the room quietly.

Jonathan was waiting for them in the corridor.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘We had a reading,’ Diana answered. ‘Aren’t you going to offer the services of the Interpreter?’
‘Interpretation’s extra,’ he said. ‘On a sliding scale.’
‘I think we’ll do our own interpretation, then,’ she said, her chin jutting confidently as she looked up at him.
His lips twitched and there was a light in Diana’s eyes that hadn’t been there before.
‘As you wish,’ he answered. ‘Although I will admit to being …’ his eyes slid away, considering, ‘curious,’ he finished.
‘Curious?’ Diana asked.
‘On the house,’ he offered.
She huffed a smile. ‘All right, then. A great darkness of voices, a man from the sea. He dances the old dances from one end of the darkness to the other and back.’
Jonathan frowned, suddenly professional, suddenly the Interpreter.
‘Context?’ he asked.
‘A case,’ she answered.
He thought for a moment. ‘Books,’ he said. ‘Ritual. And someone you haven’t met yet.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Diana said.
They turned and walked back to the stairs, Jonathan behind them. They had started down to reception when his voice came again.
‘I believe you haven’t paid the Prophet,’ he said.
They turned. He was standing at the head of the stairs, where he had materialised when they first arrived.
Diana huffed another of those tiny laughs and climbed back up to him. For a moment they just stood eyeballing each other, then she slid one hand around to the back of his neck and drew his head towards her.
One kiss on his right cheek, one on his left, and one on his mouth, quick and hard, and then she turned and walked down the stairs again. Trailing in her wake, Annie looked back to see Jonathan’s reaction to this payment.
He was watching them go, his face a polite mask, a businessman seeing his clients off the premises. There was no trace of any confusion or excitement in his expression. As Annie caught his eye, he raised his hand in a static wave.
She returned the gesture.