‘I have no experience of working in the field, Mr Faraday.’ It was clear that the thought of operating from a run-down King’s Cross unit surrounded by unemployable officers and drunken academics horrified her.
‘No,’ said Faraday, remembering he had been forced to accept Fatima to improve his image and the department’s diversity quota, ‘it has to be you.’
‘Of course we would welcome an independent Home Office observer,’ said Land, seizing the moment. ‘Unfortunately, it won’t be possible to rehire our staff or rebuild the Unit in time.’
‘I may be able to help there,’ said Longbright, ignoring her boss’s tensed look. ‘I think I can get the team back together.’
Faraday rose and packed away his still pristine notebook. ‘That’s excellent news. I’m sure I can sort out something our end, moneywise. I’ll leave it to you to make all the arrangements.’ He was on solid ground once more, mentally moving the office chairs back in place to protect his fiefdom.
* * *
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‘What on earth were you thinking?’ cried Land as they headed back along Marsham Street to the tube. ‘You can put the team back together? This isn’t The Blues Brothers. John is laid up at home with his chest bandaged, Bryant is off-planet somewhere and the Unit doesn’t even have any furniture. The building’s in a worse state than it was when we first moved in. It’s entirely out of the question.’
‘What would you have had me say?’ asked Longbright. ‘Sorry you want to entrust us with an incredibly high-profile case but there’s nothing we can do?’
‘Raymond has a point,’ said Meera. ‘We were put on the spot back there. Fatima didn’t seem keen on being seconded with us. We’d have to get her on our side.’
‘That is literally the one thing she can’t do,’ Land replied. ‘She wouldn’t be much of an independent observer if the first thing she did was choose a side. And I’m Mr Land to you. And—what’s the other thing?’
‘You don’t know where Arthur is,’ Longbright reminded him.
‘Exactly.’ They were standing on Whitehall, the drab grey Westminster street that had become a metonym for the British civil service. ‘I hate this bloody road,’ Land complained. ‘The centre of government and it doesn’t even have a sodding tube station. It’s about to start chucking down, I’ve got no overcoat and there are never any taxis.’
‘This could be a very important case for us,’ said Janice, unfurling a vast black umbrella and holding it over her boss. She and Meera were used to being outside in the rain.
‘What, a politician buried under an avalanche of groceries? Most humiliating case, more like.’
‘But what if it’s not? Wouldn’t you rather retire in a blaze of glory?’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Land stubbornly, ‘because that isn’t what will happen. I’ll retire in a blaze of destruction and public humiliation.’
‘Then think about John. If we pull this off they’ll have to drop their case against him. Faraday is more concerned about preserving the Home Office’s image than pursuing a vendetta against an officer.’
Land stopped in the middle of the wet pavement. ‘You honestly think they’d drop the prosecution?’
‘If we insisted on it.’
He shook the dream from his head and carried on. ‘Forget it. It’s out of the question. We have no way of finding Bryant.’
‘You don’t know where he is,’ said Longbright, sending Meera a private smile. ‘But we do.’
He heard the spinning of the golden prayer wheels and the low rumble of the mantras: om mani padme hum, the repetitive droning eventually blurring into a single infinite note. He smelled the dry sweetness of the incense mixed with the scent of detergent emanating from the monks’ freshly laundered robes. Crimson ribbons hung from the ceiling of the temple; flags and swathes of saffron silk wafted gently in the warm air.
Arthur Bryant stretched his legs and spread his fingers, breathing deeply. He tried to imagine himself floating in a pastel-blue aura of pure calm.
‘Mr Bryant, are you eating?’ asked the Master, leaning over him.
‘It’s only an aniseed ball, your graciousness,’ Bryant replied, displaying it between his gleaming dentures.
‘The noise is distracting the others. I’ve told you before.’
‘Last time wasn’t my fault. We’d had sprouts.’
‘Your aniseed balls are all around the hall. Several of the monks have slipped.’
‘Yes, there’s a hole in my pocket.’ He pulled the pocket from his trousers to show the Master.
