We decided to make the field trip to Camden Market that Sunday, which would normally have been my day of rest. So I wouldn’t have to put off any plumbing jobs, Phil reminded me pointedly when I complained.
He’d done all the research soon after we’d seen Lilah the first time, getting a list of who ran what stalls, and gave me the edited highlights before we set off. “Luckily, there’s not a lot of market stalls registered to a K. Somebody.” K standing for Kelvin, obviously. At least, we were hoping she hadn’t remembered that wrong. “If he’d been an A, a J, or a T, now, we’d have our work cut out.”
Phil showed me a list of scrawled numbers, which presumably corresponded to market stalls. “So how do we find which stalls these are?” I asked. “I mean, it’s not like pub tables. The stalls in St. Albans don’t have handy bingo numbers on ’em.”
“Which is why I got this.” He waved a map under my nose—a fancier version of Lilah’s printout. With numbers. “Right. You ready?”
I looked at him. “You going like that? Designer shirt and all? Don’t you want to dress down?”
Phil shrugged. “They’ll just think it’s vintage or a knockoff.” Then he smirked. “Don’t worry. I’m taking you along to lower the tone.”
“Oi, less of your cheek. These are my good jeans. And I paid five quid for this shirt from Primark.” It was actually more like twenty-five, and it was from M&S, but hey, never let the truth get in the way of a good punchline.
You get to Camden Market by taking the Tube to Camden Town—trust me, it’s not worth trying to bring a car—and walking up the high street towards Camden Lock. Did I say walking? I mean shuffling, side-stepping and excuse-me-ing. The place was heaving, mostly with tourists come to gawp at the shops, their storefronts decorated with massive . . . I wasn’t even sure what you’d call them. Pop-art sculptures? Three-dimensional advertising hoardings? There was a brightly coloured Ganesh, a Chinese dragon, a twenty-times-life-size Converse trainer . . . It was like they’d taken the concept of pub signs and run with it. Probably to a crack den.
There was a clearer bit when we came to the bridge over the canal—Camden Lock itself, looking clean and pretty—then we reached the market and plunged into the crowds again. Savoury, spicy scents wafted over to us from the row of food stalls that went on as far as the eye could see, which to be honest wasn’t all that far, and my stomach rumbled.
“Want to grab some lunch here?” I asked as we passed a particularly pungent noodle stall, with pork balls sizzling in a wok and colourful veg looking tasty on the side.
Phil huffed a laugh. “What, at eleven o’clock? Nice try.”
“Oi, I didn’t mean now. Later. Once we’ve finished up here.” I was wounded by the implication I was a slave to my stomach, which promptly rumbled again to tell me it had a very different opinion on the matter.
“Maybe.” He gave the stalls a side-eye.
“What, your mum tell you it was common to eat on the street or something?” Actually, I was fairly sure my mum had told me that, once upon a time, but apparently it hadn’t taken. “Or are you just worried about getting sauce on your shirt?”
Phil glanced away. Heh. Guilty as charged. He cleared his throat. “We need to go down here.”
“You sure? Those stalls are selling new stuff. Not vintage.”
“Yeah, well unless your psychic talents have expanded to include teleportation, we’ve got to go through them first.”
Gary would have loved this section of the market. Rainbow bright, with a T-shirt for every slogan you could think of, plus a few you’d have been as happy never to know. I wanted to stop and browse, but Phil gave me an impatient glare so I let him hurry me on past.
You could probably get them cheaper on the internet anyway. Like most things these days, short-term and negotiable companionship from the gender of your choosing not excepted.
We eventually reached an archway leading to a covered-over section of the market.
Phil nodded in its direction. “This is it. Stables Market.”
I read the big brass letters beside the arch. “It says ‘Horse Tunnel Market.’ Not ‘Stables.’”
Phil shrugged impatiently. “Who gives a monkey’s what they call it? This is it.”
The cobbles of the outdoor market gave way to wooden floorboards inside. A loose one shifted under my foot, and I stumbled, my hip protesting. I shrugged off Phil’s support. “I’m fine. Which way now?”
Phil gave me a sharp look, but nodded to the left, where a narrow corridor meandered through stalls. Knots of tourists and shoppers clogged it entirely at some points. “First couple are down here.”
