Moon Over Soho by Ben Aaronovitch Read Free Book Online Page A

caught my mum looking at me. “What?” I asked.
    “Why can’t you play like your father?” she asked.
    “Because I can sing like my mother,” I said. “But fortunately I cook like Jamie Oliver.”
    She gave me a smack on the leg. “You’re not so big I can’t beat you,” she said.
    “Yeah, but I’m so much faster than I used to be,” I said.
    I actually don’t remember the last time I sat down with Mum and Dad for a meal, at least not without half a dozenrelatives present. I’m not even sure it happened that much when I was a kid. There was always an auntie, an uncle, or an evil LEGO-stealing younger cousin, not that I’m bitter, in the house.
    When I brought this up, Mum pointed out that said LEGO-stealing cousin had just commenced an engineering degree at Sussex.
Good
, I thought,
she can jack somebody else’s LEGO
. I pointed out that I was officially a detective constable now and working for a hush-hush branch of the Metropolitan Police.
    “What do you do there?” she asked.
    “It’s secret, Mum,” I said. “If I tell you I have to kill you.”
    “He does magic,” said my dad.
    “You shouldn’t keep secrets from your mum,” she said.
    “You don’t believe in magic, do you, Mum?”
    “You shouldn’t make jokes about these things,” she said. “Science doesn’t have all the answers, you know.”
    “It’s got all the best questions, though,” I said.
    “You are not doing these witchcraft things, are you?” Suddenly she was serious. “I worry about you enough as it is.”
    “I promise I am not consorting with any evil spirits or any other kind of supernatural entity,” I said. Not least because the supernatural entity I’d have most liked to consort with was currently living in exile up the river at the court of Father Thames. It was one of those tragic relationships: I’m a junior policeman, she’s the goddess of a suburban river in South London—it was never going to work out.
    Once we were finished, I volunteered for the washing up. While I was using half a bottle of Sainsbury’s own brand washing-up liquid to scrub off the palm oil, I could hear my parents talking in the next room. The TV was still off and my mum hadn’t spoken to anyone on the phone for over three hours—it was beginning to get a little bit Fringe. When I finished, I stepped out to find them sitting side by side on the sofa holding hands. I asked if they wanted more tea, but they said no and gave me strange identical, slightly distant smiles. I realized with a start that they were dying for me to leave so they could go to bed. I quickly grabbed my coat, kissed mymum good-bye, and practically ran out of the house. There are some things a young man does not want to think about.
    I was in the lift when I got a call from Dr. Walid.
    “Have you seen my email yet?” he asked.
    I told him I’d been at my mum’s house.
    “I’ve been collating mortality statistics for jazz musicians in the London area,” he said. “You’ll want to have a look as soon as you can—phone me tomorrow once you’ve done that.”
    “Is there something I should know now?”
    The lift doors opened and I stepped out into the tiled lobby. The evening was warm enough to allow a couple of kids to loiter by the main doors. One of them tried to give me the eye but I gave it right back and he looked away. Like I said, it’s my manor. And besides, I used to be that boy.
    “From the figures I have, I believe that two to three jazz musicians have died within twenty-four hours of playing a gig in the Greater London area in the last year.”
    “I take it that’s statistically significant?”
    “It’s all in the email,” said Dr. Walid.
    We hung up just as I reached the Asbo.
    To the tech-cave, I thought.
    T HE F OLLY , according to Nightingale, is protected by an interlocking series of magical protections. They were last renewed in 1940 to allow the post office to run in a then-cutting-edge coaxial telephone cable to the main