‘That’s another thing. Your manner of dress. You’re wearing a suit under your robe.’
‘I couldn’t get a meditation spot near the fan heater. And I can’t do the legs-crossed thing. That’s why I brought my rubber ring.’ He clambered to his feet. The ring deflated flatulently as he folded it.
‘Nevertheless, this is your…let me see…’ The Master checked his little gold notebook. ‘Ah yes, your seventeenth infraction in four days.’
‘How many am I allowed?’
‘I don’t know, nobody’s ever incurred this many before.’ Worry lines furrowed the Master’s brow. He carefully smoothed out his crimson robe. ‘How long do you intend to stay?’
Bryant counted on his fingers. ‘Let’s see. I did three days at the Shri Swaminarayan Temple, then the Brick Lane mosque, a synagogue in Golders Green—amazing bagels—a refugee camp in Earl’s Court, the Silent Order of the Monks of St Benedict—they asked me to leave because I didn’t know how to turn my phone off—the Quakers on Euston Road and an ashram in Highgate. Oh, and half a morning at Our Lady of Perpetual Misery in Clerkenwell. They chucked me out for cleaning my pipe with one of St Sebastian’s arrows. It wasn’t my fault it had fallen off his statue. So I think I’m just about done with the enlightenment thing.’
‘Well, I can’t say all of us will be heartbroken to see you go, Mr Bryant, but I hope we’ve been able to guide you towards spiritual illumination.’
Bryant gave the old fellow a friendly pat on his saffron arm. ‘I think you have, your magnificence, although it’s been rough on the knees. And I’ve been able to give something back. I took your novices through some of our more interesting murder cases.’
‘As violence is expressly forbidden here, I’d rather you hadn’t stirred them up.’ The Master tried to recompose his sagged features into an optimistic smile. ‘You came in very late last night.’
‘The chanting left me parched so I slipped out for a quencher.’
‘You came back singing.’
‘Nothing too rude, I hope.’
‘Unfortunately yes. Something about a gentleman from Devizes. So if you’ll just let me have your finger-cymbals back I’ll bid you good day.’
‘Oh, I thought they were a gift. You’ve a touch of Felix Aylmer about you, have people said that before?’ Bryant shook his hand vigorously. ‘It’s been a pleasure, your delightfulness. I’m sorry to miss the end-of-term knees-up.’
The Master paused and thought for a moment. ‘Tell me, Mr Bryant, what did you come here seeking?’
‘What everyone seeks,’ Bryant replied. ‘An explanation. You see, I am an incomplete person.’
The Master looked down. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘I mean psychologically. I view the world as an outsider. I have no patience or empathy with the common man. I am like the Tin Man, missing a heart, and it has grievously affected my work. Happily, over the years my great friend Mr John May covered for me. And in his hour of need I failed him.’
The Master looked sympathetic. ‘Then I hope your time with us helped to return you to the path of understanding.’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Oh.’
‘But it allowed me to consider what I might do to make amends. I thought I’d buy him something nice as a pe
ace offering. A new whistle.’
‘I didn’t know the police still used them.’
‘A suit.’
‘I like to think that we can rise above the material, Mr Bryant.’
‘Don’t worry, it’ll be quality schmutter. He’s a bit of a clotheshorse. I want him to know how important it is that he lives.’
‘It’s important for us all to live.’
‘Yes, but with all due respect you haven’t had a bullet up the jacksie.’ He poked at the Master’s saffron robe.
The Master’s face furrowed further. ‘I’ve been watching you, Mr Bryant. I think you’ve been at war all your life with those whom you perceive are trying to undermine you.’
‘Not the French?’
‘You have been contemplating your future here, but you cannot resolve it because you are trying to achieve the impossible, when your goal should be to discover what lies in your heart.’