I’d heard (from Darren, obviously) that Camden Market was prime real estate, the rent on stalls there costing you an arm, a leg, and enough internal organs to keep a modern-day Burke and Hare in clover. That hadn’t stopped whoever had tarted the place up from bunging in whopping great brass statues of horses here and there, which of course you couldn’t get near for tourists snapping selfies. I liked that they hadn’t used all available space to make money, unlike a lot of new housing developments you see around my way where the houses all look like they’re holding their stomachs in, crammed together so tight they have to spread up an extra floor to get all the rooms in. Still, all those stairs must keep you pretty fit.
I could think of more pleasant forms of exercise, though.
It turned out the stalls in the Stables Market did have handy bingo numbers on them, although a lot of them were obscured by what it’d be rude to call garish tourist tat, so I won’t, but seriously, did anyone ever actually wake up thinking Today I need to buy bread, milk, carrots—oh, and a half-size statue of Anubis and a lamp made out of a bong?
The vintage-clothing stalls, now, I could see a point to that stuff. You could get your kit cheap and save the environment. We passed one with a rack of snazzy waistcoats Gary would be in raptures about, all for a tenner. And the leather-goods stalls grabbed you by the nose and pulled you in to gawp at an Aladdin’s cave of . . . well, dead animal skin, I suppose, but the sheen on the belts, bags, and who-knew-what, plus the rich smell of leather you breathed in as you browsed, had you half thinking the animals wouldn’t have minded all that much if they’d known where they’d end up.
“Oi, focus,” Phil muttered in my ear as I reached out to stroke a thick leather belt that’d look great with my black jeans.
“Thought you wanted me to dress smarter,” I muttered back, letting my hand fall. “So how are we doing this? Divide and conquer?” There weren’t that many stalls on the list, so if we each took a few, we’d be finished in plenty of time for lunch.
Not that I was impatient to get back to that noodle stall or anything.
“We stick together, but talk to them separately. People get nervous and clam up if you go in mob-handed.”
The first stall turned out to be a bust, K standing for Karol, not Kelvin, as Phil found out when he parked me like a troublesome toddler by a stall selling Hogwarts trunks and went off to investigate.
“Dunno why you even brought me,” I complained as we headed off to the next. “I could be at home right now watching the footie.”
“You can do the next one, all right? Christ, it’s like having a kid.” He said it fondly, so I didn’t shove him into one of the trunks and slam the lid. It made me think, though. I knew he wanted kids, but we’d agreed, when we’d talked about it way back, we’d have them one day. Which to my mind, meant not this year and not next year, either. Him making a comment like that, did it mean it’d been on his mind? Like, seeing as we were getting married and all, did he want to start looking into adoption sooner rather than later? Kids . . . that was a big step. It’d mean a whole different way of life. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.
Maybe we should talk about it. Preferably some time we weren’t in the middle of a job. I made an effort to shove all thoughts of sprogs out of my mind.
A lot of the stalls were set into mini tunnels leading out from the main hall, as if the place had originally been dug out by very large moles. They—the tunnels, not the moles, unless a shedload of genetic modification had been involved—had rounded, arched roofs and tiled walls. It felt a lot like being in a Tube station, although without the draughts, the reek of burnt diesel, and the constant warning to Stand clear of the doors.
Not that you could actually see very much of those tiled walls, as here, too, the stallholders were making the most of the limited space they had. Goods for sale were stacked up, pinned up, and stuck up everywhere. The clutter made the place seem even more cavelike, and I made a note to watch out for dodgy used-lamp salesmen.
Stall number two on our little list was a vintage-clothing store, selling mainly ex–military gear and used leather wear. Not the kinky stuff—come to think of it, if there was a market for used fetish wear, I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet the sort of people who shopped there, seeing as you can’t boil leather—but jackets, skirts, trousers, those big long coats people wear when they’re going for dramatic effect. Or just want to look like a vampire, as may be. That kind of stuff.
We paused by a display of lavishly embroidered purses a few yards away to size up the target surreptitiously, but it wasn’t a lot of use. The way the entrance was angled meant we couldn’t see the stall holder.
