named after the River Tyburn. The Tyburn is one of the great underground rivers of London.’
‘The gallows is named after the river?’ I said.
He nodded his egg-shaped head. ‘Look at this,’ he said.
He produced a battered book from his saddlebag. Thames: Sacred River by Peter Ackroyd. Professor Hitchens found the page he wanted and pointed a fat finger at a passage. He began to read:
‘ There is some intimate association between the river and what we call “paganism”. Something has settled there. The river in some sense becomes the sacred witness of punishment . . . ’
He looked at me with his eyes shining.
‘Don’t you see? The river in some sense becomes the sacred witness of punishment! ’
Tara Jones walked in and stared at us. Hitchens continued reading.
‘ It is perhaps not coincidental that the two major sites of execution on land, Tyburn and Smithfield, were adjacent to the Thames tributaries of the Tyburn and the Fleet. ’ He shook his head with wonder. ‘Can’t you see what it means?’
‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Let me get this straight. London’s underground rivers – the Tyburn and the rest – they once flowed over ground?’
‘Yes!’
‘So what happened to them?’
‘We built this city on top of them.’ He waved at the giant map on the wall. ‘As the city has grown over the centuries, the rivers became deeper. The London sewer system is built on the template of the city’s underground rivers. But they’re still there.’
I looked at the map, and back at him.
‘So the Tyburn – the River Tyburn – still exists?’ I said.
‘Of course!’
‘Where does it flow?’ I said. ‘Show me.’
He pointed at a great swathe of green towards the top of the map.
‘The source of the Tyburn is Hampstead. It runs south – parallel to the Finchley Road, down to Swiss Cottage, through Regent’s Park. In the West End itfollows the path of Marylebone Lane before passing through Mayfair and into the Thames.’
‘We’re probably standing on it,’ Tara said.
Hitchens’ prematurely aged face split into a wide grin.
‘Savile Row? I would say that it’s extremely likely the Tyburn is directly below us.’
I thought about it, let it settle.
‘They’re not going to go back to the site of the gallows because they know we’ll be waiting. But – if they are so obsessed with the ritual of punishment – they could still leave the body in the Tyburn – the River Tyburn.’
‘It has to be a possibility,’ Hitchens said.
‘How many miles of river are we looking at?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘The Tyburn winds and turns . . .’
‘Ballpark figure, Professor.’
‘It could be as many as ten miles.’
I shook my head.
‘Only someone much more important than me can authorise a search of that scale.’
I called the Chief Super’s office. They put me straight through and I told her what I wanted.
‘Where’s Pat Whitestone?’ DCS Swire said.
The truth is I didn’t know where DCI Whitestone was or if she was ever coming to work again.
‘Ma’am, I believe she must be with her son at the hospital.’
A pause.
‘Do it,’ she said. ‘Send everyone you can down there. But I want them all out at the end of the shift.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘London sewers have the highest concentration of cocaine of any waters in Europe.’
For a moment I had the image of London’s paranoid coke users all flushing away their drug of choice.
But that wasn’t quite it.
‘The city has the highest number of cocaine users in the northern hemisphere and their urine all ends up in the sewers,’ DCS Swire told me. ‘The trace cocaine in London’s waste waters is 500 per cent higher than anywhere else in Europe. If anyone stays down there too long, we’re going to start getting cardiac arrests. And then we’re going to start getting lawsuits. So one full shift and they’re all out, understood, DC Wolfe?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
I’ll tell them not to inhale, I thought,
‘The gallows is named after the river?’ I said.
He nodded his egg-shaped head. ‘Look at this,’ he said.
He produced a battered book from his saddlebag. Thames: Sacred River by Peter Ackroyd. Professor Hitchens found the page he wanted and pointed a fat finger at a passage. He began to read:
‘ There is some intimate association between the river and what we call “paganism”. Something has settled there. The river in some sense becomes the sacred witness of punishment . . . ’
He looked at me with his eyes shining.
‘Don’t you see? The river in some sense becomes the sacred witness of punishment! ’
Tara Jones walked in and stared at us. Hitchens continued reading.
‘ It is perhaps not coincidental that the two major sites of execution on land, Tyburn and Smithfield, were adjacent to the Thames tributaries of the Tyburn and the Fleet. ’ He shook his head with wonder. ‘Can’t you see what it means?’
‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Let me get this straight. London’s underground rivers – the Tyburn and the rest – they once flowed over ground?’
‘Yes!’
‘So what happened to them?’
‘We built this city on top of them.’ He waved at the giant map on the wall. ‘As the city has grown over the centuries, the rivers became deeper. The London sewer system is built on the template of the city’s underground rivers. But they’re still there.’
I looked at the map, and back at him.
‘So the Tyburn – the River Tyburn – still exists?’ I said.
‘Of course!’
‘Where does it flow?’ I said. ‘Show me.’
He pointed at a great swathe of green towards the top of the map.
‘The source of the Tyburn is Hampstead. It runs south – parallel to the Finchley Road, down to Swiss Cottage, through Regent’s Park. In the West End itfollows the path of Marylebone Lane before passing through Mayfair and into the Thames.’
‘We’re probably standing on it,’ Tara said.
Hitchens’ prematurely aged face split into a wide grin.
‘Savile Row? I would say that it’s extremely likely the Tyburn is directly below us.’
I thought about it, let it settle.
‘They’re not going to go back to the site of the gallows because they know we’ll be waiting. But – if they are so obsessed with the ritual of punishment – they could still leave the body in the Tyburn – the River Tyburn.’
‘It has to be a possibility,’ Hitchens said.
‘How many miles of river are we looking at?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘The Tyburn winds and turns . . .’
‘Ballpark figure, Professor.’
‘It could be as many as ten miles.’
I shook my head.
‘Only someone much more important than me can authorise a search of that scale.’
I called the Chief Super’s office. They put me straight through and I told her what I wanted.
‘Where’s Pat Whitestone?’ DCS Swire said.
The truth is I didn’t know where DCI Whitestone was or if she was ever coming to work again.
‘Ma’am, I believe she must be with her son at the hospital.’
A pause.
‘Do it,’ she said. ‘Send everyone you can down there. But I want them all out at the end of the shift.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘London sewers have the highest concentration of cocaine of any waters in Europe.’
For a moment I had the image of London’s paranoid coke users all flushing away their drug of choice.
But that wasn’t quite it.
‘The city has the highest number of cocaine users in the northern hemisphere and their urine all ends up in the sewers,’ DCS Swire told me. ‘The trace cocaine in London’s waste waters is 500 per cent higher than anywhere else in Europe. If anyone stays down there too long, we’re going to start getting cardiac arrests. And then we’re going to start getting lawsuits. So one full shift and they’re all out, understood, DC Wolfe?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
I’ll tell them not to inhale, I thought,
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