Bryant pointed a finger at him. ‘Right, got you, no idea what you’re talking about but it’s been lovely. I want you to know that I’ve had a great time, and I adored the food. Don’t listen to what the others say—nobody ever gets fed up with pad thai.’ He gave the Master a nudge. ‘After I’ve gone, take a look in the collection box. I know people can be mingebags when the plate comes around so I’ve tried to make up for the inconvenience of you having me. Tell the lads to have a few ales on me.’
The Master had a feeling that he and this peculiar old man were fighting the same fight, just from different points of view.
Even so, he was glad to see him go.
As Bryant collected his stuff and strolled out, he stopped before a statue of the smiling golden Buddha and set an offering of pear drops before it, then returned to the street with a small leather suitcase, his homburg, his four-loop scarf and his mackintosh. The Golden Buddha temple was situated in a former chapel in suburban Wimbledon. Looking back at it with affection, he set off through teeming rain for the station.
Bryant had hoped that spending a few weeks exploring his spirituality would restore his equilibrium, and besides, he could not bear the thought of watching the Unit dismantled before his eyes. As no one had come knocking at the temple door, he assumed that his landlady had kept his secret well.
As he walked, he turned on his phone and was bombarded with dozens of missed calls and messages. Raymond Land had rung eighteen times, which seemed rather excessive.
When he turned the corner he was shocked to find Land standing in the middle of the pavement, right in front of him. He looked back at his phone in puzzlement. ‘Raymondo. How did you do that? Is it an app?’
‘Bryant, there you are.’ Land was holding a sodden Daily Mirror over his head and dripping ears.
‘That’s me, what do you want?’
‘What do you mean, what do I want?’ He bellowed so loudly that Bryant had to turn his hearing aid down. ‘You really are the most irresponsible—where the bloody hell have you been?’
Bryant blinked bluely. ‘There’s no need to shout. I went out. Is that all right with you?’
‘Out? Out is nipping to the shops for a paper, not vanishing into limbo.’
‘This isn’t limbo, it’s Wimbledon,’ Bryant said. ‘They’ve got a Fired Earth store and a Farrow and Ball, it’s dead posh. I’ve been looking for the real me.’
‘So have we, for nearly a bloody month. Why didn’t you tell anyone where you were going?’
‘I needed some time to think. My partner made the kind of mistake any normal human being could make in the line of duty, and I should have forgiven him. Instead I behaved abominably.’
‘You always do. John is recovering at home, no thanks to you.’
‘Alma sent me a message. I’m glad he’s on the mend. How did you find me?’
‘I didn’t. Janice did. One of your loopy academic pals set her off on a ludicrously complicated treasure hunt involving a schedule of your whereabouts hidden in an apothecaries hall.’
‘So she got the Dead Diary open. Smart lass.’
‘Have you seen the news?’
‘No, I’ve been in a temple. We weren’t even allowed to get racing tips.’
‘The Speaker of the House of Commons got buried under half a ton of fruit. You need to come and take a look.’
‘It may have escaped your notice, vieux haricot, but the Unit no longer exists.’
‘The Home Secretary himself has intervened,’ said Land. ‘I’ve been called to a meeting with someone who’s sorting out our accommodation. If he tries to get away with offering us a Portakabin he can stick it up his arse. Just get yourself over to Marconi House on the Strand, and read this on the way.’ He gave Bryant a thick envelope of notes.
‘Aren’t you going to say it’s good to have me back?’ Bryant suggested.
‘I don’t know if it is yet.’
‘Well, I’m glad to see you.’ Bryant looped his arm through Land’s. ‘Would you care to share a hansom back with me?’
Land looked horrified. ‘A handsome what?’
‘You’ve never really been on my wavelength, have you?’ said Bryant.
‘I’ve never been on your planet,’ said Land, releasing himself.
‘I suppose not. All I can offer you is my essoinment,*1 my dear obganiatory*2 mataelogian.*3 I shall bid you au revoir.’
‘I’d rather you just said good-bye,’ muttered Land as his bungalow on the Isle of Wight started to look appealing once more.
*1 Excuse for absence.
*2 Boringly repetitive.
*3 One who speaks pointlessly.