“Right, in you go, then,” Phil said, just as I started to have second thoughts.
“You sure? What if I do it wrong?”
“It’s not rocket science. You go in, you check out the bloke on the stall, and if it’s him, you give him this.” He handed me Lilah’s envelope, which I shoved unwillingly inside my jacket. “And if it’s not him, you ask the bloke if his name’s Kelvin and take it from there. I’m assuming if it’s not a bloke, you can work it out for yourself.” Phil smirked. “I’ll have you tailing cheating husbands in no time.”
“Oi. I got my own trade, ta very much. You can keep yours.”
“I’ll remember you said that, next time you go haring off to have tea with a murder suspect.”
I didn’t dignify that one with a response. “Any last-minute tips?”
Phil shrugged. “Just try to act natural.”
That was a big help, immediately making me feel more self-conscious than any time since I’d been an awkward teenager with a massive crush on the school bully. Who was now my fiancé. Funny how things work out. I sidled up to the stall, half expecting a heavy hand to land on my collar at any moment and a loud voice start denouncing me to all and sundry. Which was daft, seeing as I was only there to pass on a message. To a bloke who probably wasn’t even at this stall.
I picked up a waistcoat and pretended to be interested, then felt a complete muppet as I realised it was three sizes too large. I put it back on the rack. Luckily nobody seemed to have been watching. Right. Enough of the playacting. I went deeper into the store.
There was a bloke down there at the back who caught my eye. He had on one of those multipocketed aprons market traders use instead of tills, and he was engaging in some hard selling with a young goth girl. Oh, and he was dark haired, lean, and in his thirties, with a face I’d last seen on the photograph currently burning a hole in my pocket.
Jonny-boy was holding up a used leather jacket in front of little Ms. Gothette, presumably pointing out whatever features made it particularly desirable in her case. Its essential blackness, probably, as it was a tad short on death’s-heads, studs, or anything else I’d have associated with gothdom. Still, what do I know?
I picked up a leather jacket of my own—checking the size this time—and hung around while he concluded the sale and the girl went off with a bag in her hand and a smile on her face that was all wrong with her general vibe of gloom and death.
One quarry dispatched and the next one in his sights, Jonny-boy ambled over in my direction.
He seemed younger in the flesh than he had in the photo. Younger, more ripped, and way better looking, with a cheeky glint in his eye and a swagger in his walk. Less formally dressed too—despite the season, he was wearing a black sleeveless hoodie that showed off a respectable pair of shoulders and some very adequate biceps, paired with faded blue jeans and that signature market-trader money belt. Even in that getup, though, he sparkled.
If I’d been Lilah, I’d have wanted him back too.
“All right, mate? What can I do you for? Present for the missus, is it?” I wasn’t imagining the come-hither in that smile, or the wink he threw in with it. He hadn’t bothered shaving today, and probably not yesterday either for that matter, and the roguish air was a definite bonus.
“Missus? What missus?” I matched his smile easily. “Nah, I’m after something for a bloke I know.”
“Oh yeah? How well do you know this bloke?”
“Pretty well.” I chucked in a wink of my own.
Jonny-boy wasn’t fazed. “Around my size, is he?”
I gave him a slow once-over. It seemed only polite in the circs. “Bigger,” I said in the end, with a grin.
“Ouch. Feel the burn. So what is it you’re after? Jacket? Is he the biker type?”
No, he really, really wasn’t. To be honest, I didn’t reckon Phil’d be seen dead in anything from this bloke’s stall. Not a huge fan of clothing that came secondhand—sorry, vintage, my Phil. Time to get down to business. “You’re Jonathan Parrot, right? Late of Hertfordshire?”
The change was dramatic. JP’s whole body tensed up, the smile did a runner, and his eyes looked like they were having a serious think about following suit.
Whoa. The last thing I wanted was him getting the wrong idea. “I’m here to deliver a message,” I said, putting my hand in my jacket to get Lilah’s letter.
The eyes made up their mind, and the legs got straight on board. Jonny-boy darted off down the narrow passage between the rails, vaulted over a display of shoes, and scarpered. All while I was standing there with my gob open and my hand in my jacket like a bust of Napoleon. And about as much use as one too.
Bloody marvellous.