‘Mr B., my word, you do look well,’ said Dan Banbury, the PCU’s crime scene manager, delightedly shaking the detective’s hand, even though he then had to wipe his fingers with a tissue, as Bryant was eating a jam doughnut.
Arthur Bryant stood before him in a squashed homburg and a cobralike red and green scarf, an oversized tweed coat and baggy grey trousers. One hand was leaning on a snakehead walking stick and the other was wrapped around a fat doughball oozing raspberry glue.
‘I’d given you up for dead,’ Banbury admitted, leading him inside Marconi House. ‘I’ve been monitoring the Thames Police chatter in case you turned up at low tide.’
‘How kind. I am very much alive, thank you. It looks like we’re back in business, thanks to this Claremont fellow. I’m not sure how we’re going to work without a unit, though. What have you got?’
‘Apparently Claremont’s being moved from Chelsea and Westminster to a small private hospital in Scotland.’
‘He can’t do that. We’ll need to interview him.’
‘His wife won’t let anyone near him, and she has a doctor to back her up. Come upstairs—you need to see something.’
Claremont’s apartment was a dark library with a bed. Every wall was lined with leather-bound legal volumes and documents. Mahogany, copper, brass and gold created a welcoming womb. There were low orange lamps and a gigantic green leather sofa smothered in periodicals, court circulars and parliamentary papers. Best in winter, Bryant imagined.
‘Apparently he was some bigwig in government,’ said Banbury, carefully ushering the detective through a pinned-out route to the sitting room.
‘Some bigwig?’ echoed Bryant. ‘He’s the guardian of the nation’s democratic process. He monitors the debates and maintains order. He represents the Commons to the monarch and the Lords. There’s only ever been a hundred and fifty of them in the whole of British history. They get their names inscribed in gold leaf in the House of Commons Library.’
‘He must be under a bit of pressure, then.’
‘Which is why the Home Office thinks he’s having a breakdown and shooting his mouth off to anyone who’ll listen. They want to know who’s behind the attack on his life. The Home Office is pursuing its own agenda.’
‘Wher
e did you get that from?’ Banbury asked.
‘It’s why we’re being resuscitated, Dan.’ Bryant rolled his eyes. ‘Obvs. What did the porter have to say?’
‘Just that Claremont’s a friendly chap, always stops by for a chat.’
‘How’s his family doing?’
‘The wife never leaves his side.’
‘And her reaction?’
‘No idea. I’m on the side of the dead, Mr B., not the living. That’s your job. This is what I wanted you to see.’
On the sofa sat Banbury’s fingerprinting equipment. Next to it, a cardboard box had been opened. Bryant pulled its wrapping free and examined it.
‘Don’t do that!’ cried Banbury, angry with himself for having failed to issue the standard warning.
‘Sorry, I’ve got jam on it.’
Bryant unstuck the wrapper from his fingers and looked into the box. It contained six oranges and six lemons. ‘No return address or courier details.’ He went to the window and looked out. ‘Very suggestive.’
‘The porter says it wasn’t delivered.’
Bryant headed to the kitchen and turned about on himself like a dog taking in new surroundings. ‘Brand new, unused, no juicer. What was he supposed to do with the fruit? Either somebody thinks he needs vitamin C or it’s a warning he failed to appreciate. Anyone else been in or out?’
‘The porter wasn’t here on Sunday morning—it’s his day off.’
Bryant picked up a bronze figurine of Hermes and turned it over. ‘See if anyone was in the building when this happened, would you? I hear there are a couple of witnesses.’ He headed over to the kitchen for a poke about in the cupboards.
‘They’re being brought up here, seeing as we don’t have an office,’ said Banbury, checking his watch. ‘Don’t touch anything in the—’
Bryant upturned a silver salt cellar to see who made it. ‘I understand the PCU building is going to house a new dining concept, Casa Beansprout or something.’
‘You’re getting salt everywhere— What’s wrong?’ Banbury asked as Bryant started emptying out the contents of a shelf.
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